My recording career may take a while to take off

I recently wrote one of the most beautiful songs of all time. Sounds boastful, I know, but it’s true. 

As I’ve mentioned before in this column, I’ve been a musician since age 11, when my folks dropped the as-of-then unheard of amount of $26.95 to buy me a junior-sized guitar from the Sears catalog. 

Since then, I’ve been honing my craft, but very, very slowly. It’s been 45 years and my guitar playing still stinks. My singing’s a little better. And I do play several other instruments as well, though badly.

Fortunately, in my band, The Guinness Brothers, I’ve managed to surround myself with musicians far more gifted than myself. Hence, we keep fairly busy working local clubs even during these economically trying times.

For the most part, we play cover tunes; typical bar-band music written by people with record contracts, stretch limos, and long, undulating histories of drug abuse and rehab clinics. But every so often, I’ll write an original song and we’ll toss that into the mix until we get tired of it or bar owners start complaining.

My new song, though … no bar owner would EVER complain about that. It was that good.

I should preface this by saying I almost never listen to music. Unlike every other musician I know, I rarely turn on a radio, even during long, cross-country drives. I’ve always been utterly content with the silence and the little stories scampering around my (mostly empty) head. I’ve never felt the need for a soundtrack to my life.

Consequently, I never know what music is currently popular. I rarely know the names of any “big stars” or their current hits. If it was recorded after Springsteen’s “Born to Run” album, chances are I’m not familiar with it.

The only time I hear new music is when it’s thrust upon me in an elevator, supermarket or pub.

As someone who makes at least part of his living trying to get others to listen to his music, I probably shouldn’t admit this. People have certain expectations of musicians and I don’t meet any of them.

At any rate, I figured none of that would matter once my new song went triple platinum. I had little doubt it would; it was, like I said, the greatest song ever.

The best thing about my new tune was that it just “came to me” one day while driving to a newspaper assignment. I was humming tunelessly to myself and the song just sort of formed up in my mind.

The melody was heartbreakingly perfect; something timeless and filled with melancholy, longing and a deep understanding of the human spirit. Over the next couple months I put lyrics to my new tune. The lyrics weren’t bad. They weren’t Lennon/McCartney good, but I figured the melody would carry the number anyway.

I polished the song over and over until it glistened like gold. 

Last Saturday, I sat down at the kitchen table with a pad of paper, a pencil, a guitar, and my digital recorder; my intent was to create charts and a demo in order to more easily teach my opus to the rest of the band.

It had been a while since I’d last used the recorder and the batteries were, of course, deader than Abel after his last disagreement with Cain.

At the nearby super-store, I trudged the requisite half-mile to the electronics department and picked up a pack of triple-A’s. On my way back to the checkout counter, my song came over the store’s Muzak system.

MY song! The lyrics were different, but that tune … that tune was MINE!

Well, as it turns out, that tune was not mine; it was Sting’s. The song, as I later learned, is called “Fields of Gold,” and was released by the former Police front-man in 1993. At some point I must have heard it, though I swear, I don’t remember hearing it.

I had put three months work into re-writing somebody else’s song. Worse still, Sting’s lyrics were a lot better than mine. A lot.

To say I was bummed out would be an understatement. But it could be worse. I do have another song in the hopper, and it really has potential. It’s a cute, little number. About an octopus and his under-sea garden.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available in eBook format on Amazon.com, or in paperback at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com.

So who is ‘Sweet Annie,’ really?

I’ve gotten a lot of reader mail recently from folks wanting to know more about Sweet Annie. Guys, especially, seem interested in whether she’s really as wonderful as I make her out to be in this column.

The short answer is: yes.

She’s got the brains of Carl Sagan, the patience of Job, the looks of Michelle Pfeiffer, the athletic prowess of Maria Sharapova and — despite all this and against all odds — she likes me. That last one sometimes takes some doing, I think, but she manages it.

Does she have her faults? Oh, you bet. Her hair, first thing in the morning, looks like the aftermath of an explosion in a confetti factory. When you’re a passenger in her car, it’s best to simply close your eyes, shut your mouth, and remember she has somehow managed to operate a vehicle for many years without killing herself or anyone else. Her rendition of “These Boots Are Made for Walking” can pretty much clear a karaoke bar.

But as faults go, these are fairly minor. My own tend to be far more odious; I am, at various times, impatient, grumpy, oblivious, inconsiderate, boring, and moderately inebriated (which is when the “boring” thing is most apt to occur). Also, my own hair first thing in the morning is never going to win any Vidal Sassoon “natural beauty” awards.

Annie and I have been together almost three years, which is one year too long. Or maybe it would be better to say we got together one year too soon. I just wasn’t ready for her.

My wife, The Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor, had only months earlier dumped me with extreme prejudice, and I was still in that muttonheaded, tempestuous limbo most guys in that situation experience. What’s wrong with me? How come she doesn’t love me? What could I have done differently? If I kill her and make it look like an accident will the police still suspect me?

I was your typical post-divorce basket case.

Into this dark corner Annie shed a little light. I clung to her like a drowning man to a life preserver. But, because of the basket case thing, I also was frequently a colossal jerk.

Annie, who really is quite beautiful (after she fixes her hair), was accustomed to better treatment from the men in her life. So we quarreled. I’d get mad, storm out, go somewhere and pout; basically act like a twit.

A few weeks or months later, one of us would make a conciliatory overture and we’d be back together. The process would repeat. Then repeat again. It was exhausting.

But eventually the rough edges wore away. I got over my previous relationship. I began to appreciate Annie for who she was, not for who I wanted her to be.

These days, I guess it would be safe to say I’m crazy about her. I miss her when she’s not around. There’s nobody I would rather spend time with. I won’t say she’s my whole world, but she’s damn close.

Now, if she could only learn to drive and do something about that hair.  (And I was only kidding about that karaoke thing; her singing isn’t that bad.)

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available in eBook format on Amazon.com, or in paperback at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com.

mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com

(616) 548-8273

Reader letters; a bridge to somewhere

I barely remember writing my last couple columns, the essays relating my recent hospital stay, surgery and new, Draconian food restrictions. For the past few weeks, I’ve been stoned outta my gourd on hydromorphone hydrochloride and/or acetaminophen and hydrocodone, known on the street as Dilauded and Vicodin.

If you’re interested in a drug-dependent lifestyle in which nothing bothers you at all, I highly recommend either. If you want to be able to remember your life (or live a long one) then they’re probably not the drugs for you. Frankly, I’ve grown tired of seeing the world through Frank Zappa’s granny glasses and am, as of this morning, not taking anything despite the fact I feel as if I’ve gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson in his prime.

I figure it’s time to cowboy up and face the pain like a man. Which is to say, curl up in the fetal position and pray Sweet Annie hasn’t yet grown tired of waiting on me hand and foot.

At any rate, the columns I wrote while experiencing the real-life equivalent of The Magical Mystery Tour album generated a lot of reader mail. It was split fairly evenly by gender. Women wrote expressing concern over my well-being and recovery; men wrote to commiserate over the fact I must now eat healthy food instead of anything that tastes good. A sociologist might be able to glean something about the nature of the sexes from this, but not me.

Grace wrote to add her positive comments to those I made regarding my surgeon, Dr. Amparo. Grace said by the time she was through her own surgery, Amparo felt like a “good friend.” Several other readers and former Amparo patients also sang the surgeon’s praises.

Amparo’s a good doc, for sure, but I won’t know if I’ll be able to consider her a good friend until I’ve seen the bill. I like her a lot, but something tells me we’re just going to be acquaintances until the surgery’s paid off, sometime around my 83rd birthday.

Jeanie made my day with a letter saying she, too, was going to give healthier eating a go. However, she admitted the juicer she’s planning to buy might occasionally be a delivery system for rum-laced drinks rather than spinach smoothies. Jeanie also referred to me as a “cool writer,” so she’s on my Christmas card list for life.

Raymond wrote to tell me about his new, doctor-ordered “No Food Diet,” and the angst he endured while cleaning out his cupboards of every food item he ever loved. “I was in tears seeing all these treasures going down the drain,” Raymond wrote. “Red baron Pizza, Little Debbie goodies, Oreos, Nutter Butters, four bottles of kosher dills, Hormel chili, White Castle cheeseburgers, Hudsonville French vanilla ice cream, ketchup, mayo, relish, anchovies, tuna fish, ham, Ramen noodles, chips, chips, chips, dips, dips, dips, and a pizza cutter, four pizza pans, and three cases of pizza napkins.”

All I can say, Raymond, is that I feel your pain, brother.

Perhaps my favorite letter came from Doris, a 90-something sweetheart I recently interviewed for an unrelated story. Doris is one of the single coolest people I have known and if I were 40 years older, I would find a way to make her my girlfriend.

Anyway, Doris — a dyed in the Dacron feminist — suggested I use my “sick time” to write a trilogy of historical books entitled, “Women — The North American Treasure.” 

Ever the realist, she admitted I probably wouldn’t be ambitious enough to accomplish this project because, and I quote, “No one is ever as sick as a man.” Apparently, I am not Doris’ first brush with the male of the species.

My long-time nemesis, Elroy, penned a letter describing the ground chuck burgers he was grilling as I lay sucking back lime Jell-o in the hospital. His graphic description of juicy burgers, aged sharp cheddar and frosty cans of sweet, domestic beer brought tears to my eyes.

Elroy also offered to date Sweet Annie if things didn’t go well in surgery.

I’m gonna get you, Elroy.

As to all the other readers who took the time to send letters, get-well cards and emails, all I can say is thank you. I’m a big, whiny crybaby when it comes to pain (and pretty much everything else). Your missives brightened up what might otherwise have been a difficult time for me.

Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com

Hospitals are too much fun to waste on the sick

You might expect it to be unpleasant; a place where people shoot you full of drugs and remove your innards. I’ve got to admit, it sounds unpleasant; not the sort of destination one would choose for a first date.

And yet my visit last week to Spectrum Health in Greenville was, despite lots of drugs and the removal of at least one organ I’d grown fond of, kinda nice.

Oh, sure, when I first slogged my crippled carcass into the emergency room, I was in unbelievable pain. On a scale of one-to-ten, I was an 11. And a half.

Now, the ladies at admitting could have compelled me to stand there answering critical questions about my health, such as “How much money do you have in your wallet right now?” and “Which relative are you closest to, in case we have to kidnap someone in order to force you to pay your bill on time?”

They didn’t do that. Instead, they slapped me on a gurney, gave me something for the pain and hooked me up to several little machines that pinged in a comforting manner to assure me I had not yet died. Within minutes, I was feeling better; not good, but better.

In no time, a pretty young P.A., Jennifer, was poking and prodding, asking questions and answering them. It took her five minutes to hazard a guess as to what was wrong with me; an ultrasound and other testing later proved her right.

Turns out my gall bladder was roughly the size of Donald Trump’s combover, more inflamed than the throat of Vesuvius, and long overdue for extraction. This task fell to Dr. Amparo. A gifted surgeon, Amparo’s schedule was already crowded, but she took my case on anyway, and didn’t give short shrift to assuaging my irrational fears before expertly removing the offending organ.

A couple days later, I was discharged and am now recuperating nicely.

Along the way I met nurses Marsha, Jan, Tim, Amber, Amy, Holly and Annie. I met Jacob, a nurse’s aide and one of the most professional and friendly young guys I’ve ever spoken with. If he ever runs for president, he’s got my vote, though his haircut suggests he may be a Republican. Anesthesiologist, Dr. Weaver and patient access specialist, Jamie also crossed my path. 

That’s a lot of folks; you would think at least one or two of ‘em would be jerks, especially considering they were forced to deal, hour after hour, with a whiny crybaby (ahem, me). But nope. Every single one of them was Tony the Tiger “Grrrreeeat!”

Even the girl who came around to discuss my bill (which nearly sent me into a coma) was kind, considerate, professional and willing to explain repeatedly that, yes, the decimal point actually WAS supposed to be that far to the right.

At any rate, despite my reason for being there, my stay at the hospital was, all-in-all, a pretty good time. So much so, in fact, that I’m considering a new business venture; hospitals for the well; wellspitals.

Wellspitals would offer all the amenities of a traditional hospital — beds that adjust electrically, wall-mounted TV, room service, legal drugs, friendly, helpful staff — but all geared toward clients who are feeling just fine.

Scheduled activities would still consist exclusively of laying around in bed while others wait on you. Every so often, you might be asked to shuffle around the hallways for a minute, just to keep your lungs clear. Otherwise, it’s all loafing, sleeping and lollygagging. I especially like the lollygagging. 

I figure that, by eliminating the medical care part of the deal, I’ll be able to keep prices fairly low, at least when compared with a traditional hospital.

I figure, why should sick people have all the fun? Get your reservations in now. Most major insurers honored.

Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I just can’t come to terms with vegetables

It has been a long time since I’ve had to think about food. For the past four decades, if I was hungry, I ate. Usually from one of the four Mike Taylor-approved food groups: burritos, burgers, steaks, or deep-fried fish and chips. As to beverages, there was only one and it came out of a keg.

Over the years, I heard rumors of other types of food, foods not part of my regular diet. Sweet Annie, calls them “vegetables.” There also are “fruits” and “grains.” Apparently, they come in several different colors and sizes and grow right out of the ground!

She eats a lot of them and always has. Annie claims this is one reason why — though she is almost as old as me — she maintains the physique of a prima ballerina, while I look a lot like John Belushi might have looked by now, had he lived and lived hard.

But I figured that since Annie loves me “just the way I am” (or claims to) it didn’t matter. I mean, I’m old as dirt and don’t really care anymore how pretty I look in a swimsuit. 

That was how I felt before landing in the emergency room.

As incredible as it seems, a diet comprised exclusively of burritos, burgers, steaks, and deep-fried fish and chips is not — and here’s another word with which I was previously unfamiliar — “healthy.”

It turns out that 30 years on the Mike Taylor Eat Whatever the Hell You Want Diet (which WAS going to be the title of my cookbook when I got around to it) is the kiss of death. Everything that could be wrong with me, was.

Blood pressure, high; cholesterol, through the roof; pancreas (whatever that is), struggling; gall bladder (another “mystery organ”), kaput. According to the emergency room doc, my next Happy Meal might well be my last meal.

My only option, assuming I didn’t want to eat my way quietly into the halls of Valhalla, was to change my habits. Drastically. Overnight. Permanently.

Since I’m afraid to die (you would be too, had you lived the life I have and possessed even a rudimentary belief in an afterlife) I have chosen to eat healthy. Sadly, I have no idea how to do this.

The doctor told me what I can’t have; basically, anything from my now-cancelled cook book, as well as salt, butter, sour cream, cheese, whole milk, vegetable oil…blah, blah, blah, the list goes on forever!

What he didn’t tell me was what I COULD eat.

All he said was, “whole foods.” I don’t think he meant whole burritos or whole Chinese buffets.

Annie again came to the rescue. To my apartment she delivered bag after bag of food that looks better suited to raising a young horse than creating a meal for a grown man. My cupboards now bulge with things like “oats” and “bran” and “wheat germ.” I believe there may be some lawn clippings in there as well.

I don’t know how to cook food like this! I assume oats aren’t meant to be deep fried. And have you ever tried to grill bran? You can’t!

In the past week, I have eaten (many of these things for the first time): asparagus, blackberries, strawberries, sweet potatoes (NOT the kind they serve at Applebee’s, with all the honey butter, brown sugar and other sublime wonderfulness on ‘em, but just plain, nuked, orange spuds), oatmeal, Brussels sprouts, and yogurt.

And beer? Ah, beer is just a sweet memory.

I…I’m sorry, I can’t continue writing this. It’s too hard to see my keyboard through the tears.

Mike Taylor’s eBook, “Looking at the Pint Half Full” is available at Amazon.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.