We all knew how to sing in Kindergarten and we still do

I did Karaoke last night and enjoyed it. There, I said it and I’m not ashamed. Not too ashamed. OK, maybe a little ashamed.

Longtime readers of this column (Hi Dad!) already know my feelings about Karaoke; that it is, in fact, the work of the Devil and one of the signs of the Apocalypse. That’s how I felt about it before last night.

Now—after experiencing what I can only describe as a pop music-induced epiphany—I’m having second thoughts. Maybe Karaoke is not so bad after all.

Oh sure, there are the singers—I estimate about 50 percent of ‘em—who sound pretty much like a coyote tangled up in barbed wire; and those that take the whole thing way too seriously (the vocalists dressed up in sequined cowboy shirts and Ray-Ban sunglasses); and those that don’t approach the stage until they’ve gone several martinis over the line.

Then there are also the singers that are truly good; those that would be at home onstage with Ella Fitzgerald or Aretha Franklin. Granted, the good singers make up an amazingly small percentage of the overall “talent,” but they are out there.

However, it’s the bad singers I want to talk about today, the really bad singers. No sense of pitch, meter or dynamics. A complete disregard for timing. An inability to count to four (as in 4/4 time). These are the singers that make Karaoke great in my opinion.

Now, there are no doubt some of you who assume I’m going to veer off into sarcasm here, but I’m not. I mean it when I say the bad vocalists are the very heart of Karaoke.

Maybe everyone but me already knows this and I’m coming late to the party. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m not especially quick to grasp sociological trends. Like I said, last night was an epiphany.

It happened at Cascade Roadhouse, where Karaoke-meister Donna plies her trade three or four nights a week. I was in the joint to grab a burger and Bud Lite before heading home for the night; the last thing I wanted was to spend the evening listening to a bunch of CPAs and Wal-Mart greeters massacring off-key versions of “Feelings” and “Achy Breaky Heart.”

But as each nervous American Idol wannabe paraded up to the stage for his or her moment in the spotlight it occurred to me—this isn’t supposed to be great music, or even great entertainment. What it is is a chance for regular Janes and Joes to let out a little bit of that music that lives inside us all, that fragile, ephemeral joy we all knew back in Kindergarten as we belted out “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” with wild abandon.

We were kids and it never occurred to any of us that we might not be budding opera stars. The music was in our hearts and it found expression through our singing, godawful though it may have been.

Karaoke, I figured out last night, is nothing more than an extension of Kindergarten music class. It’s a chance for even the most musically-challenged songster to reconnect with that uninhibited five-year-old he or she once was.

If the end result sounds like train wheels grinding over gravel, well, that’s why so many places that feature Karaoke also offer beer. So grab that microphone, throw caution to the wind, and let what’s in your heart back out into the world where we can all enjoy it!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to rehearse. I’m going back tonight with a killer version of “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.” Cher, eat your heart out.

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

How do you say goodbye to the woman who gave you life?

My mother died.

Those are the three hardest words I’ve ever written. She suffered from Alzheimer’s the past several years and we all knew this was coming. But somehow, despite all those months of preparation, I still wasn’t ready when my sister Carol phoned yesterday with the news.

In her life, my mother was a homemaker, a business owner, a telephone operator, a computer programmer, a student, a dancer, and a hair stylist. But if you asked her what she “did,” she would say she was a mom.

For her, that was the job that mattered.

When she was young, my mother had potential; she was intelligent, beautiful, witty, talented. She had it all. And then she had me.

From that point on all her hopes, dreams and aspirations took a back seat to my needs and my wants. Two more boys and two girls followed in quick succession, and her love and protection encompassed each of them in turn, like a goose down comforter.

My mom always saw the best in her children, though that must sometimes have been hard, at least in my case. No accomplishment, however insignificant, escaped my mother’s notice. No failure was beyond redemption.

She was proud if I brought home an A. Or a B, or a C. She would have been proud had I brought home a note from the principal saying I’d been suspended for carrying a knife to class. (Which actually happened once, in seventh grade. It was a linoleum cutter; I’d been helping my dad with a project that morning before school and had stuck it in my pocket without thinking when the bus arrived.)

At any rate, my mom loved us no matter how badly we screwed up. For the life of me, I can’t remember her ever saying anything bad about me or my siblings, even when there were plenty of bad things just begging to be said.

In the year or two before her Alzheimer’s stole away the last of her, I called her almost daily, just to check in. By then, she was easily confused, had a hard time finding the words she wanted to say. It frustrated her greatly, but she faced her pitiless decline the way she faced every adversity life threw her way: with a sense of humor.

Even as her mind slipped away a piece at a time, she never stopped loving life, never stopped being proud of the children she had brought into this world.

One day before things got too bad we were conversing on the phone and—as she so often did—she shifted the subject to her kids.

“Your brother is doing so well,” she said. “He’s writing for the papers now and working on a book. Michael’s really making something of himself. He’s such a hard worker.”

“Mom, I’m Michael,” I said. “You’re talking to Michael.”

There was a beat while she sorted this out.

“Oh,” she said. Then: “Your brother William has a new nursing position. He’s supervisor of his whole floor and Julie’s managing a blood bank. How’s the book coming?”

“It’s coming,” I said. That’s what I always said. Five years later, it’s still coming, because writing a book is hard work and I’m not a hard worker, despite what my mom thought.

But if I ever do finish it and see it published, I know whose name will appear on the dedication page. Even if the book sells a million copies and my mother’s name is read by a million readers, it won’t be enough.

The hard truth is, no matter what I do, it will never be enough to thank the woman who gave me life.

I miss you mom.

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

Passing the torch of sophisticated humor to my grandson

It’s comforting to know my sophisticated, urbane, cultured, refined sense of humor will not die when I pass from this mortal coil; I’ve passed it along to my grandson, Edison.

Named for the famous inventor who in actuality probably stole as many inventions as he created himself, nine-year-old Edison has inherited my sense of humor. Last night while rooting through some of my boxes in the basement, he also inherited the device which best exemplifies this particular brand of humor: my fart machine.

Oh, the cognoscenti among us might refer to it as a “flatulence generator” or “electronic rude noise apparatus,” but it’s a fart machine. Says so right on the box.

Essentially, it’s nothing more than an updated version of that staple of yesterday’s sophisticated humorist–the whoopee cushion. It consists of two parts; the transmitter and the noise-making receiver.

When Edison found the fart machine at the bottom of the box, it was love at first sight. He didn’t come right out and ask that I gift it to him, he didn’t have to. I saw the look in his eye. Being a grandparent, there was no way I was going to get between him and that fart machine.

“It’s yours,” I said.

Five minutes later he was across the street spending his own allowance on the batteries needed to resurrect the electronic whoopee cushion to flatulent life. That was three days ago. Since then, no one in the house has stood up, sat down or bent over without experiencing Edison’s judicious application of pooting sounds.

He and I think it’s pretty funny. Everyone else in the house responds to the joke with a weary sigh, for some reason.

I don’t know who invented the fart machine, but I’m glad he or she did (almost certainly he—humor as sophisticated as a fart machine seems to elude most women; not sure why).

At any rate, Eddie is having a great time with the device and I’m happy to see it getting some use again. It had been in that box for about ten years, since I had to hide it from the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor in order to keep her from selling it at a garage sale.

Before that, though, I had a pretty good time with it myself. One of the best days of my life was the day I duct taped the receiver to the underside of the chair of the sales manager at my old office in Lakeview. She was a nice enough lady, though pushy, like all sales people have to be if they’re going to be any good at their jobs.

Every time she stood up or resettled in her chair, I would depress the button on the transmitter. The office secretary and I thought it was hilarious, the sales manager somewhat less so.

In the week or two I actually used the fart machine, it found its way beneath sofa cushions, into the bathroom (of course!), under the dinner table, and even into my bed. (That, I thought, was especially hilarious, though there was some contention on this point, as I recall.)

And now the torch has been passed to my grandson. No matter what, sophisticated humor finds a way to live on.

By the way, I’ve heard—and I don’t know if this is true—that the original Edison (Thomas, I mean) invented the whoopee cushion. Of course, it’s possible he just stole the idea from someone else.

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

It’s hard to maintain a sense of honor while dating the enemy

So now I’m back to dating. I was hoping I was past that once and for all, but I guess not. I’ve trimmed my toenails, ironed my best shirt, shined my shoes, paid down my primary credit card, told myself repeatedly how wonderful I am, purchased new cologne…I am again ready to rock and roll.

Problem is, my heart’s not really in it. I’m doing fine on my own, really (insert pathetic, sobbing sounds here), and I’m not exactly anxious to jump back on the dating bandwagon.

Oh, I’m anxious to date the right woman; I’m just not crazy about the idea of dating all those other women during what will be, if past experience is any indication, a long and arduous search. Frankly, I just don’t know if I have it in me to go through all that again.

But I will, because I don’t like living alone. I’ve admitted it before and I’ll admit it again; I like having a wife. Those of you who have one and don’t like it are probably married to the wrong woman. I know because I have been, on several occasions.

At any rate, in recent weeks I’ve been sort of dipping my toes in the water, just to see how I feel about things. I’ve been talking to a girl I saw last summer that I really liked. I’ve reposted my “profile” on the singles Website I frequented a while back. And I have gotten a few “hits,” some from girls who seem very nice.

But the one I’m most interested in at the moment is from a girl I always hated. I used to work for her, about eight years ago, if memory serves.

I’ll call her “Sue,” though her real name is “Deb.” Deb managed a hotel bar where my little weekend band played regularly. She managed the place with an iron fist; I wasn’t the only one there who hated her.

Nobody got away with nothin’ there. Not the waitresses, not the busboys, not the chef, not even the band! And the band usually gets away with murder everywhere.

But not at the bar Deb—I mean Sue—managed. She ran a tight ship; no free drinks, no smoking stinky cigars, no playing too loud or taking long breaks. To Sue, the musicians were employees, not spoiled, middle-aged rock stars. We like being spoiled, middle-aged rock stars!

Now, if I had been manager of that bar, I would have run things exactly like Sue. If a bar manager doesn’t keep a tight rein on things, the bar sinks faster than the Titanic. I’ve been in the business a long time and have seen this scenario played out repeatedly.

Even so, we all still hated Sue. This despite the fact she was super-cute, intelligent and basically a nice person, when she wasn’t “managing.”

Anyway, she emailed me the other day after seeing my profile on the singles Website. She said she saw my profile, remembered me from the band, and thought I was “yummy.” I’ve never been called yummy before, and to my surprise, I really like it.

So now, I’ve got to decide; do I give her a call, ask her out, see what happens? Heaven knows I want to. Like I said, she’s super-cute.

But if I do, I’ll be betraying all the guys I played with back then, some of whom I work with to this day. They’ll never forgive me if I sell out to the enemy. Also, there’s a code of honor between guys who play music together, a sacred bond that transcends male/female relationships, that…that…

Oh, who am I kidding? She thinks I'm yummy. Yeah, I’m gonna call her. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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