Harvest time at the Taylor home; dud spuds

Harvest time is here, and I’ve murdered another garden. This year it was potatoes. I’m not sure what I did wrong, but what came out of the ground was not nearly as good as what I put in. The same thing happened last year, only with banana peppers.

Every spring, it’s the same story; the snow melts, temperatures rise, the sun shines. All these spring things give me a confidence I have no business possessing.

Spring says, “Go ahead! Plant something. It’ll be different this year. You can do it. Trust me.”

Spring is a lying schmuck.

But somehow I always find myself in my garden hoeing out last autumn’s weeds and laying down whatever crop seems like a good idea at the moment. Like I said, this past spring that crop was ‘taters.

I’ve never grown potatoes, but I have eaten them. I figured what the heck. How hard can it be?

Not knowing anything about growing spuds, I went to my father-in-law—a real farmer with a real centennial farm—for advice.

“Well,” said Big John, speaking slowly so I’d understand. “You dig up the ground, plant the seed potatoes a couple inches down, spread some fertilizer (this turned out to be chicken shit), and give ‘em plenty of water. You’ll have potatoes come the end of August.”

Big John made it sound easy, and he should know; he has about 30 bazillion acres of potato plants growing on his property, all of which seem to be producing big, healthy tubers.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor pointed out (repeatedly) that potatoes cost only a few bucks for a whole bag, and that if I was really serious about saving money, we could get as many as we wanted free from Big John. She also commented that a backyard flower garden would look a whole lot prettier than a weedy plot of potatoes.

I was having none of that nonsense, though. If ‘taters are good enough for Big John, they’re good enough for me.

I picked up a bag of seed potatoes, which, it turns out, are just little, teeny ‘taters, about an inch around. The idea, as explained to me, is that the diminutive spuds send forth shoots that turn into other potatoes, all of which grow to prodigious size and delicious taste.

Under a gauzy blanket of spring sunshine, I bent my back to my postage stamp-sized plot of land and in a few hours, the potatoes were in the ground.

I watered. I weeded. I fertilized. I waited.

Soon, shoots broke the surface, growing knee-high in a matter of weeks.

I watered, I weeded, I fertilized. I waited.

Mrs. T noted that with the money I was spending on water and fertilizer, I could buy a sizeable amount of stock in the Frito-Lay Corporation and be set for potatoes for the rest of my life.

Weeks passed and I continued to water, though I weeded less often and fertilized not at all. Eventually, the weeds grew as high as the potato plants. By the end of July, watering started to seem like a lot of work. It would rain eventually, I figured.

Finally, a week or so ago, I went out to harvest my crop. Pushing the weeds aside, I dug up the first plant.

There, on the end of the scrubby, three-foot-tall bush, was a potato only slightly smaller than the “seed potato” I had planted three months earlier.

Not only had it not sent forth shoots to grow more potatoes, it had not even grown itself! I dug up another plant, then another. Same story all the way down the line.

Unwilling to admit defeat, I took my crop of acorn-sized potatoes (all 28 of them) back into the house. Mrs. Taylor watched as I washed them and placed them on a paper towel to dry.

She said nothing. She often says nothing, even when it would give her great pleasure to speak.

We had mashed potatoes with dinner. Two bites each.

Next year, I’m growing flowers.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Don’t flush! That could be valuable someday

With $4 per gallon gasoline the norm and still higher prices looming just around the corner, it was bound to happen: Energy providers are finally being forced to seek out alternatives to fossil fuels.

Wind, solar, nuclear—all play their part. But in San Antonio, officials have turned to another source; one that will never dry up (unless left in the sun too long): Poo.

Not as in Winnie the— but rather the stuff that usually gets flushed away a few hours after a trip to a Mexican restaurant.

I know, I know, it’s tacky to talk about it. And I don’t want to offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities. But this is important, man! Nothing less than the future of our country’s energy independence is at stake here.

So let’s all just try to be grown up about this and forge ahead.

The plan in San Antonio is to “harvest” the methane gas from what officials there are calling “biosolids.” (Everyone else is still calling it “poo,” at least if they have kids in the home; otherwise they’re calling it even worse things. But nobody, except for the officials, is calling it “biosolids.”)

This methane gas, which usually does nothing but stink the place up on chili night, will instead be used to fuel furnaces, power plants and other internal combustion-based engines. Once in place and fully operational, the system will recycle about 90 percent of the “materials” flushed down San Antonio’s toilets.

In addition to harvesting (I love their use of that word) the gas, the “solids” will be used for compost and the “liquids” for irrigation.

I’d like to own a nose plug franchise in San Antonio a year from now. Though, according to officials (the same ones who call poo “biosolids”) the smell will be relatively inoffensive.

At any rate, with gas prices going nowhere but up, San Antonio’s plan can only be lauded as a good thing.

Still, I see a few problems on the horizon, ones the energy experts, in their earnest desire to find new resources, may have overlooked. See, right now San Antonio’s the perfect place to set up a system like this; the residents there (from what I’ve heard) live almost exclusively on barbecue. Beef, pork, and lots and lots of ‘taters and gravy—a diet sure to produce tons of “biosolids” every day.

But what happens if San Antonites (Antonians?) decide to diet or— Heaven forbid—become vegetarians? All of a sudden, the “bottom” drops out of the biosolid market and the whole profit structure is “flushed” away! Stockholders in the energy companies are “wiped” out!

OK, I’m all out of dumb bathroom puns.

In truth, I love San Antonio’s plan. I just think they need to make sure the infrastructure is solidly in place before going ahead with it. In order for this system to function well into the future, city officials should mandate a Mexican restaurant or rib joint on every other corner throughout San Antonio’s metro district.

Additionally, I recommend the installation of hundreds of additional public lavatories (AKA “biosolid collection stations”) city-wide.

Finally, the city should offer tax breaks to restaurants that offer only “large” and “supersize” portions. Any restaurant offering a “small” anything should have to pay an additional 2-percent energy tax.

Cholesterol be damned! We should all get “behind” this “movement.” (OK, so I had a couple dumb bathroom puns left, after all.)



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Kings are more fun than presidents

I'm a big fan of democracy, of the whole electoral process. This despite candidate yard signs (litter), candidate promises (lies), and candidate commercials (bull droppings). Watching the complex, clumsy tap dance that precedes any American election is like watching monkeys at the zoo: Despite being a step or two further down the evolutionary ladder than we are, politicians sometimes seem so … human.

It’s eerie.

But it’s fun to watch them scramble back and forth; trying desperately to remember exactly what it is they’re supposed to feel strongly about at any given whistle stop without constantly checking the teleprompter. The whole thing has, on more than one occasion, been compared to a circus, and for good reason. You’ve got clowns, freaks, ringmasters, tightrope walkers … it’s entertainment, folks!

Then comes November, and all the monkeys pack up and head back to (Lansing, Washington, the zoo, wherever) until next time. Back in the heartland, we’re left with nothing but reality television and Karaoke bars to get us through another four years.

This is obviously a problem, but a problem I may have a solution to. I have to give a lot of the credit for coming up with this solution to the British.

In England, see, they have—instead of a president—a king. Or a queen, depending on who’s died recently. Most folks already are aware of this fact, but I’ll go ahead and recap the whole structure of the British government as I understand it (not at all) anyway: If you’re the firstborn son or daughter of the king, you’re next in line for the throne when the old man kicks the bucket. If you marry a king, then you’re a queen. Or maybe you’re not—like I said, I barely understand our government, let alone the Brits.

Your kids get to be princes and princesses and your friends get to be dukes and archdukes, doo-bees and don’t-bees, or something like that. Doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that once they issue you your crown, scepter and ermine robes, that’s it—you’ve got the job for as long as you want it. Since you’re king, you don’t have to worry much about what people think of you. If there’s food on the tables of the peasants, chances are they’re not going to storm the castle and run you through with a broadsword.

This, as any American politician could no doubt tell you, is very liberating. Instead of pretending to give a flying fig what “the people” think, you can instead worry about what you think, about what you want out of life. You’re still under the media microscope, but who cares? There’s no election to worry about, so let ‘em eat cake. (Point of interest: Even as royalty, you won’t want to say that “cake” thing out loud. It didn’t work out well for the last queen who did.)

The point is, you’re free to act like a fool, if that’s what tickles your fancy. Date inappropriate women. Drive fast cars on slow roads. Skinny dip off the coast of Belize.

Meanwhile, your antics will give the folks back home something to talk about. Mostly, they’ll be saying things like, “Bloody royals!” and whatnot, but at least they’ll be entertained.

So that’s my plan. Let’s ditch the president and elect a king. Or appoint one. Doesn’t really matter.

As to who gets this cushy job, all I can say is, well … it was my idea.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I swear I never meant to shoot the guy

I once shot a man.

Boy, when you come right out and say it like that, it sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it? Of course, there were extenuating circumstances. The guy was robbing me. The shooting was an accident. And the offending projectile was not a bullet, but a six-inch long arrow.

Maybe I’d better start at the beginning.

I was 19, living in a third floor efficiency apartment in a less-than-hospitable section of Detroit. I made a passable living as the bassist and token white guy in a blues band playing various clubs up and down Telegraph Road. Live music was the thing in those days, and we played five, sometimes six nights a week, so most evenings, my apartment was empty until well after 3 a.m.

On this particular night, however, I had called in sick with a terrible case of the flu. By 10 p.m., I was in bed, heavily sedated with over-the-counter flu meds, and sleeping like a baby—a sick and drugged out baby.

It must have been around midnight when I first noticed the light slanting into my combination living/bedroom from out in the hallway.

Being “Nyquil-ized,” I rose to wakefulness slowly. It took a full minute before I realized I wasn’t alone in the room. Someone—from my perspective only a dark shadow silhouetted against the hall light—was riffling through my dresser, methodically opening each drawer, inspecting its contents, then moving on to the next.

Like most folks living in the neighborhood, my apartment door sported the Detroiter’s vertical line of deadbolt locks. In my drug-induced haze, I had forgotten to engage any of them, and the guy currently checking out my underwear and socks had simply waltzed on in.

Because of the questionable geniality of the neighborhood and my desire to live beyond my teen years, I always slept with a small, pistol-type crossbow secured between my bed and nightstand. It had all the stopping power of a BB gun, but I somehow felt safer knowing I wasn’t the only resident in the apartment complex sleeping unarmed.

Moving slowly, as quietly as possible, I wrapped my fingers around the crossbow’s pistol-grip and pointed it in the general direction of the intruder. It was—I swear—my intention to point only, and use my manliest voice to bark out something like, “Do you feel lucky punk? Well, do ya?”

It never got that far. Nervously raising the crossbow, I exerted just a touch too much pressure on the trigger. Thwap! The tiny arrow flew, passed through the intruder’s left cheek (the cheek south of his beltline), and thwunked into the opposite wall.

Emitting a yowl I can only describe as a cross between a deranged yodeler and a bobcat snagged in a barbed wire fence, the intruder grabbed his backside with both hands and bolted out the door.

Though positive I was going to wind up doing hard time at Jackson, I called the police anyway. The two cops from Detroit metro who showed up half-an-hour later took the report, giggling like schoolgirls throughout most of my narrative.

“He should be easy to find,” said the older officer. “We’ll check the emergency rooms for a guy with an arrow hole in his butt.”

That was the last I heard about it. This was Detroit in the ‘70s and the cops had bigger fish to fry.

I left the arrow stuck in the wall as a reminder. Sick or not, I never again forgot to lock my door.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Old Man River, he just keeps trying to kill me

As I mentioned in last week’s column, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I just got back from vacationing up north. Very relaxing.

I’m still trying to get back into “work mode,” never an easy task after a week of sleeping late, dining lavishly and basically living the life I was destined for—but denied access to—by cruel, cruel fate.

I didn’t lounge around the entire time, however. Mrs. T and I biked several great trails, walked an average of 500 miles a day (mostly through shops selling sweaters with “Mackinaw” this or “Mackinac” that embroidered on them), and even went on a canoe trip down the Crystal River.

The canoe trip was my idea. A chance, I thought, to relax a little. More importantly, a chance to get Mrs. Taylor the heck away from all those shops selling sweaters, fudge, knick-knacks, porcelain Indian dolls, cheap jewelry, flavored “gourmet” popcorn, moccasins, glassware, art in which sailboats and lighthouses figure prominently, and baseball caps that virtually scream “Tourist!” from every other head passing by on the street.

Shopping with Mrs. T while vacationing is pretty much like shopping with her any other time. It is hell.

I figured we would encounter no shops on the river, and if we did, I could paddle the other direction.

In my mind, I pictured a halcyon afternoon, Mrs. T and I paddling languidly along with the gently rolling current, stopping for a picnic lunch along the river’s sandy banks, snapping a few photos of any wildlife that passed our way. A few hours rendered in pointillist pastels, a portrait of blessed tranquility.

We were the last canoeists of the day. A battered van rambled through dusty, woodland roads delivering us and our rental canoe to the drop point. The driver pushed our canoe into the water, handed us paddles, and left us to our own devices.

Climbing into the canoe, I noticed the day was every bit as beautiful as I had envisioned it. Sunlight dappled through the woodland canopy above, refracting off the water’s surface like a million diamonds. The air smelled of pine and sunshine. And not a shop in sight.

A dopey smile plastered across my face, I eased the canoe out into the water. The current pulled us downriver, slowly at first, then faster, then faster still.

Our canoe slid sidewise, then backward. We struck what was to be the first of many downed trees. They reached out into the river like the grey, grasping arms of angry ghosts. My smile turned to a grimace of fear.

It quickly became apparent that—lousy as I am at handling a canoe—The Lovely Mrs. Taylor is 100 times lousier. Tree after tree and rock after rock battered our poor floating aluminum toothpick. White water washed over the sides. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald played feverishly and implacably through my mind. Somewhere in the distance, I could swear I heard the banjo player from “Deliverance” tuning up.

The water, it turned out, wasn’t too deep. We discovered this fact by going into it.

We managed to right the canoe, dump out most of the water, and—against all reason—get back into it again.

By the time we reached the rental place about two hours later, I was exhausted. So was Mrs. Taylor. Too exhausted to do any more shopping that day.

Mission accomplished.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.