Old Coot has flashback. August 14, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

 

The Old Coot is tripping out.

By Merlin Lessler

 

I had a flash-back moment the other day, as I came in the back door. I looked across the kitchen to the corner of the room into the telephone nook to see if the answering machine was blinking. But there is no answering machine in the nook. Or a phone, for that matter. What was I thinking? An old instinct kicked in. It was fun to re-experience the thrill of coming home in the pre-cell phone era, wondering if someone called and left a message. The red light on the answering machine was like a beacon in a lighthouse, flashing a signal, “YOU HAD A CALL!” Rapid blinks meant you had several calls. WHO? WHY? WHAT’S GOING ON?

 

Such a different world. We had more patience; we didn’t expect instant contact, instant feedback. A nicer world, I think. You had time to think before you replied, to mull over your answer. “What should we say to Joe? He’s upset, but has a right to be. How can we bring him down, gently?”  Lies could be invented if necessary; we call them fibs when we execute these social untruths. “I don’t want to go to their house Sunday night. How can we get out of it?” You had time to conjure up an excuse, or create a conflict.

 

We were nicer, on the surface anyhow. And freer to escape doing things or going places we rather not. We had time to come up with an alternative plan. And, more important, time to calm down before tossing out a knee-jerk reaction to a phone message. Time to re-listen to the message to be sure you got it right. And think.  

 

Don’t get me wrong, I like my smart phone and all the things it can do for me. But still, I miss that old world, where communication was more thoughtful and ran at a slower pace. And, I especially miss coming home to a blinking light. Signaling a mystery. Soon be solved.  

 

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Old Coot reads the blotter. Tioga County Courier Article - 8/12/2020

 

The Old Coot works in ink.

By Merlin Lessler

 

Blotters! Ink blotters to be specific, used with inkwell ink. I was working on an article for the Binghamton Press a few years ago; it was about writing with a dipping pen and liquid ink when I was a kid. We had holes in the upper right corner of our desks, designed to hold an ink well. In first and second grade our work was done in pencil; the hole remained empty. When we made it to 3rd grade, we switched to ink; the neatest writers went first (girls). The teacher placed an ink well in the hole and handed the student a pen holder, a pen point and a small bit of cloth to clean ink off the pen point. She then filled the inkwell from a quart bottle with a snorkel nozzle and finally gave the lucky ink “graduate” a blotter to dry the ink so it wouldn’t smear. I was among the last group (all boys) to get “inked.”

 

Anyhow, I bought some old fashion point holders, pen points and ink to experience using the primitive writing instrument I grew up with, only slightly more advanced than the quill pen John Hancock used to sign the Declaration of Independence. I made the same blots and smears on the paper as I did all those years ago. (I’d foolishly decided to write the article with pen and ink) Three blobs on a paper in third grade and you lost your ink “privilege.” No ink for a week. A worse punishment (to the ego) than being sent to the cloakroom for a pea shooter war behind the teachers back. An “ink” time-out felt bad; made you try harder when you your inkwell was filled again. Nothing like failure to help you succeed. Makes you wonder why today’s society works so hard to help kids avoid it, giving every player on every team, winners and losers, the same reward, a certificate, a trophy, or both. Earned or not. No signal there to try harder, to work on your shortcomings.

 

Back to the subject at hand. Ink Blotters!  I found a bunch of them for sale on E-Bay – you can’t buy them in a store, at least I couldn’t find any. The ones I received were long in the tooth, handed out by advertisers in the day. I now use mine for bookmarks and notice the ad copy every once in a while; it gives me a kick to see how things were promoted back in the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s. An ad for the Scotch Woolen Mill got my attention the other day and started me on this writing path, an all wool full suit and or topcoat or overcoat for only $23.00! Coat and pants alone, $20.00. Just pants, $7.50. That got my chuckle reflex going.  Then comes the company promise - “A 30-year record of knowing how to build clothes that fit and satisfy” – “Ask to see our deluxe grade woolens on display with your local dealer.” A scowling Scotchman stares out from the ad; he’s wearing a wool tam cap; a bolt of plaid wool fabric is wrapped around his left shoulder. The ad sold me, but I was 70 years too late. I bought a dozen of those advertising blotters for less than seven bucks. Some with legible, but mirror image ink stains on the blotting side. All entertaining. Highly recommended for book marks. And, if you are fast, you can blot a coffee dribble on your shirt before it sets. If you do, someone might give you a certificate!  

 

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Tho Coot tosses the penny. August 5, 2020 Article - Tioga County Courier

 

The Old Coot throws in his two cents.

By Merlin Lessler

 

It’s claimed we have a coin shortage in this country. As a result of the Corona Virus. Everyone is jumping on the “corona virus excuse” these days. Maybe it’s true for the coin shortage. They say the flow of currency through the economy has slowed down, almost stopped. Nothing new for me; I’ve always experienced a shortage of currency, though more like the five, ten, twenty- and fifty-dollar bill variety. I never have enough of them. I do have a ton of pennies though. If the mint stopped penny production and shifted to nickels, dimes and quarters they might solve the problem. Forget the half-dollar: I think they stopped producing them in any quantity years ago. I miss them. A great coin to flip and use as a protractor to draw a circle. But the vending machine industry put them on death row years ago.

 

It costs 1.83 cents to make a penny. Not too smart. But’s it’s the government; what do you expect. The mint, or some other entity, should buy back the pennies from banks, stores and the public; it would cut the production cost nearly in half. Or, even better, just take the penny out of circulation. Stores, restaurants and other cash business places could round off the sales slip to the nearest nickel, using the math most of us learned in the 3^rd grade. If the bill is $18.32, it gets rounded to $18.30. If it’s $18.36, up it goes to $18.40. Nobody would complain. Most of us would say, “Thank you,” for not asking for the few cents, or giving me pennies back in change.

 

Many of us throw the pennies in a jar or drawer and hope they go away. I sometimes throw them on the parking lot in public places and let someone willing to bend over and pick them up have them. The worst transaction in a penny society is paying the tab that comes to $10.02. You don’t have the 2 cents so you hand over a twenty and end up with nine ones 98 cents in coin.

 

It would take an act of congress to get this passed, so it will never happen. We have to take it into our own hands, and not accept pennies in change, leave them with the merchant. And, take the pennies we have lying around and cash them in for usable money. Wala! You now live in a penny free society! There’s a penny that’s been laying in my driveway for over a month. It fell there when I got out of the car. Old Coots don’t bend over to pick up a penny. We’re afraid if we dip that low, we won’t be able to get back up. I’m not going to push my, “Help I’ve fallen and can’t get up alarm” for a penny. I’m saving it for a worthwhile situation. Like a bend down for a half-dollar. I couldn’t stop myself if I saw one lying on the ground. I guess it’s a paper route thing. When I delivered the Evening Press the cost was 45 cents a week. When I did my collections every Monday night, I received a pocketful of half dollars. My other pocket was loaded with nickels, so I could give the customers their change. Only three people on my route of 67 customers ever said, “Keep the change, kid.” And people think I’m a cheapskate.  

 

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Old Coot versus Auto view blockage (July 29, 2020 Tioga County Courier)

The Old Coot versus the automobile pillar!

By Merlin Lessler

 

As I came around a curve in the road the other day, a crosswalk popped up just as the road straightened out. I hit some old guy walking across the street at turtle speed! NO! That’s not true! I was the one crossing the street (at snail speed) and some old guy came around a curve in his SUV and ran me down. That’s not true either.

 

It didn’t happen! Not to me anyway. But it does happen, all the time. Often at a corner, because a driver’s view is obstructed by one of the pillars, those wide, padded supports on each side of the windshield that hold up the roof. They are excessively wide, especially in SUVs. So wide, that they block objects and people from a driver’s view. A pedestrian crossing the street becomes invisible, depending on the angle between the driver’s eyes and the pedestrian’s location. Bulky side view mirrors make the blind spot even bigger. They have evolved into quite massive structures, especially when you consider their main function is to hold up a mirror. They do more than that now; they allow us to adjust the angle with the touch of a button, remove frost and in some cars, wipe away the rain drops. Making them larger and larger. It’s all good when you’re on the inside the car, not so hot if you are walking or riding a bicycle and move into an ever-increasing blind spot.

 

Bad driving habits make matters worse. Many drivers look left before turning “right on red” and don’t come to a stop. And, don’t see someone stepping off the curb into the crosswalk on the right. That’s why crossing at intersections has become dangerous, not to mention the people who text while driving and can hit you from any angle. We’ve been taught to cross the street at the crosswalk, which is usually at the corner. You can get a ticket for jaywalking if you don’t. Get caught in New York City, and it will cost you $250. Crossing away from an intersection is safer; the odds of making it to the other side are much higher, as long as you do what you were taught when you were five years old, and look both ways before stepping off the curb.  

 

Car safety for drivers and passengers has improved immensely over the past twenty years. Pedestrian and bicycle safety, on the other hand, has declined. Partially due to the obesity of the windshield pillars. It’s like automobiles have glaucoma; the view out the windshield gets narrower and narrower. It doesn’t have to be this way. Cars in the 1950’s sported wrap around, panoramic windshields, a concept introduced to the marketplace with the 1953 Cadillac Eldorado and the Oldsmobile Fiesta. All cars had them eventually, creating a safe world for pedestrians.

 

This is why old coots like me are suspicious when modern day innovative changes are announced. They are often not for the better. Pedestrian deaths due to vehicle crashes increased by 32% over the last ten years. In 2018 they totaled 6,283 and bicycle fatalities came in at an astounding 857. If you’ve got wide pillars on your car, move your head from front to back at an intersection, like a chicken pecking at the ground; it will help you see around the pillar. And, look both ways to see what you’re missing – ME! - The invisible “chicken” trying to cross the street alive to see what’s on the other side.  

 

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Old Coot Tioga County Courier Article 7-22-2020 "Old Coot buys boxes"

The Old Coot is thinking outside the box.

By Merlin Lessler

All I buy are boxes. I’d rather buy “stuff” but stuff isn’t for sale. Just boxes. It’s a new world; I can’t even guess how long it’s been this way; It’s been a gradual change. You can’t buy things – you buy boxes, packages and hope the things inside are what you want. Not everything is like that; you can pick up an apple and examine it. You can try on clothes. You can test drive a car, but a lot of merchandise is boxed up, often with insufficient information printed on the carton. “How wide is it?” No answer. “Are the handles rubber?” No answer. Then comes the BIG question, to yourself, “Should I open the box and find out?”

I go that way sometimes, using the principle, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission.” I can only do this if the merchandise is in an agreeable container or I have the equipment necessary to open a box that is glued and stapled or to take on an item in a shrink-wrapped body suit. That’s when I’m forced to start the “get permission” process and try to find a clerk. I swear they hang out in a break room, watching us on security cameras and falling out of their chairs laughing as we hold a “locked” box and impatiently look around the store for help, trying to decide if it’s worth the risk to free the item from prison or to buy it as is and return it later if it doesn’t meet our needs. Even at home, with an illegal burglar tool-kit, it’s hard to get something out of modern-day packaging, especially if you are trying to preserve the prison, so you can return the item to the “Box” store.

If you go the other way, and decide to open the box in the store without permission, you feel paranoid. At least I do. So, you go about the breaking and entering process like a thief, hoping you don’t get caught and the store doesn’t have a “You break it, you buy it” policy that applies to both the merchandise and container.

You’ve got options. But none come easy. “Get a clerk to open it.” – “Buy it and return it.” “Open it yourself.” Or talk yourself out of making the purchase entirely, saying to yourself, “I don’t need it that bad!” The country is full of Big Box Stores, full of little boxes. That’s made my favorite shopping choice, the ever-present national chain outlet called, “Garage Sale,” or its subsidiary, “Yard Sale. They let you see, touch and try out sale items. Someone is right there to answer your questions and best of all, they are often willing to negotiate the price. There is one problem with these merchants, they don’t accept Visa. But nothing comes in a box!!

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Old Coot # 883 Published July 15, 2020 Tioga County Courier

The Old Coot loves bad TV ads.

By Merlin Lessler

Law firms (of the ambulance chasing variety), Big Pharma and quackery products dominate the television advertising landscape. They make you mad, make you groan, or if you are like me, make you laugh out loud. They are so pathetic it makes you wonder why they do it. Simple answer, “Because it works!” The ambulance chasing ads that I chuckle at the most came from a law firm that proclaimed, “We leave no stone unturned!” They stuck with that theme for several years. I guess they finally ran into a stone they couldn’t turn. They switched their mantra to “Maximum Benefits!” That’s what they promise you’ll get if you hire them. They’ve moved on; now they say, “We’re nice, but tough!” We’re nice attorneys, but get tough when it comes to getting you maximum benefits. Television stations across the country are rife with attorney ads like this. It’s fun to tune to a local station when you’re out of town. It’s almost as entertaining as the local sightseeing attractions.

My favorite ad at the moment doesn’t come from a law firm. It’s from Plexaderm – a so called miracle ointment made from shale that removes wrinkles and those unsightly bags under your eyes. For a mere $59.95 you can regain your youthful looks. (Or, get a trial size for $14.95). A group of users are paraded out, demonstrating the startling results, baggy eyes and all. The goop is dabbed on: presto, the wrinkles “seem” to disappear. It’s an all-out war on wrinkles and an all-out war on your wallet. Near the end of the ad, a sixty-one-year-old personal trainer takes center stage. I laugh so loud I nearly fall off the sofa. She flexes her biceps to prove she is fit and health conscious. Unfortunately, she looks more like people in my age group. More like 80 than 61. (Not that there’s anything wrong with looking 80). After a few dabs of Plexaderm her face actually does look less wrinkled. She looks younger. Not 80 any longer, more like 79 and ½. My wife watches my antics and gives me that “Would you just get over it” look. Old coots like me get that look all the time.  

But we don’t get over it; it’s one of our favorite pastimes, especially the anti-aging shams and the Snake Oil products that pharmaceutical companies bombard us with. Most often, with a beautiful, pastoral scene in the background and lovely music playing as they gently list the life-threatening affects you should be prepared for.  One of the first of these snake oil products came right from the southern tier area; Doctor Kilmer’s Swamp Root Oil. He grew fabulously rich selling this cure-all. It came in 18 varieties, solved every medical problem know to man in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. It didn’t hurt that it contained 10% alcohol. Many a teetotaler had no idea they’d become an “Doctor Kilmer’s Swamp Oil” alcoholic.

Yet, here we are, one-hundred and fifty years later, a sophisticated, well-educated society still being taken in by modern day hucksters. The ads are so ridiculous that they provide an endless stream of entertaining for cynical old coots like me. I just wish the networks would stop interrupting the ads with TV shows.

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The Old Coot has a tissue issue! July 7, 2020 Article

The Old Coot steps into the arena!

By Merlin Lessler

The battle of the sexes rages on. I’m old enough, but apparently not wise enough, to be an observer and not a participant. Every now and then, the Neanderthal part of my male brain wakes up and engages, not just my mouth, but in this case, my pen. So, here I go with a new salvo in this unending war. The issue - TISSUE BOXES!

The square ones with flowers and other pleasant scenery decorating the sides. A tissue peeks out of the top, ready to do your bidding. I reach over and give it a tug. Do I get a tissue? No! I get the whole box. I have to hold it with one hand and pull the tissue out with the other. What once was a one-hand job, now takes two, unless you’ve been to tissue school and learned the three-tug technique. My Neanderthal dominated brain can’t execute a three, gentle tug process. It’s too clumsy. It’s only capable of one big pull.

I wish that was my only issue with the square, tissue dispenser. It’s not! The tissues aren’t lying flat like the ones in the” unfashionable” rectangular containers where you can pull out a tissue with one hand. The tissues in the square box are folded into a ball with a sub-par intertwining function. I describe it as wadded up mess. Sometimes, one tissue pops up; sometimes, you get a handful and sometimes, the tissue scheduled for duty goes AWOL and hides in the box. I suspect, but have never done the math, that the designer, square box, has a lot less product than the rectangular box. Which, by the way, is getting harder and harder to find.

I’m on the losing side of this war between men from Mars and women from Venus. The tissue box battle is yet another skirmish that went the other way. I lost the liquid soap dispenser versus bar soap war. I lost a sneak attack from pillows that invaded the war zone and took over the chairs, sofas and beds and must be removed if you want to sit or lay down. I lost the battle of a short, good-bye process when leaving a party or other gathering. I stand to the side like a four-year-old tugging at his mommy’s skirt, using ESP to beg, “Can we leave now?’ But the ESP doesn’t work; the process will take a minimum of five minutes. I still retain control of my “Archie Bunker” pillow-less chair. And, there I sit, a tired, battle worn veteran on the losing side in the battle of the sexes. Yet, I’m a happy guy – my Neanderthal infused brain is too dumb to know better.

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