The end of the world figures prominently in my financial planning

I watch the History Channel a lot, a sure sign I’m getting old. When the past starts to seem more interesting than the future, you know you’ve entered that slippery slide into geezer-hood.

In recent months I’ve become an expert on World War II, the Great Depression, the Nixon administration and the theory that ancient astronauts visited Earth thousands of years ago to give us astronomy, math, the electric light bulb (nope, I’m not kidding), and reruns of Law & Order.

Much of the stuff on the history channel is of the Could this mean? variety—as in, Could this circle, carved into the pyramid of Giza, be the Mayan representation of an interstellar space ship? Well, sure it could be that, but it probably ain’t.

At any rate, I was watching a show of this latter type earlier this week and got a bit of good news: The world is going to end next year.

I know this theory’s been floating around in cyberspace for months now, but seeing it on broadcast television somehow made it more real. It goes like this: The Mayan calendar, developed thousands of years ago, comes to an abrupt halt on Dec. 21, 2012. Nobody seems to know why. But when taken in tandem with a prophecy by Nostradamus (the John Edwards of his day), it seems to forecast the End of Days.

That prophecy reads, in part, Yeah, and in those times, the snow shall fall from the sky and the seas will be filled with liquid, maybe water. A great commotion shall be heard in the east and many birds of a feather will fly south for the winter. Other vague things that could be interpreted pretty much any way you want also will come to pass, verily and forsooth!

Throw in a few scary quotes from the books of Daniel and Revelations, add an Internet rumor concerning the possibility of an approaching comet, and voila, it’s the end of the world as we know it.

Now, I know that for some of you, this is going to be a real inconvenience, especially for those who had family coming for the holidays. It’s disconcerting to know the world’s going to end just four days before Christmas. Even if the relatives arrive before the A) comet, B) poison rain, C) nuclear attack, D) spaceships, E) angry deities or F) Betty White Clone Army, the knowledge that we all have only a few days to live is sure to put a damper on the festivities.

So, why do I think the end of the world is such a good thing? Well, it just so happens that—as I was watching the History Channel special—I was also planning my finances for the upcoming year. These days, this is mostly a hypothetical exercise; I do it from force of habit, a throwback to the days when I had a “real” job, money, and the hope—remote though it may have been—that I would someday enjoy a comfortable retirement.

According to my figures, at this point in my estate planning, the best I can hope for is a catastrophic, extinction level event. How lucky for me that one is coming in just under two years. I think I may have enough stashed away to last that long.

Sure, I feel bad for those of you doing well; if you’ve just won the lottery, landed a big promotion, stuff like that. But it’s not my fault. I just read the signs and accept the inevitable.

All I know for sure is, if we’re all still here the morning of Dec. 22, 2012, I’m in big trouble.

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

Zombies make for one strange book signing

I had the dream again last night. The one where I’m standing in front of a roomful of people, 30 or so, all of them gazing at me with the silvery, shimmering eyes of corn worshippers in a Stephen King novel. They’re expecting me to say something; something funny.

I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is stuffed with cotton; I can barely breathe, much less articulate.

“Mpfhhhh,” I say. “Mumpfhh itthit wuhmpah.”

Thirty sets of silvery eyes continue to stare. No one smiles. No one laughs. One man in a grey business suit glances impatiently at his watch. In the crazy clarity that dreams sometimes bring, I see it’s a Rolex, with a blue face and ostentatious diamond marking the 12 o’clock hour.

Great pools of sweat accumulate beneath my armpits. I realize I’m sporting a tan sports coat and slacks, a great improvement over the buck naked I usually wear to this dream. Both items of clothing are soaked through, the jacket from perspiration, the pants…well, I don’t want to think about why the pants are wet.

I am scared.

I take a sip of water from the plastic cup that magically materializes on the podium, which also has just appeared before me. The cotton inches down my throat like a sandpaper-coated slug, until finally I can speak.

“Um, I’m sorry,” I gasp. “This may have been a mistake.”

As one, the silvery-eyed group stands and, zombie-like, arms outstretched, shambles toward me.

I wake up screaming. Or dreaming of screaming.

And that’s why it has taken me so long to get my book finished. Because once you write a book (which is fun) and get the book published (which is cool) and see your first copy (which, I’m sure, will be exciting)…after all that, you have to promote your book.

You have to talk to real, live people. You have to make them believe you have something on which they should spend their $7.95. You have to do readings, and signings, and tap dance recitals for all I know.

I’ve been told by people who should know, people who’ve been there done that.

I don’t wanna. I want people to just buy my book without any encouragement from me. It’s a pretty good book; not James Thurber, but better than some stuff I’ve read, and there are very few typos. That should count for something.

Oh, OK, OK. I’ll talk to the book clubs. I’ll address elementary school classrooms and tell ‘em to not do drugs. I’ll shamelessly hawk my book at any store willing to give me 60 minutes and a card table. I’ll get out of bed at 5 a.m. to chat with the host of a local access AM radio program.

I will do whatever it takes.

But I swear, if I see just one pair of silvery eyes, the whole deal’s off!

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

Memories, may seem beautiful…if they’re not televised

Saw myself on television the other night. Or rather; saw the me that existed 25 years ago. In grey leather pants and a shirt that had been lifted (apparently) from Michael Jackson’s back, I looked like a reject from the “Thriller” video auditions.

My carefully-feathered haircut, reminiscent of a CHiPs-era Erik Astrada, only made matters worse. Watching my younger self onscreen I thanked the gods of video that the camera never panned down; I’m almost sure I was wearing white snakeskin platform shoes.

I was lying in a hotel room following a recent live performance with my weekend band when my historically accurate but altogether ridiculous self came on TV. I couldn’t believe they were airing the footage, a half-hour musical “special” that ran for the first time on Christmas Eve, 1985.

It was filmed back in the days when public television was so frantic for original programming they’d let anyone with the ability to point a camera produce a show. My buddy Bob was one such camera-pointer, and he talked me into bringing my band down to the TV studio to “star” in two live performances.

Bob was a better camera-pointer than most of them and the production values for the show were actually pretty good. My band, sadly, was not. Oh, I’ve been in worse, but I’ve been in better, too. The point is, Bob did his best, but there’s only so much you can do to make a coyote caught in barbed wire sound like Freddie Mercury.

And there’s absolutely nothing you can do to make me—even a young me—look good in leather pants and a Michael Jackson shirt.

It was surreal, old me watching young me singing on TV.

Why the public TV station was airing a lame-o half-hour music show from 25 years earlier is anyone’s guess. I’m sure it had nothing to do with “popular demand.” I can only assume they’re still desperate for programming; a test pattern would have been more entertaining, aside from the possible (no, make that probable) comedic value.

At any rate, watching that old footage served as a harsh reminder of just how much time has passed. I sing better these days. But I look older. And if anything, my guitar playing has actually gotten worse, which is difficult to understand, but I can’t deny the evidence of my own eyes and ears. On the plus side, I now have enough sense to not try to cover my expansive rear-end in gray leather.

Not that it matters much; I have as much in common with that skinny kid on the television as I have with Michael Jackson (which, other than the shirt, is nothing).

But I’m not embarrassed by the tape; I’ve lived long enough to know that everybody was a nerd once upon a time. We all have memories best left unexamined. I just wish mine weren’t captured on a piece of videotape sitting in a TV studio storage locker somewhere.

I’d like to get my hands on that tape, to save for, um, posterity. And by “save for posterity” I mean “bury in the back yard.”

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