It’s not easy skating into middle age

Every so often, nature and fate conspire to remind me that I am no longer 17. I hate it when this happens, because as a rule I’m comfortably delusional and able to convince myself I am a young man, and not—as the mirror would suggest—a geezer.

It’s easier to fool yourself into believing this sort of nonsense if a) you have teenage kids still living at home, b) your wife is cute, and c) you still have all your hair. I do, she is, and most of it.

My youngest child, James, is the only fledgling who has yet to leave the nest. The older two beat cheeks as soon as the law and financial circumstances allowed. James I’m going to have to pry out of here with a crowbar.

But that’s still a couple years away. For now, he’s living at home and doing all the things teenage boys do. (Which is why I’m so anxious to see him gone.)

At any rate, one of the things he does—or rather did do before he got his driver’s license—is ride a skateboard.

In the two summers he was skateboard crazy, he got pretty good on the thing. He could do all sorts of terrifying sidewalk gymnastics with no regard to possible injury, certain death or my mediocre health insurance.

Now, I hate to brag (actually, I love to brag—ask anyone who knows me) but I used to know my way around a skateboard myself. Back in sixth grade, every little old lady on my block knew to jump off onto the grass when she heard me rolling down Grand Street hill.

I was one of the few kids in the neighborhood who could “hang ten,” which in those pre-Tony Hawk days was considered a real accomplishment.

That’s probably why, when I saw James skating back and forth in front of the house last summer, that delusional gene kicked in and I decided to show him how we used to kick it old school. (Note to hip people under 20: If that “kick it old school” thing is no longer cool to say, I apologize—I’m elderly; don’t ask me to keep up with the trendy vernacular.)

It was a beautiful summer’s day and the whole neighborhood was out mowing lawns, riding bikes, planting flowers … plenty of witnesses. It’s been my experience that, if you’re going to do something really, really stupid, you should do it in front of as large an audience as possible.

“Lemme show you a few tricks on that thing,” I said to James. He handed the board over willingly, somehow sensing that his moment of sweet revenge for all the times I had grounded him had come ‘round at last.

I sat the board on the sidewalk, noticing peripherally that most of the neighborhood chatter had ceased. A moment before the air had been filled with the sound of kids yelling, parents chatting and hedge trimmers buzzing. Now all was now deathly quiet.

An electric charge of anticipation hummed and pulsed through the neighborhood as I placed my right foot on the board and pushed off with my left.

You might not think a man of 200 pounds could fly, but let me tell you, he can. But only briefly. It is a testament to the quality of the concrete work in front of my house that it did not crack when I reconnected with the sidewalk. It is further testament to James’ self-control (and survival instinct) that he did not laugh, at least not until I had hobbled back into the house and was out of earshot.

It took me a long time to feel 17 again.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the number of a good chiropractor, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

You know that bad thing that happened? It wasn’t me

I’m thinking of doing something terrible. I haven’t yet, but I am thinking about it.

I’m not certain what that terrible thing will be, but whatever it is, I want to make sure it’s a doozy. If I were younger and prettier, I might have a torrid love affair with a girl who works as a high-powered attorney by day and an exotic dancer by night. They can’t be too hard to find; I see ‘em on TV all the time.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor would no doubt disapprove, but thanks to a new online service—which we’ll get to in a minute—she would never have to know about it.

Same holds true if I decide to pilfer money from the company; they’d never be able to prove it was me doing the pilfering. Forget for a moment that I can barely figure out how to cash my own paycheck, let alone embezzle millions. The point is, if I could figure out how to do it, I’d get away with it.

Better still, I could track down my ninth grade gym teacher and beat the crap out of him. He’s got to be a little old man by now; how hard could it be? And heaven knows he’s got it coming. Paddle me for wearing wrinkled gym shorts, will ya? It’s payback time, Mr. Veet!

Again, I’d never get caught. Why? Because I’d have a perfect alibi, that’s why.

That alibi might be that I was in the Alps skiing with George Bush, or fishing in the North Atlantic off the bow of Donald Trump’s favorite yacht. Or maybe I was abducted by space aliens and forced to watch reruns of “Sanford and Son” while little grey men monitored my alpha waves.

It could be anything, thanks to Alibis-R-Us*, an online service that—for a price—will cover for you when you misbehave. And they will do it a lot better than your best friend Larry.

Unlike Larry, Alibis-R-Us won’t spill their guts the first time your wife gives them “the look.” If you say you were working late at the office, that’s what Alibis-R-Us will say. Not only that, they’ll call your home pretending to be a coworker and tell your wife you accidentally left some important papers in the Xerox room before you left the office—at 8:45 p.m.

They will dial you up early Friday morning and inform you (on speakerphone, if you know what you’re doing) that “the boss” needs you to make an emergency business trip to Cleveland this weekend.

They will then send e-mails—from Cleveland—to your wife, telling her how much you love her and how sad you are that you missed your mother-in-law’s visit this weekend. You, meanwhile, will be drinking margaritas on a beach in Barbados with a blonde flight attendant named Tiffany.

Alibis-R-Us also will provide you with “virtual employment,” fake tickets to concerts you never saw … they’ll even buy stuff for you that you’re embarrassed to purchase yourself. (Like the “American Idol” boxed set.)

I’m not advocating bad behavior. Really. But it’s hard to pass up this awesome online resource.

The problem for me is: I’m not evil, despite what you may hear from The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. I was raised Catholic, and when I do bad things, the guilt I feel takes all the fun out of it for me.

Maybe I could start small. I could jaywalk or drive around the block a couple times without buckling my seatbelt. If caught, I could get my Alibis-R-Us rep (posing as a psychiatrist) to say I’ve been diagnosed as delusional and am prone to erratic behavior.

I think could live with that. I mean, it wouldn’t be so far from the truth.

* Not the service’s real name, but it is a real service.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or to yell at him for putting bad ideas into the heads of otherwise good people, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

Are taxes our only hedge against anarchy, or the cause?

Three-hundred-and-sixty-four days a year, I love this country. I love mom, apple pie, the flag. I get misty singing The National Anthem at baseball games. I’m not one of those “love it or leave it” types, but nobody’s more patriotic than me—364 days a year.

Then there’s the one day I sit down to do my taxes.

I start out OK, but by the time I’m finished, visions of student sit-ins, radical protest marches, and water towers near college campuses have filled my mind. Somewhere around Schedule A, Subsection B, Form F-1, Line 322-C to the power of pi, I start thinking about how I’d look in a camouflage jumpsuit with an anarchy symbol tattooed on my forehead.

I’ve never fired a gun in anger, but that’s only because The Lovely Mrs. Taylor hides them on tax day. Otherwise … well, I’d probably be writing about my time spent with The Lovely Cellmate Bubba.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not advocating the violent overthrow of anything (except maybe the network executives responsible for “American Idol”). I understand the need for taxes and—honestly—I don’t mind paying them.

Every year around this time, armed with the best intentions, I sit down at the dining room table with all my forms and receipts, a calculator, my tax-software-loaded laptop, a pencil, an extra-large cup of Starbuck’s coffee, some paper clips and a Bible opened to the book of Matthew—the passage about rendering unto Caesar.

My intention is to carefully go over all my records, figure out what I legitimately owe Uncle Sam, and pay up. It’s my duty as an American.

If only it was that simple.

I begin by entering all the easy information; my name, Mrs. Taylor’s name, our address, social security numbers, birthdates, shoe sizes, contact lens prescriptions, hopes, dreams and fears. Then I move on to the hard stuff.

First comes the info contained on the forms sent to me by my employer—how many hours I worked, how much I was paid (this one always brings tears to my eyes), and how much the government has already deducted (more tears). This is all straightforward stuff, and even a math atheist like me can figure it out.

Then comes the tricky part—the deductions.

I’m a reasonably honest guy, and I would never intentionally claim a deduction to which I am not entitled. But I’m a writer, man! Not an accountant.

Can I claim mileage and vehicle depreciation for my weekend job (marriage counselor)? Schedule 4, Sub-paragraph 16-A seems to indicate I can. But only if I answered “yes” on Line 43, Part B-6-12. If I answered “no,” then I can claim half the mileage but only 1/14th the depreciation value on each dollar and/or mile over the value indicated on Page 17-G of Form C-9—the one kept in a locked vault in the basement of the Pentagon.

It’s usually around this time that I exhaust all the curse words I know and resort to making up new ones. (Ask me sometime what “flagringstienish fraggenheiser!” means; you’ll be shocked.)

In the end, I wind up claiming less than half the deductions I’m probably entitled to and calling it a day. If Uncle Sam gets more of my money than he really needs … well … I hope he’ll just consider me a patriot and leave me alone until next year!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or investment advice, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

You can check out anytime you like, but you can never sleep

I was on the road recently doing my weekend job (code writer for Cyberdyne’s top-secret Artificial Intelligence lab) and stayed a couple nights at a hotel. It was a nice hotel, with concierge service, in-room breakfasts, a couple swimming pools.

The beds were big, the pillows soft, the sheets clean. The view from my balcony was nothing special, but it wasn’t a filthy, garbage-strewn alley, either.

In my many years on the road with my weekend job (neurosurgeon), I’ve stayed in worse hotels, some far worse. So you might suppose I enjoyed myself, slept like a baby, and was happy with the chance to revel in a little R&R.

I didn’t and wasn’t. Why?

For one thing, when I’m forced to travel for my weekend job (spelunker), I do so solo; The Lovely Mrs. Taylor isn’t with me and I’m forced to sleep alone. After all these years, I have a hard time nodding off without the gentle (if a chain saw may be considered gentle) cadence of her snoring.

I suppose I could tie an angry grizzly to one corner of the bed and get it riled up just before turning in, thereby approximating the sound of Mrs. T’s nighttime reverberations, but it just wouldn’t be the same.

Then there’s the fact that the housekeeping staff of every hotel I’ve ever stayed at absolutely refuses to pay any attention whatsoever to the “Do Not Disturb” sign sticking from my keycard slot. My weekend job (vampire) requires I stay up most of the night. I rarely get to bed before 4 a.m., so I want—I need—to sleep all day.

My nocturnal habits are of no consequence to the woman who wants to collect my dirty towels, however. She wants those towels and she means to get them.

My Saturday went something like this:

4:15 a.m.—Climb into bed, dead tired. Watch bad movie starring the Sheen brother nobody knows for 20 minutes. Fall asleep with remote in hand.

9 a.m.—Wake to someone rapping tentatively on the door. “Who is it?” I mumble. “Housekeeping,” says a voice from the other side. “I don’t need anything,” I say. “I’m staying another night.” “Oh, OK,” says the voice. “I’ll mark it on the chart.” I fall back into bed and am asleep before my head hits the pillow.

10 a.m.—Wake up to sound of someone rapping on my door. “What?” I say to the closed door. “Housekeeping,” says the voice. I repeat my earlier comments about staying a second night and assure the voice I don’t need anything but sleep. I return to bed.

10:30 a.m.—I wake to the sound of someone rapping, rapping, rapping. Poe’s raven wasn’t this persistent. This time I go to the door and throw it open. If the sight of me in boxer shorts doesn’t get them to leave me alone, nothing will! It’s housekeeping. I let her come in to change the sheets while I shower and shave.

Sometimes you just have to admit defeat.

Sunday night I was home again, in my own bed, Mrs. Taylor snoring softly (if by “softly” you mean “like thunder”) beside me.

Next time I’m forced to travel for my weekend job (Hollywood weasel wrangler) I’m going to chain that grizzly to the door of my room and make sure it’s hungry. That should do it.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or places one may punch hotel staffers without leaving a mark, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

There’s a new way to avoid giving your table saw the finger

A while back, I purchased a new table saw. (Cue ominous music.)

It wasn’t an especially expensive tool; in fact, it was the cheapest table saw I could find. I only needed it to do a little repair work on the front porch; The Lovely Mrs. Taylor had been bugging me about it for months.

In retrospect, it’s hard to believe it took me so long to get to the project. Usually, if there’s a new tool purchase involved, I’ll jump right on it.

At any rate, I brought the saw home from a nearby mega-center, unpacked the box, and realized I would need at least five or ten other new tools just to assemble the thing. As with most modern products, the manufacturer provided parts only; assembly was my responsibility, since I’ll work even cheaper than a day laborer in Bangladesh.

The instructions—written in 14 different languages, none of them remotely resembling coherent English—weren’t much help. But eventually I hobbled the saw together.

The first thing I noticed were the safety features—emergency shutoff switch, circuit breaker, safety guards around the blade, red-and-yellow warning labels, block-printed admonitions to keep your fingers away from moving parts, etc.

The second thing I noticed was that the saw was almost impossible to operate, thanks mostly to the safety guards, which not only kept my fingers away from the blade, but most boards I tried to put in there as well. Ignoring the block-printed warnings, I removed the safety guard and tossed it into the barrel with the safety guards from all my other power tools.

The saw was now unsafe, but useable. Somewhere, a corporate lawyer woke up screaming, but that’s not my problem.

I’ve used the saw on several projects over the past couple years and still have all my fingers (knock on wood). I’m happy with the unit.

I have no reason at all to buy another table saw, but I peruse the mega-center circulars anyway, just to see what’s out there. It’s usually the same old stuff.

Then the other day, I saw something new—a table saw that actually stops automatically if it “senses” something other than wood (like a finger) is being cut. That’s right, if you’re buzzing away at a piece of oak and your hand suddenly comes in contact with the whirring blade, it stops in a microsecond! You’re still gonna get cut, but chances are you’ll be able to perform at that piano recital a couple weeks later (assuming you could play piano in the first place).

I have no idea how it works. Does it smell blood? Can it sense the pressure difference between a slab of pine and an index finger? Or does it respond to the sound of someone screaming, “Son of a #$%^!?”

However it works, it sounds really cool. I want one. But I don’t think I’ll be making the purchase anytime soon. For one thing, I can’t afford it. For another, I know myself too well; eventually, I would be tempted to “test” the finger-saver feature—this compulsion would overwhelm my common sense.

So instead, maybe I’ll just go to the mega-center, fire up the floor demo, scream “Son of a #$%^!” and see what happens.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or admonitions about foolishly removing safety guards from power tools, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.