May 22, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is overloaded!

By Merlin Lessler

So here I am at a (wedding, opera, cocktail party, christening – you fill in the blank) standing around with the other men in attendance, looking lumpy. Our pockets are bulging with lipsticks, compacts, credit cards, store cards, wads of wallet photos, car keys, discount coupons, perfume samples and heavily highlighted copies of Men Are from Mars; Women Are from Venus. And why? Because clothing designers won’t put pockets in women’s clothes.

Oh sure, there are some things with pockets, but only as an artistic element, not as a fully functioning compartment. The fashion people aren’t interested in functionality. So, men get all the stuff and jam it in their pockets. We can’t get out of it. We’ve got pockets galore. Four in a suit coat, four in a pair of pants. It’s why we don’t like to dance at weddings. And, if we do, it’s why we dance funny. The weight in our pockets shifts with every dance step and makes us lurch and stagger around and lose the beat. It’s the old two-step. One step is our dance move; the next is the stumble we take to recover our balance.

I first became aware of this pocket deficiency in women’s clothes back when I was a kid, proudly strutting around in a coveted pair of Levi’s. We didn’t call them jeans back then; we called them dungarees. Jeans were what our sisters wore, denim pants with an elastic top, a zipper up the side and NO POCKETS! There I was in dungarees, with enough pockets to handle a jack knife, a yoyo, a five pack of baseball cards, a derringer cap pistol and a frog or two. My sister didn’t even have a place to put a skate key. She had to string it on a shoelace and tie it around her neck. Jeans have changed since then; women’s jeans now have pockets, but still, they don’t function very well. The jeans are too tight to accommodate anything bigger than a credit card.

It’s why men have started using “man purses” disguised as masculine looking brief cases or camera bags. If you peek inside you’ll find lipsticks, compacts and other items we’re lugging around for our wives!

May 15, 2013 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t know your name!

By Merlin Lessler

It was a typical morning in the Goat Boy Coffee Bar – There I was, pontificating along with the regular crew – solving the Village, Town, County, State and National problems when in walks Phil Wiles. “Hi Paul,” I said, a little too loud. “I’m not Paul; I’m Phil,” he replied. “No you’re not,” I responded. “I just saw Phil at Dunkin Donuts and said Hi Phil and he said Hi back.”

“No! Really! I am Phil! Paul didn’t want to correct you for the 100^th time, so he let it go.” That’s when my compatriots deserted me. Their catcalls and whoops let me know I was wrong, yet again! So, I gave in. Maybe he was Phil. It’s confusing for an old coot, this business of trying to use the right name when you see someone. Paul and Phil are especially hard, being twins, but adding to the confusion is Jody Rose’s husband, Paul Philips. My brain starts to spit & sputter when I run into him. What should I say? “Hi Paul? Hi Phil? Is he Paul Philips or Philip Paul? I know I won’t get it right. I really get mixed up: Paul Wiles, Phil Wiles and Paul Philips. It’s no wonder I’ve dropped names entirely and greet people with Hi Captain, Hi Kid, Hey Man, How you guys doing?

But, it’s not me; it’s them! The people with similar sounding or otherwise confusing names: Craig and Greg, for example; who can keep them straight? How about Lynn, Laurie, Laura, Lana, Lisa, Lorna, Liza and all the rest of the “L” names. It’s beyond my capabilities. Even the name of the village I live in causes me problems. I’ll tell someone I live in Owego and they often say, “Oh, Oswego, I’ve heard of that; isn’t it on Lake Ontario?”

It’s not just people’s names that mess me up. The street names around here are ridiculous, the ones that have several names for the same street: Academy Street and Mc Master Street - East Ave becoming West Ave turning into Mountain Road and finally, East Beacher Hill – and how about the four-bagger, it starts out as East Front Street. You drive along looking at the ducks on Brick Pond and presto; you’re on Taylor Road. Look down to read a text message and you find yourself on Bodle Hill. Bend over to pick up the Big Mac that slid off the seat onto the floor and you’re on Day Hollow. The same road, four different names. When someone asks me for directions I always say, “Sorry, no speaka da English! Governor!”

 

May 8, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is a criminal?

By Merlin Lessler

I got stopped by the cops the other day. I knew it was just a matter of time – I was long overdue. “What seems to be the problem officer?” I politely asked, as we all do when pulled over and are blatantly guilty (of something). It’s called the “innocent as a lamb” strategy. It never works!

“License and registration please,” You know the drill; they take your credentials and get back into the squad car to run you through the system: Outstanding warrants? Escaped convict? Stolen car? Runaway or missing person? I wasn’t worried about that stuff. I knew my slate was clean. Nor, was I worried about the out of date inspection sticker on the windshield. I could handle a ticket for that. It wouldn’t affect my life style. I was worried about getting charged with DWO (Driving While Old).

It’s not an official violation. Not yet! But as soon as the traffic safety people get the drunks off the road, the cell phone users, the texters and the road-rage drivers they are going to come after us old guys. We don’t cause a lot of accidents, not as many as the under 25 crowd, but we do something worse; we drive fifty-five in the passing lane with our blinker flashing endlessly. We take forever to get into our car and pull out of the way while you wait to grab the only empty space in the lot. We turn left on red (when no cars are coming). What’s the difference? Left? Right? If no cars are coming, we go!

I can see the handwriting on the wall. DWO is in my future. The police won’t subject me to a breathalyzer test; they’ll count the wrinkles – then make me stand on one foot to check my balance (try it for 60 seconds; if you can’t do it you are headed for trouble too). They’ll make me retake the driver’s test. The only part I’ll pass is the parallel parking requirement. The thing that knocks out all the young kids. It’s a useless skill; 99.9% of all parking is pull in, not parallel. Yet, it’s an integral component in the path to a license, and the only driving skill us old coots still retain.

It’s why we are drawn to Florida – the state with the most effective lobbyists for old guys. The state is loaded with laws that protect my elderly brothers and sisters. The politicians don’t even think about passing laws to restrict old coots – just the opposite. Oh sure, the place is loaded with old coots like me that pull out in front of you and then crawl along at speeds that barely register on the speedometer, turn without signaling and give you a dirty look if you complain – park their big boats so close to you in parking lots that you can’t open your door.

But, we don’t weave through traffic at 80 MPH – slam on the brakes at a stop sign half way into the intersection and sneer at the terrified pedestrians waiting to cross. Still, it’s just a matter of time until I’m dragged before a judge, charged with DWO! I’ll put my hat on backwards, slip on a pair of flip-flops, untuck my shirt and plead “not old.” I just hope the judge is older than me.

May 1, 2013 Article

The Old Coot lets his shirttails fly!

By Merlin Lessler

“Tuck in your shirt!” My mother said that to me a million times when I was growing up. Our world was a prim and proper place back then: shoes shinned and tied in double knots - shirts buttoned – mandatory wearing of clean, white underwear (it had to be white and it better be clean if you got in an accident. What would the doctors in the emergency room think of your mother if it were otherwise?) And, of course, a tucked in shirt.

Times have changed. And, at the risk of looking like a delusional old coot trying to pass as a youngster, I now let my shirt flap in the breeze like today’s young males who live in a privileged world. Privileged, because they never hear their mothers say, “Tuck in your shirts!”

And why not? Who wants a bunch of wadded up cloth under their belt, struggling to free itself from exile? But, it doesn’t always work, this protest by an old coot against the tuck-in rule. Just the other day, I ran into a “shirt-tuck” law enforcer. It happened at a breakfast meeting of old guys who graduated from the same high school more then half a century ago. “Hey man, I don’t know if you know it, but your shirt isn’t tucked in!” He was giving me the benefit of a doubt with his “I don’t know if you know it” phrasing, affording me the opportunity to claim it was a memory problem (forgetting to tuck it in) and not a violation of the tuck-in-your-shirt rule.

But, it wasn’t a memory problem; it was outright defiance. Plus, I felt sorry for the shirt. It hung in the closet for weeks. Then, when it finally got out, was hidden under a crew neck sweater, except for a slim half-inch of collar that peeked out at the top. It must have been heartbreaking for the beautiful, five color, plaid shirt. But, my un-tuck proclivity afforded it considerable exposure as it waved, “Hello,” to the world from below the waistband of my sweater. The sweater was not tucked in either. I only mention the latter because extreme shirt-tuck-in rule followers tuck in everything: T-shirts, regular shirts, and yes, even sweat shirts and sweaters.

“To tuck or not to tuck, that is the question, Jimmy,” as Clark Kent might have phrased it if he was discussing the issue with cub reporter, Jimmy Olsen back on 1950’s TV, in the era when mothers pelted their sons with an unending barrage of, “Tuck in your shirts.” I have the answer for Jimmy, “Don’t tuck!” And, for my fellow old coots, “Don’t act your age! Let your shirttails fly! Let them flap in the breeze! Let freedom ring! (Followed by a chorus of God Bless America, if you’re so moved.)

April 24, 2013 Article

The Old Coot stifles a scream.

By Merlin Lessler

There is always one! Get a group of kids together and it’s guaranteed that one of them will be a screamer. And, the screams don’t come every once in a while; them come every few seconds (or so it seems to old coots like me). They scream at everything, especially at the beach. A wave comes in – SCREAM! – the wave goes out – SCREAM! – water splashes – SCREAM! – another kid touches them – SCREAM! And, it’s always one of those high-pitched screeches that carries for miles.

It makes me wonder about the parents; do they hear it? Or, have they been around it so long their brain tunes it out, like the freight train that rumbles and whistles through town at three in the morning. You never notice it until the day it doesn’t come. You wake up and wonder, “What was that?”

It’s not a hard habit to break. When the kid screams, you cup their face in your hands, look them straight in the eye and say, “Stop screaming honey!” Do this every time they emit a screech; five minutes later, the world has one less screamer polluting the environment. With the rare kid where this doesn’t work, a five-minute time out after every screech will get the job done. 

It’s best if a parent takes care of the situation. When they don’t, the old coot method has to be employed. It takes 3 old coots to do this. If you try this when you’re by yourself you can be arrested for harassment. But, with 3, the threat of police action or parent retaliation is eliminated. When the kid screams – we scream. It takes a few exchanges before the kid notices. We’re not just trying to get the message to the screamer; we’re also trying to get the mother or father to put down their cell phone or stop gabbing to a friend and realize their kid is causing a public disturbance.

Sometimes, it works great. Mom or dad does the “face-hold” and tells the kid to stop screaming. The kid gets the message and a pleasant day at the beach is possible. Sometimes, it gets us a dirty look, and the family moves down the beach, away from the old grouches. (That works for me too, but not the poor people at the new location)

If we all pitch in we can rid the world of screamers. They are running rampant – in our parks – on our playgrounds – and especially around water. It’s more than us old coots can handle; we need the rest of you to join in and help put an end to scream pollution.

April 17, 2013 Article

The Old Coot grew up in an unsafe world?

By Merlin Lessler

Every so often the news media will focus on children’s car seats, usually with a report that 70% are improperly installed. They trot out a police officer or a fire fighter to demonstrate the correct way to do it. Two years later, we learn that the “accepted method” has changed. We’re doing it all wrong again. 

It’s a tough world for parents these days. They try to do the right thing, keep their little ones safe, but they get caught in ever changing “official” advice: face the child forward - face the child back - at forty pounds, use the seat belt - don’t use the seatbelt until he’s eight - use the air bag - turn off the air bag. It never ends. We never seem to do it right. It’s especially hard on grandparents; especially old coot grandparents who are super skeptical of “official” advice. We end up getting scolded by both the media and our grandchildren’s parents. 

It’s not our fault. We grew up in cars that didn’t have seat belts, often sitting in the front seat between mom and dad in a canvas pouch hooked over the seat with a toy steering wheel in front of us, directly in line between our body and the dashboard. I can only imagine how that would have worked out in a crash. I vividly remember sitting in mine, turning the wheel to the left when my father turned his, honking the horn, moving the shift lever back and forth. Don’t ask me how I remember something from so long ago yet can’t remember to mail the letters in my pocket when I walk to town.

We were protected back then, even though we didn’t have proper car seats, air bags or seat belts. We had mom’s right arm. The second she slammed on the brakes it shot out and prevented us from hurtling into the dash. It’s hard to imagine that those little, slim, feminine arms were strong enough to hold back a child hurtling forward at 30 miles per hour, but they were. Scientists and public officials say it isn’t possible. They also claim it’s impossible for those same arms to pick up the front end of a car that sits atop a child, but it happens all the time. It’s the mother tiger factor.  

So, what’s a parent to do? Don’t ask me. I’m the guy who drove around with my kids in the back seat (and the compartment behind it) in a VW Beetle, skidding around a shopping plaza parking lot making “donuts” in the fresh fallen snow. I’m the guy who made plaster casts for my daughters to get them to stop jumping out of trees, trying to break their arms so they could wear a cast to school and look “cool.” (It worked by the way; it only took two days for them to beg me to cut them off). No, don’t ask me, or any other old coot what to do about car seats. Or, bike helmets, shin and elbow pads or any other politically correct child safety device. We grew up stupid (and unprotected) and stayed that way. 

April 10, 2013 Article

The Old Coot gets overrun at the racetrack.

By Merlin Lessler

I was at a car race in February, the “Bud Duel” at the Daytona International Speedway. Two, back-to-back, 150-mile races. Danica Patrick had the pole in the first one, Jeff Gordon in the second. Sort of a historical moment, but it was lost on me. I was buried in food wrappers and empty beer cans by the end of the session. I had no idea a race fan was required to eat his way through the three-hour event. But, that’s the rule.

The guy next to me in the nosebleed section showed the way. He waddled through the narrow space between the welded in place, metal folding chairs, hauling a knapsack and a beer cooler, plopped down next to me and sighed. I adjusted my position since large portions of his frame invaded my space. I was sort of cantered in my seat; my head faced forward but the rest of my body was angled forty-five degrees to the right. It was at that moment I realized why people opted for the $200 and $300 seats, not the pitiful $120 investment I’d made in mine.

The races were uneventful. Danica achieved her objective; she finished the race without wrecking her “Go Daddy” car, preserving the pole position for the Daytona 500 coming up 3 days hence. I forget how the second race ended. There were very few lead changes. The inside lane was running slow, too slow to pass the cars running on the outside, so the pack sped along in the outside lane, like a toy train going around a circular track.

No, the real show was in the stands not on the racetrack. At least for me. The seat hog with the big fanny next to me ate his way through the event. Before the Star Spangled Banner was finished, signaling the start of the first race, he had downed an overstuffed, 12-inch sub, overflowing with meats, cheeses, onions, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and Italian dressing. It was with extreme envy that I watched him munch his way through 1,000 calories and wash it down with two “cold ones” from the cooler between his legs. By the time Danica made her way to safety at the back of the pack, he’d also put away a large bag of red licorice. I’d engaged him in conversation, hoping he’d feel obligated to offer me some. But no, my drooling didn’t move him in the least; he consumed the entire bag himself.

The same lack of sharing was exhibited as he went through a two-pound bag of peanuts, shucking and consuming them over the second race. Apparently, he’d had a different kind of kindergarten teacher than I did. Mine was big on sharing. The shark-like feeding frenzy in row 43 never let up – licorice and peanuts were followed by chips, Snicker bars, ice cream from the concession stand and a bag of Oreo cookies. Interspersed with cans of Bud. The row was littered with his discards by the time we stood to leave. I sloshed out to the aisle and down the stairs. Older and wiser.

I don’t know why I was surprised. I’m the guy who can’t sit through a two-hour movie at the theater without a bucket of popcorn, a super-size container of soda and a box of Good & Plenty. We’re an eating society. Eating our way to extinction. And I’m at the head of the pack.