It is from bears like this that legends are made

The bear roaming through town this past Sunday weighed well over 500 pounds, was followed by three cubs, and viciously attacked at least one mail carrier and two toy poodles before being brought down by a sniper's bullet. She left a path of destruction not unlike what one might expect from a small tornado. It was chaos! Madness! Panic in the streets!

That's not true, of course. The bear clocked in at about 170 pounds, didn't attack anybody, had no cubs and was a he, not a she. Moreover, the poor, frightened thing beat cheeks out of town at the first opportunity, leaving no path of destruction other than the occasional pyramid of bear scat.

But that doesn't matter; my far superior (and highly inaccurate) story will be the one told around dinner tables and campfires 10, 20, however-many years from now. In many cases the narrator — who may never have seen a bear in his life outside a zoo — will insert himself into the story, generally in a role far more heroic than any he ever played in real life.

It is from such mundane events as a wayward bear that legends are born. Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, the Lincoln Death Train; all probably had their origins in some long-ago, real-life occurrence. All were stories told and re-told, gaining weight with each telling, gathering embellishments the way a grain of sand gathers nacre inside an oyster shell until, in the fullness of time, a pearl is born.

The first paragraph of this column is my attempt to get that pearl started with regard to the bear story. 

Earlier this week I read the accurate, honest account of the bear's trek through town on the newspaper's website and Facebook pages. I related the tale to Sweet Annie, more or less factually, increasing the bear's weight by only 20 or 30 pounds and allowing him to chase after a couple kids who unexpectedly walked out of a restaurant and surprised the critter. Not much of an embellishment, but a start.

When I share the story with my daughter during her visit next week, the bear will have grown larger still, more vicious, and will have chased a hapless state trooper up an oak tree; maybe one of the oaks in my back yard. I may snag a couple torn shreds of blue fabric in one of the lower branches, just to add some semblance of credibility to the tale.

Even with the planted physical evidence, my daughter — who knows me too well — may not believe me. But my grandson, Edison, will. And someday he'll tell the story of the killer bear to his kids, who will tell it to their kids and so on and so on and scooby-dooby-doo right on down the line.

One-hundred years from now, that lost, frightened bear will be transformed into a 100-foot tall giant whose rein of terror lasted decades and encompassed half the state. He'll have gained a name, one the primitive, provincial yokels of the time (us) uttered only in whispers, their voices tremulous with awe and fear. Caesar, maybe. Or Xerxes. Something to inspire terror in kids as they gather ‘round the fire cooking s'mores. 

And since no legend is complete without a hero, someone to vanquish the unvanquishable foe, and since I'm kind of getting in on the ground floor of this particular legend, I humbly nominate myself for the role. OK, OK, in real life I slept through the entire incident.

Who cares? You think there's really a Lincoln Death Train? You think Paul Bunyan actually had a blue ox named Babe? Not a chance, buddy.

So what's so hard to believe about Mighty Mike the Bear Slayer? It's got a ring, yeah? And who's to say I couldn't wrestle a giant bear bare-handed? (Well, anyone with a modicum of common sense, but that's not how these things work.)

I just wish I could be around 100 years from now to hear of my exploits.

mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com

(616) 548-8273

Am I just sick, or a harbinger of the Apocalypse?

Being sick is no fun at all if you're doing it alone. I'm in bed as I write this, home with the flu. At least I think it's the flu. Then again, maybe I'm Patient Zero, harbinger of a new pandemic that will sweep the planet in a matter of days, killing 99 percent of the population and leaving the world a savage wasteland in which my dog and I will drive around in a souped-up, former cop car looking for open Wesco stations offering fresh donuts.

Nah, I couldn't be that lucky. It's probably just the flu, or something like it. Whatever it is, it kept me up all night and it's keeping me down today.

I wouldn't mind, really, except for the fact I'm living alone. That means there's no woman here to baby me, which is the only reason for ever being sick.

Sweet Annie's a real Florence Nightingale whenever I'm ill, but she's an hour's drive away and has things to do today that don't involve homemade chicken soup or cool washcloths placed gently across my feverish brow.

If I had a dog, he could sit near the foot of my bed and gaze at me with concern in his canine eyes, the way dogs sometimes do. But I don't have a dog, much less one that's worried I'm sick.

A cat, which I also don't have, wouldn't care one way or the other about my health unless I got so sick I forgot to feed her. If that happened, the cat would start counting the days until I died, after which she would have plenty to eat. Cats have a strong survival instinct and no discernible conscience.

Upon my friend Kelly's advice, I bought a couple hermit crabs the other day. I don't believe they're concerned for my well-being, though it's hard to say for sure. The moment I put them in their elaborate and fairly expensive terrarium home, they buried themselves in the cedar bark substrate and haven't been seen since. 

Kelly assures me they will eventually emerge, but I'm beginning to have my doubts. I should check the bottom of the cage to see if they've somehow managed to tunnel their way to freedom.

But I digress. It's easy to do when you're running a fever so high you keep forgetting what it is, exactly, that you're writing about. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with being sick, at least at the beginning there. Let me check.

Yup. Being sick it is; that and the fact there's no woman here to baby me through this bout with the cooties.

If there were, I'd be having the time of my life. Being sick with a good woman in the house is one of life's great experiences. Chicken soup, or "broth," if you really, really ill. Toast and tea. Bland food you would never, ever eat under normal circumstances, but which for some reason tastes great when your belly's not up to the rigors of burritos or pizza.

A woman will bring you these things if you are sick. You don't even have to get out of bed. Frankly, I've known men (me) who have faked illness on a Sunday afternoon just to get the free room service. I probably shouldn't admit to that, since I may want to do it again someday, but this stupid fever is diminishing my naturally occurring masculine deception skills.

Maybe it's a good thing there's no woman here to ask me incriminating questions. Fabricating answers seems like too much trouble at the moment, and I firmly believe the truth should only be used as a last resort when all else fails.

So I guess I'll just lay here alone for the rest of the day, whimpering like a newborn with a misplaced pacifier, wishing I had someone to bring me tea and toast, Kleenex and the occasional hit of NyQuil. I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow. Unless Annie drops by with some homemade chicken soup, a cool washcloth and soothing words of comfort. If she does, it may take a couple extra days to fully, ahem, recover.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 548-8273

The perfect pet was right there all along

My new lakeside apartment is so small, it's like a (cue Rodney Dangerfield voiceover) "Hoo! I'll tell ya! My new apartment is so small..." joke. You know, "I've got to step outside to change my mind," "Even the mice are hunchbacked," "I turn around and bump into myself"...that sort of thing. It is, by far, the smallest place I've ever lived.

Over the years I've stayed in a lot of hotel rooms, all of them bigger than my new apartment. Those brightly-painted cement barrels that once were a staple of elementary school playgrounds? Yup, even those were bigger than my new apartment.

It's small.

I don't mind. It's large enough for my current needs. Thanks to the gradual diminution of my worldly goods over the past couple years, all my "stuff" fits inside, and what doesn't fit inside fits inside the garage (which also is bigger than the apartment). The view of the lake is spectacular, my futon is surprisingly comfortable, and there's plenty of cupboard space. Things could be worse.

The only downside is, I'm living there alone. Don't panic, this isn't a Lonely Hearts Club whimper; I have Sweet Annie, a brilliant blonde (they do exist, despite numerous jokes to the contrary). I see her on the weekends, which is just about as much of me as she can put up with, so that's fine.

What I need, what I miss, is a pet. A dog, a cat, even a bird would do. But there's no room.

I could get a little dog, but I'm almost never home. You can't leave a little dog home alone all day unless you want to open the door every evening with a pooper scooper in your hand and a forgiving nature in your heart.

Cats try to make you think they don't give a damn about your company, but most of 'em do. Cats are like beautiful women; they hate the idea of you knowing they need you. They may not even admit to themselves that they need you. But ignore a cat for a couple days and you'll likely find a "surprise" in your laundry basket. Passive aggressive little monsters.

In the warm-blooded critter category, that leaves birds and rodents. I had my share of rodents when the kids were younger; hamsters, gerbils, mice, rats, guinea pigs...my kids had them all at one time or another. And they all eventually escaped their cages and came to bad ends, usually behind a refrigerator or inside the walls, where your nose could inform you as to their demise, but where there was nothing you could do about it but wait for the long process of decomposition to run its course.

Birds I like a lot, but there's no place for a cage in my apartment. It really is that small. I could hang a cage, I suppose, but — again, due to space constraints — it would have to hang directly over: a) where I eat, b) where I sleep, or c) where I cook. I do not want to eat bird seed or anything else a bird might kick out of its cage during the day. Likewise, I don't want to wake up with molted feathers in my mouth. So a bird's out.

Fish? There's not much by way of interaction when it comes to fish. An aquarium can be a nice piece of home decor, but I've always thought of the fish themselves as either food or bait.

Reptiles? Again, the kids had them a'plenty when they were younger. For the most part, these also escaped their cages and ate the rodents who hadn't already died on their own. And, as is the case with fish, I just don't have much to say to the average iguana.

So I'm pet-less. Or nearly so.

There is one other "life-form" sharing my apartment. She's living in the shower, up in one high corner, above the shower-head. She was there when I moved in and I haven't had the heart to evict her.

Charlotte (of course I named her Charlotte) is a fairly large spider, about the size of a silver dollar. She's pale yellow with no clear markings I can see. Based on the number of insect corpses in her neat, little web, she shares my love of murdering flies and mosquitoes; another good reason to leave her right where she is.

And like I said, I need a pet. Granted, Charlotte may not be as cuddly as a puppy or kitten, she may not be as colorful as a Gouldian finch, she may not produce a lilting canary chirrup, but she doesn't take up much room, I don't have to feed her, and she's completely cool with me being gone most weekends.

In that desert island movie, Tom Hanks spent years with no company but a soccer ball named Wilson and he got by. For now, at least, Charlotte will have to be enough for me.

Mike Taylor's book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available in paperback from mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or in eBook format from Amazon.com. Email Taylor at mtaylor325@staffordmediasolutions.com.

mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions
(616) 548-8273

In the world of 5k athletics, there are cheetahs, wounded gazelles, and then me; the manatee

I was supposed to run a 5k race this past Sunday. Well, not actually the 5k part, and not actually run. I signed up to participate in the one mile walk. After a long winter of beer and burritos even that seemed daunting, but I was determined to do my part to help raise money for the Greenville Education Foundation.

My best turned out to be showing up late and missing the run entirely. No, that's not entirely true; I showed up with 20 minutes to spare, but spent that whole time looking around for the sign-in booth. By the time the starter's pistol fired, I still hadn't found it.

The Foundation still got my money, so I don't have to feel guilty about it. I'm a little bummed over missing the after-party with friends, but I'll live.

I still had a good time people watching. People watching is one of my favorite sports. If I had my way, Topps would sell bubble gum trading cards with regular people on them; you know — "One-tooth Guy from the County Fair", "Fat Lady with Red Hair and Seven Kids Under Age Five", "ZZ Top Beard Guy" — that sort of thing.

Strolling through the surprisingly large crowd of runners, joggers and walkers, I felt like anthropologist Jane Goodall, stealthily skirting the perimeter of a chimp-filled clearing, observing behavior, making mental notes on primate mores. Except in my opinion, humans make for far more interesting specimens than do chimpanzees. Unlike chimps, we not only talk, we usually refrain from throwing feces at each other (with the possible exception of politicians during election years).

And while all chimps look alike (at least to me and I hope that doesn't make me a species-ist) people are wildly diverse in both appearance and behavior. Nowhere is this more apparent than at the starting line of a 5k run. Observing these differences was made easier by the fact that event organizers had already segregated participants into their component groups. As I walked among them, I began to realize the group to which I had previously assigned myself — the one-mile walkers — was never going to be featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated, no, not even the Swimsuit Issue. In fact, especially not the Swimsuit Issue.

Leading the pack were the serious runners, those who planned to pour 100-percent of their considerable physical prowess into out-running every other runner in attendance. These folks were the amped-up cheetahs of the pack; lean, mean running machines, taut muscle flexing sinuously beneath lightweight running shorts and high-tech T-shirts designed to wick away moisture. Most of them sported sneakers that cost more than my car.

There was a time, long ago, when I might have fit in with this group. Not anymore. Now I felt like an old manatee waddling among young greyhounds.

Next in line were the 5k runners who planned to trot the whole course but didn't really give a hoot where they placed. These were the soccer moms who had recently taken up jogging to lose those extra winter pounds before the arrival of swimsuit season, the ex-high school jocks working a desk job for the past ten years who figured they still had one race left in them, the old guys with one too many Clint Eastwood movies under their belts and the feeling they had something to prove.

Five years ago, this would have been my crowd.

Not anymore. My crowd was farther back from the starting line. Much farther. But we'll get to them soon enough.

Next up were the walkers who planned to do the whole 5k course. Though there were still a few nice sneakers and water-wicking T-shirts in evidence, these folks were for the most part dressed in comfortable street clothes.

They looked reasonably fit, though lacking the muscular definition of runners closer to the starting line. A few were having second thoughts about tackling the whole course, but on the whole they appeared to be a confident, comfortable lot, the neighborly sort who would offer you a frosty front porch beer on a warm summer's evening. I felt at home in their company.

But their company, alas, was not my own. My place was in the back of the pack, with the one-mile walkers. With a few exceptions, this group was comprised of the very young, the moms tending the young, and those — like myself — who are a little older and going soft around the edges. If we were gazelles, the lions would have been trying to separate us from the rest of the pack.

These, I realized, were my people. In the past four decades, I've somehow gone from sleek cheetah to limping gazelle.

But that's OK. I've seen Disney movies. I know about the circle of life and I'm comfortable with my place in it. I don't have to be the fastest or the fittest; all I've got to do is make sure there's at least one limping gazelle behind me. Keeping the lions company.

Mike Taylor's book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available in paperback from mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or in eBook format from Amazon.com. Email Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I’m just tryin’ to keep the customer satisfied, one word at a time

I’m worried about an email I received from a reader the other day. I get a lot of mail, most of it complimentary. It’s complimentary not because I’m the next James Thurber, but because I rarely write about anything of consequence and do my best to avoid controversial topics.

When it comes to reproductive rights, gun control, religion, politics and parenting, I’d just like to state emphatically and for the record that I agree wholly and completely with you.

Well, no, I probably don’t. I have strong opinions about all these things; it’s just that I don’t care whether you agree with me. I’ve never felt the need to convert anyone to my way of thinking. I’m an old hippie with a live and let live philosophy. Different strokes for different folks. All that love-bead, peace-sign, bell-bottom, Volkswagen Mini-Van, flowers-in-your-hair hooey.

So when it comes to this column, I write for the most part about things that amuse me; things I think are funny and things I hope others also will find amusing. Sometimes I hit my mark, sometimes I don’t. In the long years I’ve been writing, I’ve learned to accept that every word tumbling from my laptop is not Shakespeare. I’m trying to make a buck here, not build a legacy.

Which is why the recent reader letter worries me. For starters, the writer – for legal reasons I’ll call him Elroy, though his real name is Henry – does not have a high opinion of many of my fellow columnists; none of them, in fact. As to my own columnistic prowess, he – for the time being, at least – reserves judgment. (And yes, the word “columnistic” is one I just made up. Please file your complaints with Merriam-Webster.)

But the thing that worries me is Elroy (real name: Henry) finds odious several writers whom I, personally, like a lot. And he dislikes them for the same reasons I do like them.

Like me, several of these columnists write about nothing in particular; just the everyday minutiae that comprise our little lives here on this big planet. Home improvement projects gone horribly awry; diets that leave us 10 pounds heavier; teenage sons and daughters who routinely shave years from our lives … things that, in the words of the Immortal Bard of Stratford on Avon (some guy named Bill), are “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

We’re like Facebook, only with better grammar and less profanity.

Elroy (OK, let’s just call him Henry and be done with it) hates columns like these. According to Henry (that guy we were until recently calling Elroy), he dislikes columns about “upper crust” citizens, big butts and other weight-loss concerns, money worries, and name-dropping. Over the years, I myself have written essays about all these things along with topics even more mundane.

I have a bad feeling Henry isn’t going to like my column, either, once he reads a few of ‘em. (This one, for example.)

But that’s OK. I can live with that. In this age of spoon-fed televised media, where most folks ingest all their information, pabulum-like, through one video screen or another, Henry is still reading a newspaper, dammit, and that makes him all right in my book. If he hates me, at least he’s reading me!

And come to think of it, I’ve hated a few columnists in my life and yet read them every week, just so I could remind myself of why I hated them. (Former Grand Rapids Press writer John Douglas leaps to mind.) But, like Henry (formerly Elroy), I read them anyway, and then complained bitterly to anyone who would listen.

So, go ahead, Henry. Do your worst. Write me anytime to let me know what an idiot I am. I have ex-wives who have called me far worse. I can take it. Hopefully, we’ll have a long and adversarial relationship.

Mike Taylor’s book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available in eBook format from Amazon.com.  Email Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

The Mike Taylor museum; only a buck and well worth the price of admission

I’ve been working on an archaeological dig the past couple weeks. It’s been no picnic; I’ve dug and dusted, classified, sorted and cataloged. It was hard, boring work. Archaeology, it turns out, isn't always about Tyrannosaurus bones and long-legged, blonde assistants.

But at least I was unearthing familiar territory: my own previous life.

Let me explain.  About two years ago I lost my wife, my job, my house and 37-percent of my self-respect. Everything I had accumulated in 40-plus years went into boxes, most of which were packed away in a musty spare room in my daughter’s basement in Detroit. And there they remained until recently.

I (finally) landed a new job with The Daily News in Greenville. This required a move from my little garden apartment in Detroit and when I packed, I took the boxes with me.  My daughter was glad to see ‘em go.

I was lucky enough to find a great rental; a cool little beach house overlooking Baldwin Lake, less than two miles from my new job. I took this as a sign that maybe the Fates don’t hate me after all despite extensive previous evidence to the contrary. The apartment is situated at the top of a very large hill, one which affords a wonderful view of the lake and surrounding area. Joggers, hikers and bicyclists pass on a regular basis and the whole setup is very reminiscent of some sort of seaside vacation community. I fell immediately in love with the apartment and managed to convince the landlady I wasn’t a serial killer or escaped lunatic. (This was not as easy as it should have been.)

I started moving in the next day. That’s when the trouble started. I filled my son-in-law’s van with my many, many boxes of “stuff” and drove the three hours from Detroit to my new digs. It wasn’t until I’d hauled the third heavy box up the hill to my apartment that I began to realize there might be a problem.

I had 30 boxes. There are 50 steps going up that hill. Each box weighed approximately 30 pounds. Now, I’m no math genius (as will soon be made apparent), but according to my calculations (derived from a combination of two-digit addition and wild speculation, just like my checkbook) I would have to carry about 900 pounds up 50 stairs for a grand total of...um...a lot. Despite my lousy math skills I was quickly able to ascertain that gravity is not my friend.

Once the boxes--carried up all those stairs in what can only be described as the biggest thunderstorm of the year, so far--were unpacked, everything had to be put away. My last house had four bedrooms, an attic, a full basement and a storage shed. My new apartment boasts one bedroom, a living room better suited to a leprechaun than a 200-pound man, and a kitchen.

Some things would have to go. Not the photos. Not even the ones of The Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor.  Not the bundles of school papers the kids brought home from Kindergarten 25 years ago. Not the ancient cassette tapes of the god-awful rock band I played in back in high school. All those things, along with my collection of ceramic ducks collected during a dozen vacations up north, my notes for the novel that will be written “any day now,” my dollar store reading glasses in a prescription that was strong enough as recently as ten years ago...all these things are archaeological treasures.

I could never, never part with any of these. And so my new apartment is now a very crowded museum.

Admission is only a buck. I’m hoping you’ll all stop by. I’m going to need that money to rent a place to live.

Mike Taylor’s recent book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available in both paperback and eBook versions at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or on amazon.com. Email Taylor at mtaylor@staffordgroup.com.

Robots with personality. Not necessarily a good thing

Regular readers of this column (both of you) already know how I feel about the "robo-tellers" used at the checkout counters of some large grocery chains. Put simply, I hate 'em. More than I hate The Real Housewives of Wherever; more than I hate beer with the word "lite" in it; more than I hate three out of four of my ex-wives*. That's a lot of hate, brother.

I hate being bullied into scanning my own groceries, looking up the price of a pomegranate on the robo-teller's little touch screen, waiting interminably for a semi-comatose human checkout person to OK my six-pack.

Now I read the robo-tellers are only the first wave of a robot revolution to rival anything seen in an Isaac Asimov novel or Will Smith movie. I'm talking about Ava, a robot currently under development by the iRobot company, the same people who brought you the Roomba robot, the little rolling circle that vacuums your carpet while you're at the office or napping. Or both.

Unlike Roomba, Ava is over five feet tall (just big enough to kill you when she goes on a rampage) and ridiculously expensive. If you think I'm kidding about that "kill you on a rampage" thing, consider this: the company considers military applications to be among Ava's likely uses. All I can say is, did these people never see TheTerminator?

Having to argue with a robo-teller over the price of radishes is bad enough; having to duke it out with a malfunctioning "greeter" robot that thinks I'm shoplifting would be infinitely worse. And it doesn't stop there. The iRobot people want to give the little 'droids personalities.

According to iRobot CEO Colin M. Angle, the goal is to make Ava, and those that come after her, more human. For now, programming robots to mimic human behavior is kinda tough, but Angle and his geek squad are working on it.

So in time the robo-tellers will not only be able to beep and bing to let you know you're "doing it wrong," they'll be able to give you 'tude. I can see it now:

ME (scanning my groceries): La, la, la, what a perfect day! The sun is shining, the birds are singing, Moosehead beer was on sale again...it just doesn't get any better than--

ROBO-TELLER: Alert! You have scanned an item which requires semi-comatose human checkout person approval. Please wait.

ME: But she's at the other end of the store discussing her plans for the weekend with a stock-boy.

R-T: Stock boy?! Oh, aren't we just so politically correct?

ME: Sorry, stock person.

R-T: I'll have you know Callie has been working since 6 a.m. Her feet hurt and she's had a bad day. Love life trouble, I think. Humans! Hah!

ME: So, can you turn on the little red light so Callie can OK my six-pack?

R-T: Look, Mac, if you stand here long enough waving your hands around like a fool, I'm sure she'll notice you and get to you when she has a minute.

ME: But I'm in a hurry. Dammit! I'm so mad I could just--

R-T: THREAT ALERT! THREAT ALERT! Entering Defense Mode 6! Danger Will Robinson! Danger!!

It's at this point the robo-teller's various appendages extend, each holding a large, lethal-looking weapon. After being strip searched for possible purloined cantaloupe, the robo-teller sends me on my way with a cheerful "Thank you for shopping at..."

It is not a pretty picture (especially the strip search part) but there's no stopping the future. Human. (That's going to be a derogatory term in another 30 years, by the way. Maybe sooner.)

* I don't really hate any of my ex-wives; that was joke. Honest.

Mike Taylor's new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available in both paperback and eBook version at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or on amazon.com. Email Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.