I’m just glad the bartender didn’t ask me to kill my family

I eat the same food every day; coffee for breakfast, whey shake with banana for lunch, chicken burrito from Spyke’s – a diner just down the street from my house – for dinner. It’s not part of a diet plan or some new-age attempt to balance my amino acids or electrolytes. I’m not trying to gain or lose weight.

I eat the same food every day because it’s easy and requires no thinking on my part.

As a single guy, dining out is about as cheap as eating in. Best of all, someone else has to do the dishes.

At Spyke’s, the waitresses don’t bring me a menu because I know what’s on there as well as they do. Plus, like I said before, I always order the same thing.

I think this is pretty typical single guy behavior.

This past weekend, however, I was forced to alter my routine. I took a little holiday to Traverse City and for two days dined at restaurants other than my regular haunt.

In the two days I was in TC, I hit a Mexican place, a breakfast joint, and a pub featuring the worst live music I’ve ever heard.

My last stop, however, was the most memorable; an establishment called Stephen’s Place. It looked fairly casual from the outside, but when I entered I was bowled over by the opulence within. One glance told me I was seriously underdressed. Incredibly, the maitre d’ didn’t seem to mind, even though his suit probably cost more than my last three cars. I asked for a seat at the bar.

Artfully-lit sophistication surrounded me. The bartender took my order. What I wanted was a Bud Lite draft, but I was already feeling rough and uncouth in my jeans and T-shirt. I ordered a Cosmopolitan. A chimp looks classy drinking a Cosmo.

As my eyes adjusted to the light I realized the place was not crowded. I was, in fact, the only customer. A very talented piano player (“Doc” Woodward, a Detroit area legend from back in my glory days) was coaxing a Sinatra tune from a grand piano that glimmered black as ebony under the stage lights. He was doing his best to entertain a crowd that wasn’t there; the mark of a true professional.

The bartender brought my Cosmo. I drank some and it was excellent. It did not make me look elegant. A chimp might have, but not me.

The bartender placed a small bar menu beside me, just in case. The appetizers looked wonderful, but there were no prices listed; never a good sign. Like a yacht, if you have to ask how much it costs, you can’t afford it.

I sipped a bit more cranberry-flavored alcohol. The maitre d’ hovered nearby, as did the bartender. Alert to my every need. Rarely have I garnered so much undeserved attention. My slightest gesture was being carefully monitored on the off chance I should need something.

I thought about the lone twenty dollar bill nestled in my wallet and wondered if it would be enough to cover the drink, plus tip.

Visions of Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” passed through my mind, particularly the scene in which he’s sitting in the empty, elegant bar of the Overlook Hotel and the ghost bartender suddenly materializes. The bartender here looked substantial enough, but so did the bartender at the Overlook, just before he convinced Jack Nicholson to go after his family with an ax.

It was time to leave. I paid my tab, the twenty just covering it. Back home, I could have had a couple beers, a burrito and a basket of freshly-made chips for the same money. And at Spyke’s, there is no hovering maitre d’.

Vacation’s over. It’s good to know what’s for dinner tonight.

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

With a nose like this, it’s hard not to get a little ‘buggy’

I have the most attractive nose in the world.

I know, I know, that sounds a little conceited, and I suppose the comment could be interpreted that way. But it’s true; my nose really is—to misquote Keats—a “thing of beauty and a joy forever.”

Oh, it’s not particularly attractive to women, or men either, for that matter. But—this summer, especially—the bugs seem to just love it. I’ve had hundreds of them fly up my nostrils since early this spring.

Insects seem to be especially attracted to my nose when I’m riding my bicycle. It started this June, when a June bug (one of nature’s little “mistakes”) collided with the bridge of my nose as I pedaled down the east side of Michigan Street Hill. I saw it coming, homing in on me like a World War II stunt fighter, buzzing like a rip saw, but too late, far too late.

The sound it made as it smacked against my unprotected snout resembled nothing so much as a wet chicken bone being broken by an angry chef. June bug innards oozed gooily into my otherwise impeccable (unless I’ve been eating ice cream) moustache and I almost rode into the side of the American Legion Post on the corner of Grand Street.

Still naïve as to the creepy obsession bugs were to have on my snoot this summer, I wrote the incident off as an accident, pedaled down the street to Birch Lodge, ordered a beer, and went to the bathroom to try and scrub bug guts off my face.

Later that same month I was chugging along a stretch of Gravel Ridge, a long, moderately hilly bit of country road not far from my rural abode. This time the bug in question was a deer fly (another of nature’s mistakes, and one of the worst).

The deer fly wasn’t content to simply perform a Kamikaze run at my proboscis, as had the June bug, but instead circled my head in ever-tightening orbits—to get a better look at my glorious schnozolla, I assume. Mile after long, country mile went by, and still the deer fly maintained his worshipful vigil.

Eventually, he tired, landed on my left arm, and I summarily executed him with an Obama-like swat. I have no need of worshippers, at least not the creepy-crawly variety.

The worst offenders, though, are the little clouds of flying bugs. They might be gnats, they might be mites—I don’t know from bugs—they could even be my imagination, but they are definitely annoying. Individually, I’m sure I could take ‘em. But they don’t fight like that. They travel in packs, millions of ‘em swarming like blindly militant nano-creatures from some Dean Koontz novel.

And mostly where they swarm is up my nose.

Doesn’t matter if I’m riding my bike, walking, or driving with the window open; they find their way into my vulnerable olfactory orifices. There have been whole days this past summer that I’ve not had to eat; I’ve taken in all the calories I need in the form of tiny bugs performing ritual suicides inside my snoot.

At least I hope they’re dying in there. Oh, man, what if they’re not? What if they’re crawling back into my brain, slowly taking control? What if…

Attention. Reality Check readers will now disregard this column. Go about your business. There’s nothing to see here and no reazzzon to be alarmed. Repeat. Bzzz … Go about your buzzziness.

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

‘Mike Taylor Stadium’ has a really nice ring to it

If you wait long enough, a lot of life’s problems will solve themselves. That has been my experience, at any rate.

As evidence, I offer the cans and bottles in my garage. There are (or were) hundreds of them.

Some once provided a home to 16 ounces of Diet Coke, Mountain Dew or orange soda; others had the happier job of housing inexpensive, domestic beer. And a lucky few were once filled with Guinness, Harp or Oberon (real beer drinkers will recognize those names).

The point is, there were a lot of ‘em out there, cluttering up an already cluttered garage.

That never used to happen. There was a time, not so long ago, when someone else used to return all the empties when she did her weekly grocery shopping. These days I’m on my own.

At first, it didn’t seem like much of an issue. I am capable of returning a few cans. I went to college, even passed a few classes. Surely, I reasoned, returning deposit containers was a task that fell comfortably within the confines of my skill set.

Yet the bottles and cans continued to accumulate. Mrs. You Know Who had a plastic container out there that she filled and returned each week. It filled up in a matter of six or seven days. For the next week or two I continued to carefully stack empties on top of the full container, building a glass and aluminum pyramid to rival anything ever constructed by Pharaoh’s slaves.

Eventually the construct reached critical mass; that point at which no more cans could be added without upsetting the entire structure. I added more cans anyway, with the predictable outcome; the entire thing collapsed, spilling cans and bottles across the garage floor.

Over the following couple weeks, amid the litter of scattered cans, I rebuilt the pyramid until it once again reached the point of collapse. Then it did collapse. I started over again, kicking containers to the side to maintain a narrow passageway from the garage door to the container, now hidden beneath the ever-growing pile of empties.

It wasn’t long before squirrels discovered the landfill-like mound and set up homes there. Homeless persons traveling through town sometimes spent the night sheltered beneath the protective dome of glass and aluminum.

I made up my mind to – this week for sure – return the empties. Then I didn’t. I again made up my mind, and again I didn’t follow through. This process repeated itself week after week.

Then one night I saw a special on “Nightline” in which a representative from the aluminum industry complained of a shortage of recyclable cans. He hinted that the scarcity might be part of a terrorist plot to disrupt the country’s soft drink production and leave Americans too weak from a lack of sugar to fight back when enemy paratroopers began dropping from the sky.

Only I knew the truth.

And then the volleyball players showed up, members of the local high school team. They were collecting cans to raise money for new jerseys. Did I have any, they asked.

I could almost hear the “Hallelujah Chorus” playing in their heads when I opened the garage door and six months worth of booty rolled out into the driveway.

The following week, the volleyball team cruised past my house wearing their new jerseys, riding in the team’s new bus, the one equipped with a flat-screen television, hot tub, and personal masseuse. I hear they’re thinking of naming the school’s new sports complex after me.

I’ve also been saving my old newspapers for recycling if anyone has a semi trailer and a desire to pay off their mortgage.

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

Ladies: Marry me now before I start howling at the moon

A month ago I would have made the perfect husband for someone. I’d probably still be pretty good at the job, but not as good as I would have been a month ago. And a month from now, I’ll likely be even worse.

What I’m saying is, ladies, it’s probably a good time to get those marriage proposals to me, because I’m sinking fast. I know this because of the dirt on the dining room carpet.

Maybe I’d better back up a bit and start over.

The Former Lovely Mrs. You Know Who was a neatness fanatic. Our house was spotless, 24/7, due not only to her enthusiastic daily cleaning regimen, but also to the years of training she put into me.

Like a puppy eager to please, I learned to leave muddy shoes on the doorstep, to fold the bathroom towels two times, horizontally, before hanging them squarely on the rack. I learned to stack used cups on the proper “to be washed” section of the kitchen counter, rather than leaving them wherever I last drank from them. I learned to drop dirty socks into the hamper instead of leaving them stuffed in my sneakers.

In an effort to pacify the Former Mrs. T, I learned all these tricks and about a million more just like them. I wasn’t always happy with the training regimen, but one makes sacrifices for the sake of domestic bliss, or if not bliss, then at least tranquility. (I know there are about a zillion husbands out there reading this right now and thinking, “You got that one right, pal!”)

Then one day the master was gone.

At first, like a puppy, I wandered around the empty rooms whining, not sure exactly what happened. Like a puppy, I was a little scared and lonely.

But slowly, things changed. I realized I wasn’t a puppy anymore, but a big dog. (And yeah, I realize there’s more than one way to take this analogy – I’m running with it anyway.)

I could come and go as I pleased, no longer tethered to my master’s leash. If my collar was feeling snug, I could just chew it off and nobody would yell Bad Dog! Moreover, with the master gone, the house was mine!

OK, enough with the dog analogy. The point is, I slowly came to realize I could fold the towels any which way and there would be no repercussions, no remonstrations. I could walk through mud, cow pies and pools of battery acid, then tap dance on the flippin’ sofa if I took a mind to. I could (gasp!) leave my empty coffee cup on the end table for days and nobody would say anything about it!

I know it’s hard for you long-time bachelors to understand the feeling of liberation that accompanied these epiphanies, but lemme tell ya, it was pure ecstasy.

Of course, like any good dog (I know I told you the dog analogy was over. I lied) I retained most of my training, but it is fading fast. Six months from now, I’ll undoubtedly be more or less feral, running through the woods, howling at the moon and living wild and free on a diet of murdered woodchucks and creek water.

So any woman interested in marrying me better do it quick, unless she wants to start my training over from Ground Zero. So far I haven’t tap danced on the sofa while wearing muddy shoes, but the idea is now in my head; it’s only a matter of time. Yesterday, I tracked dirt onto the dining room carpet after working in the garage. The dirt is still there and I’m feeling no pressing urge to vacuum it up.

The kibble the master left behind is almost gone. There was a full moon last night and I found myself in the back yard, gazing up at it through the lattice of maple leaves, and wondering how a woodchuck might taste.

Owrhooooooooo!

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