There’s plenty of wisdom online—or is there?

Is there anything you can’t get online these days? That’s a rhetorical question; there’s isn’t. Anything you can’t get, I mean.

You can buy everything from cars to shoes to surgical procedures online. I met my fiancée online. I took my cat to get “fixed” yesterday, at a veterinary office I discovered—you got it—online. When I want to talk with my kids or find out if any of them have recently gotten married, divorced or convicted of a felony, I go online to their Facebook pages. The kids tell me nothing; they tell the world everything.

I pay my bills online, or rather I go online to explain to my numerous creditors why I am not paying my bills this month. The only bill I’m never late with is my Internet bill, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to contact all the other people I owe money to. (At this point, I could launch into a diatribe on how much fun it is to be unemployed these days in Michigan, but why? Most of you know already.)

At any rate, I’ve grown used to handling everything, from research to romance, online.

But even I was taken aback last week, when after dining at a neighborhood Chinese restaurant (all you can eat buffet; only seven bucks!) the waitress delivered my bill, along with the requisite fortune cookie.

Now, I love fortune cookies. I choose to believe everything printed in red on the little slip of paper inside them, including my lucky numbers. Some even have Chinese-to-English translations printed there, the idea being that if you eat enough Moo Goo Gai Pan, you will eventually be able to speak fluid Cantonese. (“Gung ho fat choy” for instance, means—if memory serves—“You are one gullible Yankee!”)

The fortune in this particular cookie, however, contained something more—a web address. Following the fortune: “You will win success in whatever calling you adopt” (proof positive that fortune cookies are not always right) was printed: “Want more? Visit: www.myfreefortune.com.”

Naturally—as I always do whenever an anonymous company tells me to visit their website—I rushed home, switched on the laptop, and checked it out. I shouldn’t have.

It turns out fortune cookies aren’t the infallible predictors of future wealth, health and happiness they claim to be. The fortunes contained within are not inscrutable prophecies dictated by a wise old monk sitting on a satin pillow in some cookie factory in Xi’an, as I had always imagined. Fortune cookies, it seems, are not even Chinese in origin! They might be Japanese, they might even be American. Apparently, there’s some contention over the issue. But they’re definitely not Chinese.

And they’re most assuredly not written by a wise old monk.

I was so bummed! For the past 40 years, I’ve been basing all my major life decisions on the advice put forth in fortune cookies! Now I discover the fortunes are simply made up by some surfer dude in a factory in San Francisco?

That fortune cookie company better hope I can’t find a good personal injury attorney online. I predict I’ll be able to retire on the settlement money!

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I’ve finally found my dream job, again

I’m thinking of retiring from the column-writing game. I’ve been tempted to give it up only once before, when I learned that the American Tasting Institute (there really is such a place) has full-time employees who do nothing but taste stuff, then report on whether they like it. Near as I could tell at the time, it was the only job easier than writing a column.

Turns out there’s one easier still, and I’m thinking of applying.

The job? In-house human bed warmer, and no I am not kidding.

I would have to move to the United Kingdom (some folks call it England or Great Britain—the Queen should make up her mind on this one; the whole thing’s been ambiguous too long). That’s where three Holiday Inn hotels currently offer the service.

As I understand it, the human bed warmer climbs between the client’s frosty sheets and lies there until the temperature of the bed reaches 68-degrees, at which point he or she vacates the premises to be replaced by the hotel guest.

The article I read on the subject didn’t mention how long it took for the sheets to reach the proper temperature; I’m guessing that would depend on the size of the human bed warmer, her fat-to-lean ratio, and whether she was post-menopausal and experiencing hot flashes.

Whatever the case, this does not sound like a job for skinny young girls. I, on the other hand, would be perfect for the gig! Not only am I slightly fat, but I sport more body hair than your average wildebeest. According to at least one woman who should know, sleeping next to me is like curling up with a silverback mountain gorilla that’s been jogging through the rain forest in August. (Although the woman I’m thinking of may have been referring not to heat, but odor.)

Regardless, I’m sure human bed warmer is a job I could handle. Not only am I imminently qualified with regard to heat-producing potential, but there are few things I’m as good at as lying about all day. Why, Superbowl Sunday alone I maintained a prone position on the sofa for six straight hours and nobody was even paying me! I did it for free, fool that I am.

I could have lasted longer, but I had to get up for beer ingestion and release a couple times.

I also should mention on my resume that I fall asleep easily, but rarely stay asleep for more than a half-hour. So I could move from bed-to-bed ‘round the clock, never having to take a break. Thirty minutes of shuteye here, 30 minutes there; that’s all I’d ever need. A couple meal breaks throughout the evening and I could “work” indefinitely.

At just under 30 minutes per bed, I figure I could service nearly 50 beds in a 24 hour period. That’s a full day’s work in anybody’s book.

The only thing I can think of that might keep me from fulfilling my new career dreams is this: I don’t wear pajamas. Never have, never will.

This, I’ll admit, could be a concern for some of the hotel’s more fastidious guests. It could also make my trips from room-to-room, um, interesting, though I suppose I could throw on a robe while traversing the hallways, if management insisted.

I could probably write more on this topic, but if I’m ever going to land the job, I should probably get down to some serious training. Zzzzz.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Me and the beer can lady; it’s gonna get ugly fast

I finally had it out with the beer can lady. The throw-down was a long time coming and in the end, nowhere near as satisfying as I had hoped it would be.

It started over a decade ago, when I moved to Lakeview, the tiny hamlet north of Grand Rapids where I would spend the next ten years of my life. The town, as I’ve mentioned before, grew on me in that time, and I was sorry to leave it when I relocated to Ada a month ago.

In the ensuing weeks, I’ve made the drive back and forth a dozen times or more, each trip hauling a couple loads of dishes, bathroom stuff or clothing in my dinosaur of a car. I could have rented a U-Haul truck three times over for what I’ve spent so far in gas, but I’m far too clever for that.

It was during my last trip that I finally had it out with the beer can lady.

It’s a tale that, like Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, “grew in the telling.” Or it will, once I tell it. And heavily embellish.

The beer can lady always hated me. She works at the town’s lone grocery store, back in the room where they store the returnable cans and bottles. Unlike most stores which now feature automated can return machines, the grocery in Lakeview still hires a (omigod, how archaic!) human to do the job.

It works like this: I take my empties for the week to the store, toss them in a cart (or carts, if my sons have been visiting), wheel them to the back of the store and turn them over to the beer can lady. She counts ‘em up and prints out a little receipt which I must then sign (first and last name, just in case I’m some kind of beer can forger or something) and take to the checkout.

It’s a good system, far better than the machines at other stores. You leave the store without all that sticky goop on your hands, and a job is provided for the beer can lady, who, I’m guessing, could never find work elsewhere because she’s so flippin’ mean.

She really is. I’m not sure if she’s mean to everyone, but like I said, she’s hated my lousy guts for ten years and hasn’t missed a chance to show it. And the other day as I was returning what will be my last beer cans ever at that store, I asked her why.

Why has she given me dirty looks every time I drop off cans and bottles? Why does she never say thank you? Why does she always count my cans so slowly, like she thinks I’m trying to pull one over on her?

Why does she hate me? Why, beer can lady, why?

That’s exactly how I asked the question: “Why do you hate me?”

I asked boldly enough, knowing I never would have to face her again. I asked and—for the first time in ten years—the beer can lady looked at me and … smiled. I could tell this was a question she’d been waiting for, hoping for. She wanted to answer me.

“You always bring your cans back in plastic garbage bags,” she said. “The sign says to use paper.” She pointed to the sign, a 3-by-3 inch card taped near the storage room’s entrance. I’d never noticed it before.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was personal.”

“Nope,” she said. “The plastic bags are just a lot messier. This ain’t a fun job to begin with. I wish they’d get one of those machines.”

It’s almost a shame I won’t be seeing the beer can lady again. I’d like to make amends, start using paper instead of plastic. Maybe even rinse the cans out, like the ex was always trying to get me to do. I could even learn her name, so I wouldn’t have to call her the beer can lady.

The fancy machine at my new neighborhood grocery works faster and doesn’t hate me. It doesn’t think about me at all, in fact. I think I’m already starting to miss the beer can lady.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.