Drop it! Lose it! (Old coot article published March 25, 2010

The Old Coot has a screw loose.

By Merlin Lessler

I dropped a small screw in the kitchen the other day. Not a miniature one, like the one that fell out of my glasses. I never did find that one; I ended up fixing them with a bent paperclip. It gave me a dorky look, but not as bad as when they snapped apart at the nose piece and I wrapped the break with adhesive tape. Now that was dorky of the highest order. One, unfortunately, I’m well acquainted with. But, back to the screw that I dropped the other day; it was an inch long and should have been easy to spot. It wasn’t! I scanned the area where I expected it to be and then had to widen the search perimeter. To no avail. I was irked, determined to not let it escape. I finally found it; well I didn’t actually “find” it – I stepped on it as I was walking out of the room. Barefoot. Ouch! It was in the doorway, ten feet beyond where I’d been looking.

Whenever I drop something, it seems to go much farther that I expect. Even a piece of popcorn, a light fluffy object that should be easy to retrieve, travels a surprising distance and then disappears. The same thing happens with a peanut, a paper clip or other small item. They elude me when I try to see where they’ve landed. It’s nature’s cruel joke on old coots.  The older I get, the harder it is to get down on my hands & knees to search for things. And, the farther I have to crawl to find it, the harder it is to get back up. When I do locate the item and get back to my feet, I’ve forgotten what I was going to do with it. I stand there like a dummy, holding it in my hand, looking around the room hoping to jar my memory. It’s an “Attention Span” disorder. Quite normal for old coots like me.   

That’s why I’ll never undergo surgery with a physician my age. The O.R. nurse will hand him an instrument, he’ll listen to the music for a minute (it’s his favorite Beetle’s song) and then look down at the scalpel in his hand and ask himself, “Now, what was I going to do with this?” He’ll surely mess me up and I do not want to be one of those people paraded out in attorney ads on TV, who brag about how much they collected using Butthead, Getum & Milkum Attorneys at Law. TV stations would go broke without ad revenue from these ambulance chasers. You and I end up paying for the settlements (and the ads) in higher insurance rates. I’d sue them, but when I got on the witness stand my mind would probably go blank. (Now why am I here?)   

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Lost daylight! - March 18, 2020 Old Coot Article

The Old Coot is time challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s been a couple of weeks since we “sprang ahead,” moving our clocks forward an hour. Daylight saving time! I would have written about it earlier, but it’s taken me this long to get used to it. It doesn’t save daylight, not for a lot of people, especially not for us old guys. We lose daylight! It’s probably true for old women too, but I won’t claim to speak for them. When I try, I end up getting scolded and told how ignorant I am., a male chauvinistic know it all. So, I confine my opinion to that of my tribe – Grouchy Old Men.

There I was, on the first day into this madness, waking up at my normal time, 6 AM, but it wasn’t 6 AM on the clock; it was 7 AM, still night outside my window. If I wanted to get to my coffee meeting with the boys at seven thirty, I’d have to hop on my bicycle and peddle off in the dark because the daylight saving crowd stole my early morning daylight and gave it to the people who sleep late, and go to bed late. I now arrive an hour late because I don’t want to risk getting run down by people in cars, anxious to get to work. Running over a few bike riders isn’t an issue for them. We’re in THEIR space. So, how am I supposed to help my coffee klatch solve the world problems if I get there an hour late?

When I complain about my lost daylight hour, I don’t get any sympathy. “You get the hour back at the end of the day,” they explain. Muttering, “You stupid old coot,” under their breath. But, they’re wrong. I don’t get that hour back. Most old coots don’t. We have dinner at four, a habit we got into from going to early bird specials. Then, we watch the news on TV, tune in Jeopardy and are sound asleep in our recliners before the final Jeopardy question is asked. It’s still daylight. That’s what I’m told anyhow. I never experience it myself. I don’t regain consciousness until ten or eleven, just in time to go to bed. No extra daylight time for me.

And, why do we move the clock ahead at 2 AM on a Sunday morning? If we’re going to lose an hour, we ought to be able to select when we’ll give it up. How about 11 AM on a Monday for people with Jobs. Move the clock ahead. Presto! Time for lunch. Or at the dentist’s office, as a hand with a drill in it approaches your head and voice says, “Open wide. That would be a good time to lose an hour. No drilling. No pain. We should be allowed to decide, not the politicians. They enacted into law the time for the change - 2 AM on a Sunday. I know; I sound more crabby than usual. It’s not my fault. It’s that stupid time change I’m still dealing with it. Every time I look at the clock, I see what it says and then say to myself that it’s really an hour earlier on my internal clock, a clock that doesn’t adapt to change all that well. It takes weeks and weeks, sometimes all the way until fall, when we move the clock back. I can’t wait. 

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March 11th Article - A free show at Starbucks

The Old Coot watches the show?

By Merlin Lessler

When I’m out of town, at one our favorite destinations, I hang out in a Starbucks with a gang of coffee klatch pals; Mike, Mike #2, Don, Steve, Alan, Ed, Dan, Rita, Scotty, Lou, John, the third Mike and the other Merlin. The coffee shop is one of the new models: high ceilings, a long work counter, exposed steel beams, heat ducts and track lights. An industrial motif! It was built to replace a perfectly fine set-up, except it didn’t have a drive-up window. It’s a noisy place – 6 to 8 servers are behind the counter – steam is hissing – metal containers bang and clank – globs of goop, coconut milk and other flavorings slop around, the metal ceiling bounces the racket back through the seating area.

There’s a cashier station at one end of the counter and a pick-up space at the other. As orders are prepared, the customer’s name and selection is shouted out – “Brenda! Mocha Late with two shots!”  Call ahead orders are placed in the same pick up space, but with less yelling. I’ve got the Starbuck App with the remote ordering capability, but I never used it till the other day when the line at the register was out the door. I sat down with the klatch and put in my order. In a few minutes I heard, “Merlin – Tall Black,” shouted above the din. In effect, I’d cut ahead of the line and felt a tinge of guilt, having grown up in a “wait your turn and don’t crowd ahead” generation. But, it was an emergency; I was in caffeine withdrawal.

And what a din in this place, with its high ceilings and the beverage manufacturing process going on behind the counter. It’s so noisy you can’t have a conversation unless you lean in. We sit in a circle and look like a group of ducks on a pond taking turns bobbing forward to hear what’s being said. I think the company should adopt the slogan, “Starbucks – bringing people closer together.

Sometimes I give up trying to have a conversation and just sit there, watching the drama behind the counter – all the servers are equipped with headsets and microphones, to take orders from the drive-in and call-ahead crowds, and to communicate with each other. They are the cast in a play, running back and forth, shouting out customer names and beverage orders while slopping liquids, steaming milk, turning on mixers, and rattling pots that send a crescendo of blended noise over the audience. It sounds like an off-key orchestra playing background music for a one-act, musical play with actors racing around the stage in a frenzy.

This musical would be funny if you didn’t see it for what it was,  a modern day sweat shop, where workers toil at full speed, time on end, in an atmosphere that qualifies for an OSHA citation; noisy, confusing, random steam eruptions shooting in all directions and relentless mixing & serving. I’m sure the Starbucks CEO, Kevin Johnson, appreciates their dedication, but he might consider giving them a thank-you bonus every so often, for his $13.4 million dollar salary and projected $50 million bonus if these workers achieve the corporate goals. I could then stop contributing to the tip jar. Then, it would be a perfect place for an old coot cheapskate.  

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Sweetie-Pie Old Coot- March 4, 2020 Article

The Old Coot is Peachy-pie, sometimes.

By Merlin Lessler

I've taken on a new moniker, several actually – Sweetie-pie – Honey – Dearie – Sweetheart – Peachy-pie – Cutie and the like. Every place I go, I'm a: Sweetie-pie” person. It’s an old man thing. For a long time, I was just an old guy, a “Sir,” a “Mister,” a “Senior.” I accepted that persona over the years; I embraced my “old guy” designation and converted my internal identity. I referred to myself as the Old Coot, probably a little before I really needed to. I was an old coot prodigy. Now, without being aware of it, I've transitioned to a new level and have been inducted into the “sweetie-pie” Club. [I Walk funny, I stumble a bit, I wobble, I operate with reduced muscle mass, I squint, I creak.]

I’m a full-fledged old man and a full-fledged member of the “sweetie-pie” club, a wrinkled, bent, object of sympathy (some call it pity). I’m addressed as Sweetie-pie, and similar endearing terms. It’s nice, on the surface, to be treated in this kindly fashion. It's just that it snuck up on me when I wasn't paying attention. I've thought of myself as an old coot for so long I didn't notice this new phase until the curtains on life’s stage pulled aside to reveal this new version of me to the audience.  

It’s nothing new, this being surprised by life’s passages. I was shocked in my early twenties when I started being addressed as Sir and Mister and Mister Lessler by people just a few years younger than me. My wife thought it was a riot, until she got called ma’am for the first time. Now, I’m surprised all over again, as the Misters have exited stage left and Sweetie-pie has taken center stage.

These life milestones come as a shock to most of us, but I’m not going to complain about this Sweetie-pie stage of my life. The next designation is, “The late Mister Lessler.” I won’t be aware of it, but somehow, I’ll still resent it. It’s what old coot do; we slip off the stage, but our complaints live on forever.

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Old Coot is a flake. (February 26, 2020 Article)

The Old Coot is a flake! A snow flake.

By Merlin Lessler

I gave myself a treat the other morning at Dunkin Donut’s; I ordered a jelly donut with my coffee. It’s something I’d like to do every day but would look like a blimp if I did. It takes all my willpower, but I space out my jelly donut binges.

Anyhow, this particular jelly donut was covered with a layer of powdered sugar. Some Dunkin Donut Shops use granular sugar or go light on the powder, but this place marches their jelly donuts through a blizzard of sugar. I sat at a table, took the snowball out of the bag and carefully placed it on a napkin. Sugar flakes flew into the air; I was surrounded as though in a Nor’easter snowstorm. I could barely see across the room. Ever bite sent a new snow squall into the atmosphere. The napkin, the table, my pants & shirt, the seat and the floor were speckled in a layer of snowflakes. I looked like Pig-Pen, the character in Peanuts who lives in a cloud of dust. Anyone seeing me would be tempted to ask the manager, “Why do you allow a slob like that in this place?”

It doesn’t bother me, those dirty looks from strangers. I deserve the “Pig-Pen” comparison: I look as unkempt as he does, and even worse. I look like a one year old when I get up from the table. One that grabbed a spoon out of his mother’s hand and sprayed pablum all over himself and his surroundings. Most people come out of a restaurant carrying their leftovers in a doggy bag. Not me! I don’t need the bag. I transport my leftovers on my shirt, pants and shoes. I’m saving the eco system from Styrofoam pollution.

I’m not sure exactly when I became a food & drink slob. I know there was a time when I looked presentable in public. But for years now, I’ve sported coffee, mustard, spaghetti sauce, ketchup and wine stains on my clothes. I sloshed so much coffee on myself, that for a while I wore beige to hide the stains. I gave that up and now face the world just as I am – a shirt stained old coot who is well along the return trip to babyhood – It’s where I started and it’s where I’ll end up. It’s just taken me a lifetime to make the round trip.    

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The Old Coot misses pipes. (February 19, 2020 Article)

The Old Coot misses the whiff of pipe tobacco.

By Merlin Lessler

It is an era long gone, and for good reason, yet I miss it. Hadn’t thought about it for years but the other day I spotted a picture of Sylvester Stallone in an old news photo lighting a pipe. Oh my, how politically incorrect! A pipe? Not in this day and age!  Not a common sight. It hit me how much I miss being in a world with pipe smokers, letting that sweet, mellow aroma tickle my senses. And, hearing the tap, tap, tap as an indulger empties the ashes and unburned stubs of tobacco to rest the bowl until the next time it’s called into service.

Just seeing a pipe smoker with a briar protruding from the side of his mouth, a contented man, at peace with the world, would make my day. It was a male vice for the most part, yet women did puff on them as well. Not very many and rarely in public, though I recall a picture of Katharine Hepburn puffing on a briar back in the 1950’s.

I was fifteen when I bought my first pipe. It was on a display at a neighborhood mom and pop store, attached to two tins of Raleigh Tobacco with a rubber band.  A holiday special, for only a dollar! I thought I’d give it to my father for Christmas; he’d recently given up cigarette smoking, along with five minutes of coughing every morning. I thought it would help him stay with the program. My mother said it would only get him started again so I kept the pipe for myself. And, with a couple of like-minded knuckle-headed friends, walked around town puffing away, thinking how adult we must look. A pipe was a nerdy thing to smoke, long before nerdy became a word, so we switched to cigarettes. Winston’s, the ones with the catchy advertising jingle, “Winston’s taste good like a cigarette should!”

Not the worst mistake I ever made, but right up there near the top. I took up the pipe again in my twenties, to get off the cancer sticks, as we called them, well before the Surgeon General got around to alerting the public to the dangers of cigarette smoking. The pipe did the job: I quit cigarettes, at least for a while, and eventually forever but I still remember how nice it felt to have a pipe protruding from the side of my mouth and to be enclosed in an aromatic cloud. I wasn’t alone; a lot of famous people were pipe smokers – Bing Crosby, Clark Gable, Darwin, Gerald Ford, Walter Cronkite, FDR, Einstein, Stalin, and Mark Twain to name a few.

Now, no one smokes them in public, not that I ever see. I miss it. But even more, I miss the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco. Almost as much as the scent of burning leaves on a crisp fall afternoon. When I turn eighty, which isn’t that far off, especially now that years slip past me at the speed of light, I’m going to buy a pipe and go in my back yard and put a match to it and to a small pile of leaves. If the authorities come charging in to stop me, they’ll have to pry, both the leaf rake and the briar pipe from my cold dead hands. Want to join me? Be at my house on November 15, 2022; we’ll light up the world together.  Ha Ha!

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five dollars a tooth? February 12, 2020 Article

The Old Coot sold out too cheap.

By Merlin Lessler

I’ll never forget losing my first tooth. It was at my grandfather’s house: I was five years old and had not an inkling that some day I’d be an old man like him. All through our youth, and well beyond, we never think old age will come our way. We know it intellectually, but for some reason, think we’ll escape it, and the infirmities that go with it. Some people actually do escape the infirmities. You see them paraded out on TV all the time, like the 103-year-old woman who climbed aboard a bull at a nursing home making the highlight reel on the evening news last week. It was one of those feel good endings that they tack on to make us feel warm and fuzzy after blasting us with 30 minutes of dreadful news and life threating weather forecasts.   

But, back to the tooth, that first one I pried out, grasping it with a handkerchief because the looseness was driving me nuts and the dime from the Tooth Fairy that would await me under my pillow when I woke up the next morning. Not as exciting as waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney loaded with presents, but still a big deal for a five-year-old. I slipped the tooth under my pillow that night and woke to a shiny dime. I was a little disappointed. I was hoping for a nickel. I thought a nickel was worth more than a dime because it was bigger.    

That baby tooth was soon replaced with a so called “permanent” tooth, but as us old coots know, permanence is not guaranteed, not if you crunch down hard on an un-popped, popcorn kernel. I broke a few corners off doing that. There are plenty of other oral surprises that lurk in the dark, waiting to visit you at the worst possible moment. You can also lose some teeth by shooting off your mouth to the wrong guy and discover that your ducking skills are no longer what they once were.  

I also didn’t consider the expense I’d incur, over a lifetime, when I yanked out that milk tooth and invited in my first permanent one. I ended up with a mouthful of liabilities, eventually receiving 32 of those white devils. I parted company with the 4 wisdom teeth before I left my thirties. Down to 28. Over time, another three rats deserted the sinking ship, two lost to my love affair with popcorn and one that just woke me up one morning and said, “I’ve got to get out of here!” They were all in the back part of my mouth and didn’t really need to be replaced. Not like those front teeth, that make you look like a goober when they’re gone. The tooth fairy skipped my pillow when that threesome came out; she slipped the cash under my dentist’s pillow instead, depositing a lot more than a shiny dime.

I have no regrets on that score. I love my dentist; she’s been a savior on many instances over the years. I got a dime to welcome in a permanent tooth when I was five, but now spend about five dollars per tooth to get them professionally cleaned. I think the disparity of getting a dime to make room for a tooth that costs five bucks in maintenance, twice a year, is a lopsided financial transaction. I should have held out for a dental plan when I lost the first one. 

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