No fear of flying here; not until the last few feet before touchdown

I was talking with my buddy Jim this past weekend. Jim’s the one friend I have with real money, but he’s such a nice guy it’s hard to hate him on that account. Also, he’s a “self-made” man who worked hard to get to the place he’s at today.

Because of his financial means, Jim has done a few things in his life—extended trips to exotic locales, dramatic liaisons with mysterious foreign women, stuff like that—that schmucks like me just dream about. The life he’s lead makes him interesting to talk with and I do so whenever circumstances permit.

At any rate, the other night we were having a couple drinks at a Lakeshore club with Jim’s new girlfriend, who, by the way, is a total hottie. But I still don’t hate him. Really. Okay, maybe a little.

The conversation flowed from the weather to travel to work to planes, trains and automobiles. At some point I mentioned how much I love to fly; not as a passenger, but as a pilot.

I’m not a pilot, but I’ve taken flight school twice and soloed out both times. This means I’ve actually conned some instructor into repeatedly letting me take his $20,000 Tomahawk 3,000 feet up, by myself.

It’s an exhilarating experience, and one I drop into conversation whenever I can because I think it makes me sound cooler than I really am. But like I said, I’m not a licensed pilot; I’ve never had the discipline (or math skills, probably) to complete ground school. Still, all things considered, I have logged a lot of flight hours.

Now, unlike most people, my buddy Jim reads this column and so is aware of my well-documented fear of heights. How can I fly a plane, Jim asked, if I’m afraid to climb above the fourth rung of a step ladder?

I had to admit I didn’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it much before, and on the surface, the dichotomy does seem illogical. I get light-headed if I so much as stand on a second-story balcony and look down. Or up, for that matter. Yet I can climb into a fragile little two-seater and fly low-level banks around corn silos without batting an eye.

It doesn’t make sense, Jim said.

I agreed, and the conversation moved on.

But later, his comments got me thinking (which I do, from time to time, despite all evidence to the contrary). And after much mental wheel spinning, I think I’ve found the answer: I’m not afraid of flying, but I am afraid of landing. As soon as that ground gets within 100 feet or so from the plane’s landing gear, I start feeling faint. My palms sweat, my heart beats double, then triple-time, my vision blurs … trust me, there’s a reason my instructors have wanted to solo me out—they didn't want to die with me during the landing.

So it’s not heights I’m afraid of, I’ve concluded; it’s heights that aren’t high enough. As usual, I blame my Catholic upbringing.

Let me explain. As a Catholic, I was raised to believe that if I perform an “act of contrition”—basically, ‘fessing up for my evil deeds and asking God’s forgiveness in the moments before I die—I’ll go straight to Heaven. Otherwise, I get what’s coming to me, and that ain’t good.

Unfortunately, my list of evil deeds has grown somewhat extensive over the years and a fall of less than 1,000 feet would never give me time enough to run through them all before entering the afterlife. So, ladders, rooftops, balconies; they’ll all continue to make me nervous.

If I do one day die in a fall, I just hope it will be from a high enough vantage point. A low-Earth orbit would be good.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or ground school “cheat sheet” sources, 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 may be money in a wrinkly face

I’m going to start tanning again. I’m aware of the health risks and I know that, over time, it’ll make my face look like an old leather handbag—more than it does already, I mean. That’s the whole point; I want the wrinkles.

Why? Because I keep up on the latest technology news and in the near future, my crinkled face is going to be worth a fortune.

It may take a while to hit the U.S. market, but in Japan, vending machines are already being developed that actually scan a customer’s face for wrinkles, crow’s feet, skin sags and other signs of aging, before dispensing cigarettes or other “adults only” products. No, I’m not kidding.

It works like this: The customer stands in front of the vending machine’s digital camera, which then compares what it sees to a database of “geezer characteristics.” If enough match, out pop the smokes. If, however, the customer is some baby-faced teen trying to make an illegal buy, then lights flash, sirens blare, Godzilla comes stomping through downtown Tokyo—I don’t know. But I do know the customer gets no cigarettes.

If this takes off, the same technology could be used in vending machines to dispense beer, wine, “Playboy” magazines, DVDs of classic “Matlock” and “Murder, She Wrote” episodes and other stuff intended for grownups only.

And when that happens, a wrinkly face like mine is going to be valued by those youngsters who only wish their skin were a craggy mask of lines, sags and age spots. My crumpled visage will be a passport to a plethora of products unavailable to the smooth-skinned kiddies of the world—unless they’re willing to fork over some serious cash, that is.

That’s right, if the price is right I’ll happily let junior stand behind me while the vending machine scans my Shar-Pei-like complexion and dispenses a pack of Camels or Marlborough Lites.

Maybe I could even sell close-up photos of my face printed on cardboard. Teens desperate for a smoke could buy one, punch a hole in either side, attach a piece of string, and wear it like a mask. Even if they didn’t fool the vending machine, the masks could still be used to frighten toddlers on Halloween. Ooh, look out for the wrinkly monster! Scary.

On the downside, as this technology gets popular, it’s going to absolutely kill the cosmetics industry. Anti-wrinkle cream will go the way of the dodo; nobody will want to look younger anymore. If anything, they’ll want to look older.

In fact, now that I think about it, I should probably start developing a cream that creates wrinkles. I’ll be rich!

I can see the commercial now…

Two teenagers sitting on a park bench. One is smoking, the other is not.

TEEN ONE: Hey Joe! How’d you score that Camel?

TEEN TWO: Piece of cake, man. Just bought it from a vending machine, thanks to the miracle of Geez-ex! The only face cream guaranteed to add years to your appearance!

The camera zooms in to reveal deep lines beneath TEEN TWO’s eyes.

TEEN TWO: It really works!!

If I can also come up with a cream that grows back hair and potbellies, I’m gonna be a millionaire, baby!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or offers to buy stock in his new cosmetics company, 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.

It’s hard getting used to the new wife

I’m dealing with a difficult situation this week and have no idea how to handle it. I’m hoping some of our female readers can advise me. The problem involves The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, or more specifically, her hair.

But first, a little history: The Lovely Mrs. T and I met over 15 years ago, when she was just a few years out of school and I was, well, pretty much what I am now, only thinner and less wrinkly. From the moment we met, our personalities clashed like fire and ice, night and day, Mothra and Godzilla.

Somehow, we wound up together anyway. God may not play dice with the universe, but he does enjoy his little joke from time to time.

It took a while, but eventually I figured out I was crazy about Mrs. T, despite her (or, if you ask her, my) obvious character flaws. Being a man, one of the things I found most attractive about her was her hair. Her long, curly, Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman hair.

Mrs. Taylor, on the other hand, hated her hair. A day did not go by that she failed to mention this fact. Despite numerous compliments on her “do”—from men, women, even children—Mrs. T was convinced she had lousy hair and no amount of evidence could persuade her to believe otherwise. This is something hardwired into the female anatomy, I think; my daughter suffers from similar negative hair delusions, despite a head full of golden locks that would make Raponzel jealous.

In short, it’s a chick thing.

But back to my problem (other than being the sort of guy who makes politically incorrect statements like “it’s a chick thing,” I mean).

Last week, Mrs. Taylor came home from the beauty salon sporting a new haircut. At least, I think it was Mrs. Taylor. I can’t be sure. The woman who drove her jeep up the driveway looked a little like Mrs. T, but not a lot.

Gone was the luxuriant, wavy mane, gone the chestnut-hued tresses, gone the striking halo of curls. Instead, Mrs. Taylor’s head supported a covering of honey-blonde, straight hair. Ruler-straight. Laser-straight. Really, really straight, really, really blonde, hair.

I don’t know what miracle of cosmetological alchemy was worked upon her head, but I assume it involved animal sacrifices and full moons.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor was utterly and completely transformed. Seriously, I have never seen a haircut make such a dramatic difference in a person’s appearance.

“Well,” she asked, “what do you think?”

What I was thinking at that moment was duh-uh. I believe that’s what I said.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Duh-uh,” I said again.

“I like it,” she said.

Slowly, my powers of speech returned. “It sure looks different,” I said, all the while thinking I hate it! Oh, heaven help me, I hate it more than “American Idol” and Pauly Shore movies!

“I like it,” Mrs. Taylor repeated.

“Yeah, me too, I guess,” I lied.

Now that some time has passed and I’m getting somewhat used to her new hair, I have to admit it does look nice. Just … different. Waaaaaaay different.

It’s been a week now and I still feel like I’m cheating on my wife.

She’s happy with the look, though, and really, that’s the important thing, all male oinkery aside.

I’m just glad we can’t afford a plastic surgeon. I really love Mrs. T’s stubby, little nose.

She hates it.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or complaints about the “chick thing” comment, 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.