The Hug-o-porium is now open for business

As regular readers of this column know (Hi, Carrie and Dave!) I’m always looking for some new way to make enough easy money that I never have to work again. I know, I know, I don’t work all that hard now, but still, not having to work at all would be even better.

I was built — emotionally, intellectually and physically — to experience a pampered, uneventful life of leisure, indulgence and extravagance. I would be immensely happy to while away my days as a trust fund baby, living off the fruits of someone else’s hard work and sacrifice; preferably an uncle who died young, leaving me the bulk of his estate, including a nice castle in England and a big yacht anchored off the coast of Belize. 

I do have a rich uncle, one I haven’t seen since I was a little kid, but he steadfastly refuses to die and even if he did he has kids of his own that will undoubtedly inherit his loot.

There might have been a time, when I was still young and marginally attractive, that I could have enticed a rich widow to marry me, but rich widows are tough to come by in my social circle. Rich widows, it turns out, do not hang out at roadside bars, pawn shops or the third floor walk-up apartments of rock and roll drummers.

Not that it matters. These days, I’m too old and ugly to attract a rich widow, or even a widow with a decent 401K. I might be able to attract a poor widow, but that would do little to advance my goal of living a life of leisure, so what’s the point.

Over the years I’ve come up with several get rich quick schemes, but so far, none have panned out. The reasons for my failures differ from scheme to scheme; some required work, which is what I’m trying to avoid in the first place; other ideas were stolen before I had a chance to implement them (curse you, Pet Rock guy!); and some I foolishly abandoned because they simply seemed too ludicrous to succeed (the career arc of Lady Gaga, for instance).

But now I think I’ve finally found the golden egg, that one, perfect stratagem that’s going to rocket my financial portfolio into that rarified ionosphere shared by guys like Bill Gates and the dude who invented the Ginsu knife.

It’s hugs.

That’s right, hugs, the kind you give your grandchildren or your best buddy after you’ve had too many beers. Plain, old hugs. Nothing erotic, nothing weird; just hugs.

“Now, wait a minute,” you may say. “Hugs are free.”

To which I say: they are … now. For centuries, people have just been giving hugs away, never once stopping to consider their potential monetary value. Until recently, that is.

Administrators at a Kindergarten in China’s Jiangdu District recently figured out that students who receive regular hugs tend to do better academically than do kids who get none. Now, being relatively new to capitalism, the Jiangdu administrators are willing to explore all money-making options.

So they started charging for hugs.

I kid you not. Parents worried about the math scores of their son or daughter may now pay a $12.80 monthly “hugging fee,” which covers two hugs daily, delivered by a teacher who promises to at least appear sincere and caring. The kids whose parents are too cheap to shell out the cash can hug themselves as they slowly circle the academic drain.

Teachers say the hugging program creates a “good mood” for learning, at least for the kids getting the hugs. If the hugless kids don’t like it, they’re free to quit school and get a job in a Shanghai sneaker factory.

This all seems morally ambiguous, at best, but that’s never stopped me before. So, without further ado, I now announce the Grand Opening of Mike Taylor’s Hug-o-porium Deluxe! For only one buck, I will hug you.

The actual length of the hug may vary depending on whether you are an overweight, smelly guy in need of a shave, or a nubile, Swedish stewardess, but rest assured, the hug delivered will be sincere, caring and filled with the genuine empathy that only Mike Taylor’s Hug-o-porium Deluxe can supply.

Visa and Master Card accepted at most locations.

Contact Mike at mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com or call (616) 548-8273.

If ignorance is bliss, then I’m generally happy

Ignorance is bliss. There’s a lot of truth in that statement, but, as I recently learned, ignorance is bliss only if one remains ignorant indefinitely.

The moment you wise up, all previous incidences of ignorance come back to haunt you and you’re worse off than you would have been had you never been ignorant in the first place. This is the kind of realization that comes to you one way only: The hard way. 

I received my harsh slap of reality shortly after New Year’s Eve, when I went to download to my laptop the digital photos I had taken at the party. Viewing them on the big screen, I couldn’t help notice they bore almost no resemblance to the actual event, not as I remembered it, at any rate.

Let me back up a sec. Early on New Year’s Eve, Sweet Annie and I were at my place getting dressed for the party. This was, for Annie, the culmination of four weeks of shopping, circumspect planning, color matching, and extensive consultation with her daughters and myriad fashion experts at Macy’s.

For me, it was a matter of looking in the closet to see if anything was A) clean, or B) if not clean, at least not inordinately smelly.

I lucked out, kind of. One of my black sports jackets was mostly clean, say 87 percent, which puts it well within the range of what’s considered “acceptable” on the Man Scale. I also had a pair of slacks in there, still on a hangar! They were of a different fabric than the jacket, but they were black, so, close enough.

The only speed bump was the lack of a nice dress shirt. Nothing white, nothing black. (These are the only two colors I trust myself to “match” when it comes to fashion.) The only clean shirts I had handy were plaid. I chose the deepest blue of the lot, hoping it would be dark enough at the club that nobody would notice it wasn’t black.

My good dress shoes were left in storage in Detroit when I moved here nine months ago and I still haven’t picked them up. But I had a pair of black cowboy boots handy. They hurt my feet and made my slacks look a little short, but by this point, I just wanted to be dressed and on my way.

Annie was gussying up in another room. I’ve never actually seen her getting ready for date night, but I assume there’s some sort of alchemy or other magical process involved because she always emerges looking like Michelle Pfeiffer in her prime, which is way too good for me but I won’t point this out to her if you don’t.

“Do I look alright?” she asked.

“Mrbrl fdlerich,” I said, unable to articulate clearly due to the slackness of my jaw and the way my tongue was hanging out.

“How about me?” I asked when I’d regained some motor control. “Does this go together?”

Now, in addition to being real purdy, Annie is kind-hearted, to a fault, some might say.

“You look great,” she lied.

We had fun at the party. At the time, I thought we were really styling; Annie in her clingy, indigo dress, me in my black, thrown-together, sorta suit. A younger, hipper version of Bogie and Bacall. Or maybe an older, less hip, version of Brad and Angelina.

Either way, I figured we were looking good.

Then I saw the photos. It turns out I was half right. In all the pics, Annie looks like a runway model; slim, elegant, the Socratic ideal of feminine refinement and sophistication.

And there, lurking next to her, troll-like, is me. Dressed in the plaid shirt, the high-water slacks, the scuffed-up cowboy boots. Jim Neighbors in his “Gomer” days. The president of the chess club at Senior Prom.

Not Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, after all, but Dianne Keaton and Woody Allen. Beauty and the Beast.

“Why in the name of all that’s holy, did you let me leave the house looking like that?” I accused. “Why didn’t you tell me the shirt didn’t match, that my pants were too short, that my boots were scuffed? Why, Annie, why?”

“Because I love you,” she said.

This sort of smart-alecky answer is just like her.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to love me if I didn’t look like a yutz?” I countered. For this, she had no answer.

So we agreed that, sometime next month, we’ll drive out to 28th Street and pick out a new “Sunday go to meetin’” suit. Annie will pick it out. I’ll pay for it.

And I will wear it when we go out next New Year’s Eve. 

Of course, had it not been for those pictures, the purchase of a new suit would not have been necessary. Ignorance is not only bliss, it turns out, it’s cheaper than knowing the truth.

Buy my book, dammit!!  I'm not getting any younger and have to find a way to get rich without working hard before I get too old to enjoy it!!  Click the link at left or visit Robbin's Book List in Greenville, where you can pick up a paperback copy for under eight bucks!  Whatta deal!

My track record is not good when it comes to parents

Traditionally, I’ve had problems with the parents of girls I date. It started in fourth grade, when I got caught holding hands with Genevieve Castinetta and only began to abate as I approached my current age. These days, the parents of most girls I date are dead.

I would never wish anyone dead, but I have to admit, the fewer girlfriend’s parents there are in the world, the fewer people there are that hate my stinking guts.

I’m thinking about this at the moment because of the lunch I had this past weekend with my ex-wife three times removed (meaning, she’s three exes back in the unhappy queue of otherwise intelligent women who decided, at some point, that I would make a good husband).

Linda’s a wonderful woman and we’ve remained friends over the years, in part because of the two (now grown) children we share. Having lunch together gave us a chance to catch up on the kids’ problems, her husband’s recent surgery, my recent surgery ... the kind of stuff old people talk about when they haven’t seen each other for a while.

Eventually the conversation turned to Sweet Annie, my honey for the past four years or so.

Linda, who is familiar with my problem getting along with parents, asked the obvious question.

“How’s her dad like you?”

“We get along,” I said. “He’s a tough, old Irishman. I like him.” Which is true; he is and I do.

“Yeah, but does HE like YOU?” Linda pressed.

“Well … better than most,” I admitted. “He puts up with me.”

Linda nodded knowingly. She didn’t say anything more about it, but I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking of the day, 35 years ago, that I met her mother.

Linda and I had only known each other a week or so. We met at a party, went to the beach together the next day, and decided that same evening to get married, which we did, exactly three weeks later. 

I was very young and impulsive. I’m not sure what Linda’s excuse was.

Her mother and step-father lived in Florida. When Edna and Al (fake names) heard of our impending nuptials, they drove straight through to Michigan to meet the somewhat dazed and confused groom-to-be (me).

They were waiting at Linda’s apartment when I arrived there from work. Edna and Al both seemed like nice folks; all smiles and congratulations, happy to be meeting the guy that was marrying their beautiful daughter. It was the first time I could remember a girl’s parents liking me, or even pretending to.

Alas, the warm, fuzzy feeling was not to last.

Leaning against the dining room wall, in a heavy, expensive frame, was one of the worst paintings I had ever seen. It had not been there that morning. 

It might have been a still life, but it was impossible to tell for sure. The composition was terrible, the form and style lamentable. The technique reminiscent of something a third-grader might resort to if he was in a big hurry to get to recess.

It was awful in every way.

“Well, what do you think of it?” Al asked, winking slyly.

Now, in my defense, I was at the time working as a commercial artist for a large publishing house. Before that, I had for years studied art in high school and college. I knew something about the subject, or thought I did.

I assumed — as any sane person might — that Al had purchased the painting at a garage sale and dragged it here as a joke of some sort. His sly wink seemed to confirm this supposition.

So. For the next three minutes, I proceeded to explain, in excruciating detail, exactly why this painting was horrific beyond all understanding.

If I had been half as smart about people as I was about art, I might have noticed the faces of those around me: Linda’s, stunned; Edna’s, crestfallen; Al’s, furious.

“…and that is why this is the worst paining I’ve ever seen,” I finished proudly, certain I had impressed my soon-to-be in-laws with my critical pontification.

It was at this point I noticed nobody looked particularly impressed.

“Edna painted that for you,” Al rumbled slowly, “as a wedding present.” 

Linda and I were married two weeks later and, despite the fact I was barely old enough to shave, we managed to stay together for five years. Edna and Al went back to Florida with the certain knowledge their daughter had thrown her life away on a fool.

In the long decades since, I have grown a little wiser. Not a lot, but a little.

Still, I’m kind of glad Sweet Annie’s dad doesn’t paint.

Contact Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I’m another year older, and maybe, a little wiser

The party was going full tilt New Year’s Eve. Great food, dry martinis, amazing band playing songs I actually recognized, beautiful woman by my side, good friends across the table.

Sweet Annie glistened and glowed in her New Year’s Eve regalia; no Hollywood superstar strutting the red carpet at the Oscars has ever shone brighter.

It should have been an evening for the record books.

Instead, I found myself repeatedly checking my watch and waiting impatiently for the ball to drop so I could honk my little noisemaker, guzzle my champagne, and head home where I could change into sweats and finish reading Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.”

There was no logical reason for me to be having anything other than a fabulous time. Yet … I was kinda bored.

For one thing, it was too loud to carry on anything resembling a normal conversation. I used to LIKE my parties loud. The louder the better. As recently as a few years ago, if my ears weren’t ringing by the time a wing-ding broke up, I considered the evening a wash.

What, I wondered, had changed? Here I sat with Annie, my friend, Calvin and his girlfriend, Shirley — three of the most interesting people I know — and communication was possible only through lip reading, wild gesticulation and the deployment of those small flags they use to guide jets onto aircraft carriers.

Why did this suddenly matter? I have no idea. 

But, for Annie’s sake, I did my best to appear as though I was having a good time. I danced (with all the rhythm and natural grace of a rabid ferret on powerful amphetamines), I laughed, I lustily sounded my noisemaker.

Sweet Annie had put a lot of time and effort into gussying up for the event — going so far as to buy a new gown and matching shoes — and I wasn’t about to ruin her fun by being a party-pooper. 

And, in truth, I really was having an OK time, kind of. It’s just, I dunno, I would have preferred to be home with my feet up, watching an old Bing Crosby movie or finishing the Dickens. Earlier in the month I was excited by the possibility of the world ending, but since that didn’t happen, the passing of 2012 and the start of 2013 meant nothing to me.

I’ve seen a lot of non-apocalypse years come and go and the novelty has pretty much worn off.

Dick Clark is as dead as Guy Lombardo, so I have no idea who hosted this year’s feté in Times Square, but the televised ball finally did drop, everybody sang “Auld Lang Syne,” I kissed Annie, Calvin kissed Shirley, other couples around the room kissed, we all downed our complimentary bubbly and the band went on break in order to be first in line for the free midnight hor’deurves. 

“Are you having fun, baby?” Annie asked. Other women have called me “baby” over the years, but for some reason when Annie does it my knees get a little wobbly and I have a hard time breathing right.

“Um, sure,” I lied. Like I said, I wasn’t going to be a party-pooper and drag my sweetie away from what, for her, was obviously a fabulous, glamorous time.

But all parties must end and this one did, too. We shuffled our uncomfortable, shiny shoes over the icy parking lot and — breath billowing in white gusts — shivered into the waiting car.

Annie was quiet for a few miles, then said, “Well, that was fun.”

“You bet,” I said.

She was quiet a while longer. “I know you love stuff like that,” she ventured.

“Well … sure,” I said.

“Oh, yes, me too, me too,” she said, hurriedly. Then, tentatively, “But maybe next year, we could just stay home or have a couple friends over for a few drinks or something.”

We talked. Turns out Annie had been putting on a show of having a great time for my sake while I was doing the same for hers. Both of us would much rather have been ringing in the New Year at home, fireside, over a nice glass of Jameson and a game of Scrabble.

I guess no matter how many New Years you witness, you’re never too old to learn something new.

Mike’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available from Robbins Book List in Greenville and in ebook format at Amazon.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

If you see me in a wheelchair, then see me

Don’t you hate it when there’s something you’ve always wanted to do, and then, when you finally do it, the experience turns out to be not so great after all? I’m dealing with just that sort of disappointment right now.

It’s because of my foot troubles, which I’ve been having for the past week or so. My right foot has an “issue.” 

There was a time my feet were just something I walked on, usually to and from somewhere fun, like the beach or a nice, quiet pub. They didn’t bother me and — aside from making them carry me around — I didn’t bother them.

But now that I’m a geezer, my feet, along with other parts of my wrinkly, sagging excuse for a body, are turning against me. After decades of being taken for granted, they now command attention, consideration, special care.

My extremities are turning into the physiological equivalent of a needy girlfriend. Soon they’ll be demanding flowers and late night “watcha dooooin’?” phone calls.

At any rate, it’s my right foot that’s currently giving me all the grief. I spent the holidays on the sofa with my bothersome foot propped on a pillow, praying to all that’s holy that no rampaging grandkid would drop a new Tonka truck on my throbbing tootsie.

Because I’ve had this problem before — though never this severely — I own an inflatable boot/cast thingie. I’ve been wearing this more or less non-stop since the foot began hurting again. It helps, but there’s no way I can walk unassisted. 

My neighbor loaned me some crutches, which are very helpful over short distances. Anything more than a brisk strut around the living room, however, requires more creative mobility options.

So it was that I found myself this past weekend at a major shopping establishment. I live alone and I HAD to be there; if I don’t pick up wrapping paper and Scotch tape, the presents remain unwrapped, and I take Christmas very seriously.

This particular store, I knew, provides electric wheelchair shopping carts. I have ALWAYS wanted to play with one of these. I mean, I know they’re intended for folks with real mobility issues, but they LOOK like little go carts, the sort my parents could never afford when I was a kid.

Though I’m fairly agile on the crutches, I made a big, clumsy show of hobbling into the store, the look of abject pain on my face more than enough, I thought, to convince the greeter lady I needed to borrow a set of electric wheels. I added a few moans, groans and breathless grunts to the effort, just in case.

The greeter may have rolled her eyes a bit, I can’t be sure, but she let me take one of the electric carts.

The first thing I noticed: They don’t go fast enough. Not by a long shot.

I could WALK faster than one of those carts. Or rather, I could, before my foot decided to go rogue on me.

Still, I decided to make the best of it. Humming “Born to be Wild” under my breath, I cruised past the tomatoes and deli cookies. I dodged toddling kids and soccer moms, little old ladies squeezing cantaloupe, young marrieds trying to decide between the good whiskey and the cheap stuff for their holiday festivities.

The next thing I noticed: People don’t look at you when you’re in a wheelchair. It’s like their eyes just sort of glide past the space you’re in without registering your presence. 

Now, being new to gimp-dom, I understand what’s going on here. People don’t want to offend by staring. They are naturally curious as to why an otherwise strapping example of virile masculinity (ahem, me) is driving a cart more commonly associated with octogenarian widows who own too many cats.

But they can’t ask. It’s rude. So, instead, they just don’t see you. It’s unnerving, like being a ghost.

Also, from chair-level, belt buckles become a big part of your life. You’re shorter than everyone. It’s uncomfortably like being a kid again.

It took about ten minutes in that chair before I began feeling insecure, vulnerable and left out, separated from that portion of society capable of maintaining a vertical orientation.

I don’t know how guys like Stephen Hawking and Franklin Roosevelt do it; maintain their sense of self-worth, I mean.

By the time I finished shopping and returned my chair to the front of the store, where an octogenarian with (probably) too many cats was waiting to take possession, I felt invisible and unimportant.

This, then, I thought, is what it’s like to be handicapped; what it’s like to drive the electric shopping cart. Not only NOT fun, but quite the opposite. 

Then, as I remounted my crutches and hobbled back to my waiting car, I realized I don’t know AT ALL what it’s like to be handicapped. In a few days, a week at most, my foot will be healed. I’ll be able to jog, go snow-shoeing, run, if I want to. 

I’ll be able to walk.

Most of the folks with cars parked in the handicap spaces can’t say that.

So. I will not complain when you wheelchair guys get all the good parking spots. I will not listen kindly to business owners who gripe about the cost of putting in wheelchair ramps. I will not sigh loudly when your chair momentarily gets between me and the beer aisle.

What I WILL do is this: When we pass on the street, in the grocery, wherever … when we do that, I will see you.

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