I knew this would happen; I’m starting to repeat myself repeat myself

It’s what every aging columnist fears. The day he begins to repeat himself repeat himself.

It happened to me while writing last week’s column. That column dealt with a kid I met on a drive-in movie playground back when I was only nine. Months earlier the kid had been shot in the leg and bore the cool scar to prove it.

I thought the column was kind of clever; not Pulitzer material, but a cute enough story. Turns out it was a story I’ve told before and less than a year ago. I wasn’t plagiarizing myself. I just forgot.

This faux pas was pointed out to me by Sweet Annie, whom I’m seeing again, at least until she wises up. Again. Unlike the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor, Annie not only reads my column religiously, she remembers what she reads and can recite it back to me months later, long after I’ve forgotten even the topic, much less the content.

I feel I should be forgiven this lapse in memory, however. I’ve been writing this column for over 20 years, every week, rain or shine. That comes to well over 1,000 columns. At approximately 700 words each, that’s over 700,000 words written. How can I be expected to remember them all, and in order?

And this column is only one of many things I write each week. I also write four different horoscopes for an English-speaking newspaper in Russia, news articles for an insurance company website, press releases for a place that sells athletic supplements online, a novel (though not in its entirety), occasional short stories, bad poetry no one will ever see until after I’m dead, return letters to readers of this column, and text messages to my grandson, Edison.

That’s a lot of words. Is it any wonder I can’t remember one column from nearly a year ago?

I know, I know…they do pay me a fair wage for this turkey and—in theory, at least—I should be putting so much thought and effort into each and every entry that there’s no way I could forget one. That’s rarely the way it works in real life, though. In real life, I simply sit down in front of the laptop once a week, usually at a nearby coffee shop, where I am frequently distracted by the cute office girls coming in and out to purchase their daily mocha-frappa-chino-latte-whatevers.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah. I sit here and write about the first thing that comes into my mind. It takes about an hour and even then I usually write more words than my editor, Mike, really wants to see in any given week. Mike likes about 500 words because they fit into more places throughout the newspaper. I can rarely articulate my admittedly jumbled thoughts in less than 700.

In fact, I just checked and I’m about to pass the 500 mark right now. Or right now. No, now. Now. Yup, that last “now” was it. And I still haven’t figured out whether this column is about my poor memory, my ability to write fewer than 700 words at a time, or the fact I’m dating Annie again. You see my problem.

I probably should have just gone with my first idea; this story about a kid I once met who had been shot in the leg…

Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Be careful what you ask for, you just might get it

 Boys, I've noticed, often want foolish things. Your average nine-year-old, for instance, has no practical use for a flame-thrower. But I've never met a boy who didn't want one.

When I was nine, there was nothing in the world I longed for more than to be shot. With a gun. Preferably in the leg.

I knew it would hurt, probably a lot, but I didn't care. I gladly would have paid someone my allowance for a month to shoot me just above the knee. If I'd known anything about calibers, I would probably have chosen a .22 with a low-yield round, maybe bird-shot. The point was to get myself an awesome scar, but live to brag about it.

Just like the kid I met on the drive-in movie playground. It was summertime and the playground was crowded with the noisy progeny of middle-class parents waiting for the sun to set so the projectionist could cue up the latest James Bond thriller. I saw the kid's scar while we were spinning on the merry-go-round.

Nine-year-old boys don't know from social graces, so I blurted it out: "What's that?" I asked, pointing to his truly impressive wound; a shiny, round hole, healed over and surrounded by scar tissue radiating outward. It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

"My dad shot me," he answered without preamble or explanation.

"No way," I said. A small crowd of boys had begun to gather around the kid and his scar. He was enjoying the attention and who could blame him.

"My dad was cleaning his gun and it went off," the kid explained.

This was followed by a chorus of "Cool!" and "Wow!" and "Did it hurt?"

It was cool and it was wow and—according to the kid—it did hurt.

I didn't care. From that point on I wanted a cool scar of my own. Oh, I had a couple by then; one on the forehead from a car accident and one on my right hand, from the time I tripped while carrying a glass jar filled with caterpillars. But I had nothing to compare with this kid's bullet hole. Compared to that, my scars were stubbed toes, the sniffles, hiccups.

A couple years later I was hit by a car and had to walk around on crutches for a few months. That was OK, but still, nowhere near as cool as a bullet hole.

Considering the end-of-the-relationship moments I’ve had with at least a couple of my ex-wives, it’s a miracle I haven’t been shot by now. I still think it would be cool to have a bullet scar, but I’m no longer so sure I’m willing to live through the pain involved in getting one.

 Who says I never grew up?

Mike Taylor’s book Looking at the Pint Half Full is available in eBook format from Borders, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers or in paperback from mtrealitycheck.com.

No matter where you go, chances are you’ll wind up living in a small town

When I moved two years ago from the tiny burg of Lakeview to the bustling metropolis of Detroit, I was worried. I had been living in Lakeview for nearly 15 years and had grown accustomed to life in a community where the sidewalks roll up promptly every night at seven. I knew not only my neighbors, but most of the folks who lived on the next block over, and the block after that. After the third block it was mostly cornfields as far as the eye can see.

How would I fare in the big city? I wondered. I was a country mouse, coming from a world in which the biggest traffic hazards were Amish buggies, combines and the occasional deer. In my new neighborhood, traffic hazards are…well…traffic. Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of cars blast past my front door on a daily basis, all driven by people in a big hurry to get where they’re going, which—judging by the number who text while they drive—is the afterlife. I wouldn’t mind so much were it not for the fact they seem determined to take me with ‘em.

The thing I liked least about life in “The D” was the anonymity. I knew no one and no one knew me. Every face belonged to a stranger. Detroit seemed a place of monumental disconnection; I could have been living on the moon.

But we human beings (I consider myself to be one despite the disparaging comments of various ex-wives) are a resilient species. We adapt to our surroundings and over the past two years or so, I’ve adapted to mine. And I’ve done so in much the same was as the rest of the folks living there: I built a small town right in the heart of the big city.

It began with my basement apartment. That by itself was a little too small, even for me. So I annexed the upstairs apartment and granted my daughter and grandkids citizenship. The guy living next door joined up next, mostly because he likes to drink beer and I usually have some in the fridge.

I needed groceries, so I invaded Aven’s convenience store a couple blocks away and claimed aisles two (Ramen noodles) and three (pistachio nuts) in the name of Taylorville. Aven, who hails from Baghdad and is used to regime changes, didn’t mind, so long as I paid for the stuff I plundered.

Man cannot live by Ramen alone, however, so I was forced to conquer a couple nearby restaurants, Moose Winooski’s and Zorba’s. I tried to annex the Albanian coffee shop, but the Albanians hate me for some reason; mostly, I’m guessing, because I am not Albanian. (One of the first things you learn in the big city is that not all bigots are white.) Anyway, it was obvious they were going to put up a fight, so I adopted the Caribou Coffee place down the street instead. The coffee’s not as good, and I hate the fact they always try and up-sell me a bagel every morning, but they do have fast wifi and don’t hate me because I can’t speak Albanian.

I’m now on a first-name basis with maybe 100 Taylorville residents and the list grows every day. Not all my subjects recognize, or even acknowledge the fact they’re living in Taylorville. They think I’m living in Smithtown, Johnsonville or even Avenburg.

It doesn’t really matter what you call it. The point is, working together, we’ve managed to carve out our own small town, one in which we can all feel comfortable and at home. If I could only annex a couple Amish, I’d be all set.

Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I’m not sure I’m ready to lead the robo-teller revolution, but I’ll be happy to delegate

 Last week’s column hit a nerve. Boy, did it ever. In the past few days I have been deluged with letters from readers who feel much the same as I do about the robot tellers now found in some major retail outlets; retail outlets which shall remain nameless because I fear lawyers even more than I fear a beer shortage and that’s saying a lot.

In fact, several readers obviously hate robo-tellers far more than I do. For me, they’re an annoyance and further proof, should any be needed, that some stores couldn’t care less if I live or die, so long as my money keeps flowing through their greedy, little corporate hands. The braniacs making recommendations to the stores’ boards of directors no doubt assume we’ve all been thoroughly acclimated (brainwashed) into accepting ever-decreasing levels of personal service and customer care and will barely notice this latest outrage.

Well, guess what, braniacs; you’re wrong. Based on my mail over the past week, shoppers are mad as you-know-what and many of them are showing their displeasure by switching to other, smaller stores; stores that don’t expect you to scan your own groceries, bag ‘em, and then return after midnight to mop the floors and stock the shelves.

Let me share a few reader letter excerpts with you here. These folks said it better than I ever could:

LINDA: I, for one, feel that if I am spending my time and money in a store I should get my groceries rung up, bagged and put in the cart for me.  Even a "thank you" would be a great addition to the customer service. Now, I walk in the store, maybe get greeted, maybe find what I would like, maybe find someone to help me and then have to scan and bag my own groceries and have a machine to say thank you!

VALERIE: (I) remember when grocery stores were friendly places. They provided starter jobs for high school kids and flexible hours for moms. The parking lots were clean and you never had to walk to your car alone. The cashiers were quick to point out if you'd missed a coupon because they actually cared. I used to love going to (store name deleted because of my fear of attorneys—see above). Not any more. Greed is their new business model. It's no longer enough for the (deleted, again) clan to be well off - they must be wealthy. Their cost-costing, their hostility toward their employees (and customers) shows in every aspect of their store.

STEPHEN: Once they have found a way to eliminate every employee and replace them with machines, who do they think is going to buy their goods? Here is a word of advice for you, Mr. (deleted…lawyers, lawyers, lawyers!), robots don’t need produce. I’m clipping your article out and sending it to the (deleted) manager.

BONNIE: I do not mind the automated tellers at all. They don’t bother me. As soon as they put them in, I started shopping somewhere else. The store I go to now not only bags my groceries, they carry them out to the car for me, too. It makes me wonder why I didn’t make the change years ago.

There were plenty more, but many were too profanity-laden to edit down for inclusion in a family newspaper. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.

Personally, I don’t like the robo-tellers, but I’m not nearly as vehemently opposed to them as some folks out there. I thought I was writing on a fairly innocuous topic last week, but uh-uh. I could not have generated more righteous anger from the public had I suggested we lower the drinking age to 9, but only for illegal immigrants, all of whom should be given executive positions at General Motors as soon as they cross the border into Michigan.

If I were a politician (shoot me first, please!) I would run on an anti-robo-teller platform. There are only about seven guys in the state who wouldn’t vote for me, and they’re all on (deleted deleted deleted deleted)’s board of directors.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available in eBook format at most online booksellers, but will likely never be found at (deleted); not after this column.

The sound a disappearing job makes is ‘beep’

 Beep. That’s the sound of a half-gallon of two-percent milk. Beep. That’s a pint of blueberries. Beep. There goes a can of mosquito repellent. Beep, beep, beep. A pack of Big Red chewing gum, some shaving soap, a liter of Diet Coke.

Beep. Red, flashing light. Robot voice: APPROVAL NEEDED! APPROVAL NEEDED! Several minutes spent waiting for one of the three girls lounging around the “master register” to finish explaining to the other two exactly why Shawna is no longer speaking to Darnell.

Beep. Boop, beep, boop. Click. Beep. Boop, boop, boop, boop. Bing. Etc. The sound of the two-hundred keystrokes it takes for the store girl to let the robot know that I am at least 21 and won’t hurt myself if it allows me to buy a six pack of Sam Adams.

Boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-BING! The sound of me trying to get the robot to give me the price of two apricots.

Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep. The sound of me telling the robot that I would like to pay with a credit card.

Beep. Beep. Boop-boop-boop-bing. PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE. Red, flashing light. Several minutes spent waiting for the three girls lounging around the “master register” to finish discussing a recent “big win” one of them had at the casino near St. Ignace.

Boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-BING! The sound of the store girl manually punching in the numbers from my credit card.

“Something’s wrong with the reader,” she tells me, handing back my card. “It hasn’t been working all day.”

“Why should it be different?” I ask. The store girl doesn’t get it, but rightly interprets my comment as rude and stalks away. She and her friends near the master register give me the ol’ stink-eye as I wait for my receipt to print.

THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING AT ----- says the robot. I, like the thousands of people who have come through this repellent gauntlet of a checkout before me, tell the robot to get bent. The robot does not care. The robot is not insulted. The robot does not require a paycheck, medical insurance, sick days, or holiday pay.

The store’s stockholders love the robot. The eight humans whose jobs were lost when the robot was brought in do not, I’m guessing. I don’t love it, either, in large part because the robot is an idiot with no more common sense than a pocket calculator. And yet it’s being asked to perform the job of eight humans. Well, it’s not, exactly; I’m being asked to perform the duties formerly handled by a check-out girl, a bag boy and the kid who pushed the cart to your car and loaded your groceries into it. (Yes, such exotic services were once commonplace, kiddies! Google it if you don’t believe me.)

But that’s OK, I can adjust. It’s a bad situation, but I can live with it, since I have no choice. My concern is for future generations. How bad will it be by the time my grandson is my age? Will he have to trudge out to a field, till the soil, plant some corn seeds, water them daily for months, harvest the corn, deliver it to the store, price it, then take it to the checkout, ring it up, bag it, and finally, pay for it? It’s the ultimate in self-service and I can’t believe the store’s stockholders haven’t been considering ways to achieve exactly this sort of business model.

Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-boop-beep-flush. That, folks, is the sound of civilization slowly circling the drain.

Mike Taylor’s book, Looking at the Pint Half Full is available online at mtrealitycheck.com. E-mail Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.