It’s tough getting through the Christmas eating season

Christmas is over and 2009 is just hours away. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad. Glad, glad, glad. Don’t get me wrong, I love the holidays, but they’re killing me.

One Christmas I could handle, but this year—by the time you read this—I’ll have had five. I blame my big, fat, Catholic family. There are just too many of us.

My first Christmas—the only one that’s totally stress-free—comes Christmas Day. The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I wake up late (we can do this now that the kids are grown and out of the house). Mrs. T bakes cinnamon rolls while I drink coffee. We eat the cinnamon rolls and open our presents while “A Christmas Story” plays silently on the television and the gas fireplace pretends to warm the living room.

Later, we go out for Chinese.

That’s it. Simple. Peaceful. Perfect.

The next day, the kids and grandkids come by for our annual Mexican Christmas. We’re not Mexican, but by this time the kids—who have spent the previous two days with various in-laws and step-parents eating turkey and ham—are ready for something different.

The house fills with the sublime chaos of overexcited children hopped up on a potent mix of candy canes, cookies and Mrs. Taylor’s homemade fudge. Something usually gets broken, but who cares?

Tacos are eaten, presents are opened, batteries are installed, Legos are chewed into unrecognizable lumps by the dog, and a good time is had by all.

By the time everyone leaves, I am exhausted, stuffed with refried beans, and happy.

The next day, we gather at my in-law’s home for The Lovely Mrs. Taylor’s family’s family Christmas. My mother-in-law is a magnificent cook, and we all enjoy a “traditional” Christmas feast, usually to shameful excess.

Presents are again exchanged and opened. More food is eaten. Mrs. Taylor packs up a few leftovers for consumption in front of the television later that evening and we somehow manage to waddle out the door and squeeze into the car for the drive home.

The next day, we again go to the in-law’s house, this time for Christmas with the members of the family who come in from out of town and couldn’t be there the day before. We eat. We open more presents. We eat again.

Mrs. Taylor operates the fork lift now required to move me from the sofa to the car and back home again.

The next day, I visit my folks’ to exchange presents with them. They insist on feeding me because I’m “looking a little thin.”

I am not looking thin, nor have I looked anything like thin since the early 1980s, but telling them this does no good.

The next day is New Year’s Eve. Looking for all the world like a manatee with a thyroid condition, I don my black suit and accompany Mrs. Taylor to a New Year’s Eve party where—you guessed it—we eat.

The sound of bells ringing in the New Year is obscured by the squeal of my belt stretching beyond the manufacturer’s recommended tolerances.

I’ll be stopping by the gym Monday to renew my membership. I have 51 weeks until next Christmas’ eating season begins again. By then, if I work real hard, I should just about be back to my weight of seven days ago.


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

Do you have a shirt that makes you feel groovy?

“Do you have a shirt that you really love /One that you feel so groovy in?

“You don't even mind if it starts to fade / That only makes it nicer still.

“I love my shirt, I love my shirt / My shirt is so comfortably lovely.”


The folk singer Donovan penned those lyrics back in the late ‘60s, but the sentiment expressed therein rings as true today as it did nearly four decades ago. Does to me, anyway, in large part because I do have a shirt that I really love, one that’s almost as old as Donovan’s homage to casual menswear.

I purchased it the summer of 1976 at a Detroit Goodwill store, three days after our nation celebrated its bicentennial. It’s cut like a Hawaiian shirt, made of 100 percent cotton, and it’s yellow.

When I first bought the shirt, it was waaaaay too big for me; I employed it as a sort of quasi-jacket, usually over a T-shirt. Over the years, the shirt has shrunk considerably, because these days it fits just fine.

A few buttons have fallen off here and there; I’ve replaced them with new ones that more or less match the originals. The bright yellow color has faded—after an estimated 2,080 washes—to a watery sunflower.

But as Donovan said, that only makes it nicer still.

I wore the shirt a lot back when The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I were dating; to the movies, at picnics and barbecues, even the family pool party. Mrs. T (who back then was still known in some circles as “Julie”) never expressed an opinion about the shirt one way or the other. I assumed that, like me, she really loved it.

Then we got married.

All of a sudden I started hearing comments like, “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” or “Yellow is not your color!” or “Can I cut this up for rags?”

Every time my favorite shirt went into the laundry hamper, I had to remain vigilant until it was returned to the closet. On more than one occasion, I discovered it folded away with the old clothes marked for Mrs. Taylor’s spring yard sale.

“Oh,” she would say, the picture of dewy-eyed innocence, “do you still want that old thing?”

“Yes,” I would say. “I want to be buried in that old thing.”

“It looks like somebody already was.”

And so the shirt war rages. Mrs. T devises ways to dispose of the shirt, I heroically rescue it. She’s Snidely Whiplash, I’m Dudley Do-Right, and my poor shirt is cast as Sweet Nell. If she could, Mrs. T would tie my shirt to the train tracks and wait for the 10:15 express.

In fact, it recently came back from the laundry room looking exactly as if that had happened. On the right side near the bottom hem, about a dozen little holes have appeared. How they got there, Mrs. T says, is a mystery. They look like the work of her father’s shotgun to me. I didn’t even know Mrs. T could shoot.

But if she thinks a few little pellet holes are going to keep me from wearing my favorite shirt, she’s nuts.

The big New Year’s Eve party is coming, and I have my outfit all picked out.



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

That’s right; I’m teaching the dog to cook

I’ve mentioned my new dog a couple times in recent months and know I’m probably pushing my luck with those readers who hate cutesy “animal stories.” But I feel I must post one final canine update here before abandoning the subject entirely.

And I have to do it now because Prince* has recently demonstrated some behaviors that are so unusual, so un-doglike, that it’s only a matter of time before he becomes more famous than Elvis and stops granting interviews to small-fry writers like me.

I knew the day Prince first arrived at our home that he was smarter than the average hound. He knew all his basic commands—sit, heel, come, speak and so on. Also, he picked up new instruction almost as fast as I could give it. Provided there was a treat involved.

More impressive, Prince demonstrated a spirit of adventure, dragging me via leash throughout the neighborhood as he marked each tree, bush and fire plug for future reference. If he possessed opposable thumbs, I’m sure he would have been drawing up topographical maps to aid those canines that might one day follow in his footsteps.

Also, he early on showed an aptitude for science, and not just the theoretical kind. Using techniques he developed himself, Prince is able to produce copious amounts of methane gas, usually in the evening while the rest of the family is trying to watch television.

Though he has yet to find a commercial use for this abundant fuel supply, I’m certain it’s only a matter of time.

Finally, and most remarkably, Price has taken an interest in cooking! It’s true.

At first, he showed only a passing curiosity. If I was in the kitchen fixing dinner or making a grilled cheese sandwich, he might wander by, look in and sniff, then move on. But as the weeks passed, he became increasingly fixated on the goings on in the kitchen.

Lately it’s reached to the point that every time I walk toward the kitchen, Prince excitedly falls in beside me. Once there, he stands in the doorway, watching enthralled as I slice turkey, peel potatoes or dice onions. He seems entirely fascinated by each movement I make.

Occasionally, I’ll toss him a small fragment of whatever I’m cooking, but this doesn’t really interest him. He just gobbles up the proffered tidbit as fast as he can, usually without bothering to chew, then resumes his vigilant monitoring. His concentration is laser-like in its intensity.

I don’t know what good can come of Prince’s education in the culinary arts. Despite his obvious love for cooking, the same lack of opposable thumbs that hinders his map-making is sure to hurt him here.

Still, if he’s this dedicated to the idea, maybe I should just leave a couple pounds of ground chuck on the kitchen floor, along with a carton of eggs and a few vegetables... Who knows what recipes Prince might develop?

* It’s official; I’ve lost the naming war with The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. As reported previously, I loathe the name “Prince,” and have campaigned strenuously to rename the dog “Max” or “Buddy” or “Dave”—anything but Prince. Mrs. T, who campaigned not at all, likes the name Prince. Guess who won? (Hint: The dog’s name is still Prince.)



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

For a musician, it’s easy to name the worst song ever written

Quick, what’s the worst song in the world, the one tune you hate more than any other? Don’t think about it; just shout out the first thing that comes to mind.

If enough people read this column at the same time, there will soon be folks in China listening to the echo of innumerable voices hollering, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree.”

“Muskrat Love”, “Achy Breaky Heart”, and “Having My Baby” also are reasonable responses.

But if you’re a musician, the kind of musician who plays clubs, weddings or bar mitzvahs on a regular basis, there’s only one correct answer: The worst song ever written is “Happy Birthday.”
There is no request a bandleader fears as much as “Happy Birthday.”

Why? First off, “Happy Birthday” requires absolutely zero finesse. The tune sounds precisely the same whether voiced by Freddie Mercury, Pavarotti, or your drunken uncle Harry. Marilyn Monroe once tried to sing a “sexy” version of “Happy Birthday” to President Kennedy; it was one of the few times she came off looking like a dork.

Also, no band has ever gotten away with performing “Happy Birthday” just once. Every single time a request comes in to play that godforsaken tune, another request follows 30 seconds later.

Why? Because everybody has a birthday. Not all on the same day, of course, but that doesn’t matter.

Let me explain how this works. Someone approaches the stage, not the birthday boy, but his wife, cousin, brother, mother or aunt. “Could you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Moe?” he or she will ask. “It’s his birthday at midnight.”

“Sure,” the bandleader says. Then, as fast as musically possible, in the key of “G,” the band belts out a lame version of “Happy Birthday” while members of the audience (those who have had a few martinis, at least) sing along.

Before the band can launch into its next tune, someone’s girlfriend rushes the stage. “Can you play ‘Happy Birthday’ to Fred, too? His birthday’s Monday.”

“Sure,” the bandleader says, stifling a sigh. Again, in the key of “G,” the band plays “Happy Birthday.” This time the only audience members singing along are Fred and his girlfriend.

Before the song is over, another guy stumbles up to the stage. “Hey! Hey!” he shouts over the rumbling of the last few chords. “Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Zach!”

“Is it Zach’s birthday?” the bandleader asks.

“Nah, but his birthday’s next month an’ he’s gonna be up north then, so we wanna sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for him tonight!” the guy shouts.

The bandleader has had enough. “OK,” he barks into the microphone. “Any other birthdays in the house tonight?”

Several hands go up.

“Names, please,” the bandleader sighs, pencil in hand.

In “G,” the band dejectedly intones, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Zach, Lucy, Marcie, Chuck, John, Garrison, Betty, Lucille, Shaniqua, Erin, Bill, and Eunice, happy birthday to you.”

Rallying their collective will to live, the band members again prepare to launch into their next number.

A middle-aged woman wearing a Metallica T-shirt runs up to the stage. “You forgot Dierdre,” she says. “She’s not here tonight, but she works in our office and her birthday’s next July. Could you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ one more time just for her?”

Without a word, the bandleader intentionally spills water from his glass onto the stage, removes his shoes, steps into the puddle, and grabs his microphone with both hands. The smell of burning hair fills the room.

Sisters Patty and Mildred Hill co-wrote “Happy Birthday” in 1893. They’ve both been dead a long time. No musician living feels bad about this.


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

On the lam from the long arm of the library

I read all the time. It hasn’t made me any smarter, but I do it anyway. It’s a compulsion.

If I have reading materials, I can sit for hours; without them, I fidget like a puppy about to pee on the carpet.

The reading materials in question don’t have to be great literature. In a pinch, I’m happy perusing the ingredients list from a box of cereal or bottle of shampoo, though neither of these holds my attention as well as, say, a Robert B. Parker novel.

I usually read two or three books at a time. Not simultaneously, but you know what I mean. At the moment, I’m reading a science fiction novel, a biography of Albert Einstein, and a history of witchcraft in Europe.

I’m a fast reader and by this time next week, I’ll have moved on to three (or more) other books.

I don’t want to come across as some sort of literati elitist here; I love television even more than I love reading—it demands less of me and is just as entertaining. If there was something good airing every time I switched on the set, I’d probably never read again. But most TV programming is garbage, so read I must.

Like any habit, the “need to read” creeps up on you. My first “grownup” book was a weathered copy of Robinson Crusoe I found in my parents’ attic when I was around 12 years old. I read it and loved it.

From there I moved on to H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, George Orwell. By the time I discovered Ray Bradbury, I was hopelessly hooked, a book junkie.

I spent more time at the library than I did at home, scrutinizing the stacks, selecting from the thousands of offerings just waiting to be absorbed by my young mind. The habit followed me into adulthood and the library became a permanent fixture in my life.

It was a relationship made in heaven, until about 10 year ago. I checked out several books from my local library just prior to being transferred by the newspaper I was writing for at the time to a city farther north. I no longer had time to visit my local library and instead began frequenting the one located in the city in which I was working.

Meanwhile, my local library books sat unread on a shelf in my office, forgotten among the hundreds of other books in there. Months passed, then years.

The library lady called, reminding me of my overdue books. Gotta remember to take ‘em back, I told myself, before forgetting all about it again.

Then the other day I was shoveling out my upstairs office, as I do every couple years, and I rediscovered the overdue books. Years overdue. Nearly a decade overdue.

I did the math. At 10-cents per day, per book, for ten years, I owed the library $1,095 and change.

If I returned the books, ‘fessed up and paid the fine, the library would be able to add a new wing. Maybe they would name it after me.

Despite fears of being severely beaten by the head librarian (I’m almost sure she could take me in a fair fight) I returned the overdue books. Turns out there’s a cap on library fines and I owed only $36, which saved me $1,059.

Since I long ago lost my old library card, they issued me a new one, no questions asked. I couldn’t believe how forgiving they were.

It’s been two weeks and I haven’t yet used my new card. But it’s only a matter of time. They have a copy of Robinson Crusoe there, and I’ve forgotten what happens to Friday.


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