Can a Kermit boy really make you disappear?

You want proof the world has gone nuts? I got it. 

Recently in the town of Kermit, Texas (named, I assume, after the world's most famous frog) a fourth grade kid was booted out of school for bullying; he threatened to make one of his classmates disappear.

Not "disappear" like some capo in a Godfather movie: "Hey Louie! I needs ya ta make da head of da Gambino family disappear." What he said was, "Hey Joey, I'm wearing the One Ring to Rule Them All and I'm going to use it to turn you invisible" (more or less).

That's right. The kid threatened his buddy with the altogether fictional ring featured in the "Lord of the Rings" books and movies. The fourth grader in question apparently has delusions of Frodo-esque grandeur; this makes him a nerd, not a bully.

Bullies punch you in the face, they don't threaten you with magical powers. At least not the bullies from my old neighborhood.

In fact, too much talk of magical powers was a sure way to get your nose rearranged back when I was in fourth grade. Pixies, leprechauns, wood nymphs and other mythical woodland folk were discouraged.

Yeah, yeah, I know it's a different world now. We live in a "zero tolerance" society in which every word, every action, every whispered utterance, must be carefully scrutinized, analyzed, categorized and sanitized to make sure it could never, ever, under any circumstances, offend the delicate sensibilities of even the most fragile nitwit.

It's enough to make me punch somebody. But I won't. Because I'm not a bully. Also, I hate it when people punch me back, as they have been known to do on occasion. I have a pretty face and I want to keep it that way.

I'm not above being riled by the ridiculousness of it all, however. I mean ... suspended from school for telling a friend you're going to use your magical powers on him?

Gimme a break.

I have to wonder if the school superintendent — Bill Boyd — understands that the Ring of Power is make-believe? Is he worried this fourth grade Hobbit will actually make good on his threat? Does Boyd have religious objections to The Dark Lord Sauron's spirit being paraded through the cafeteria on the ring finger of a nine-year-old? Is he afraid an army of angry orcs will come snarling into his office intent on beheading administrators first and asking questions later?

This superintendent is simply not thinking this thing through. 

Any fourth grade boy with the power of invisibility is going to use it to sneak out of math class, or maybe see what really happens in the girl's bathroom. He's not going to be turning his friends into wraiths. 

Madness! Where will it end? How long before some little girl lands in detention for pointing her glitter-encrusted princess wand at an art teacher in an attempt to transform her into a toad? Sheesh!

Still, it's possible I'm being too hard on Mr. Boyd. When you hail from a town named for a fictional frog, maybe it's best to err on the side of caution.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

C-3PO is gunning for my job

For once, I’m happy to be a geezer. Oh, I miss the smokin’ hot bod of my youth (I’m pretending here that there was a time in which I had one); I’m not thrilled about seeing grey in my beard; I wish I didn’t know what blood pressure medication is.

But still, I’m glad to be old.

Why? Because I’ve spent the last 30 years or so doing a job I love. Writing. I never get tired of putting words on paper. It’s fun and unlike a lot of other things in my life, I don’t stink at it.

In a handful of years (maybe two hands-full) I’ll retire from the newspaper business. But I’ll never stop writing. 

Younger writers probably will. Because robots will be taking their jobs.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.

Nearly ten years ago, some wise-guy techie type came up with a computer program that wrote sports stories. I know this because the program was sometimes used at the newspaper I was working at back then.

All you had to do was plug in scores and a couple quotes from the coach and — shazam! — two seconds later you had a sports story which, though uninspired, was readable.

I was uncomfortable with this in much the same way I might be uncomfortable sharing an office with a dog that sometimes nips. But since I don’t write sports — due to an ignorance of same that is nothing short of legendary — I mostly ignored it.

This, it turns out, was like Poland ignoring Germany just prior to WWII. 

Six months ago, the Associated Press began using a program created by a company called Automated Insights to write many of its financial pieces. I’m not sure how it works, but the system can, theoretically, produce 2,000 articles PER SECOND!

I can’t do half that, and I’m a fairly fast typist. For a human.

The stories, according to the article, are … passable. Not surprisingly, they are less than masterly. But how inspired can a story about stock prices be, anyway?

I know that when I can’t sleep all I have to do is think about the front page of the Wall Street Journal and … zzzzzzzz.

So far, the robots haven’t figured out how to write feature pieces; those “human interest” stories that are my personal bread and butter. But it’s only a matter of time.

One day soon, R2D2 going to be sitting down in front of a laptop and hammering out prose that reads like James Thurber or, at the very least, Mike Taylor.

And that’s the day I’ll be out on my ear, forced at last to get a real job, one in which I’m expected to do real work.

So. I’m hoping that day is at least a handful — or two hands-full — of years away.

After I’ve retired, I won’t care what happens. I’m concerned about the fates of my younger co-workers, sure, but not as concerned as I am about my own skin.

The article I read about this stated emphatically that “no human jobs would be lost” over the deal. 

Then again, I’m pretty sure the article was written by a robot.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

If the clothes make the man, I’m in trouble

I was introduced to gainful employment at age 13 when my dad made me take a job as a paperboy. These days I write for the newspapers (which is a lot easier on the back and also pays slightly better). 

In between, I worked a lot of jobs. I’ve eked out a living as a janitor, substitute teacher, foundry worker, taco maker, babysitter, hi-lo driver, telemarketer, soldier, dishwasher, personnel director, musician, commercial artist, mail sorter, wedding photographer, reporter, editor, burger flipper, and international jewel thief.

OK, I made that last one up.

Point is, I’ve had a diverse work life. Most of the jobs I’ve held over the years I’ve liked. Except for the telemarketer gig; that one is every bit as terrible as you imagine it would be.

I think I’ve had this many jobs for the same reason I’ve had so many wives: I have a tough time taking constructive criticism. Or non-constructive criticism. Or … look, just say only nice things about me and we’ll get along fine.

Some of my jobs required brains, some talent, some a unique skill set. Others required none of these things.

To some jobs I wore a uniform, some a suit, some a paper hat and plastic name tag.

But the easiest job I ever had required no clothing at all. In fact, no clothing was the requirement.

Back when I was still in school I worked as a model for a nude drawing class. Now, if a mental picture is forming and you’re starting to feel mildly nauseous, remember, this was loooong ago. Beer and Mexican food had yet to transform my body into the nightmarish, manatee-esque horror it is today.

Admittedly, even in my prime nobody mistook me for Will Smith in “Independence Day,” but the woman who taught the class assured me she was looking for “real” people with real bodies to model for her students.

I was young, broke and fancied myself to be something of a free-spirited Bohemian. I needed the twenty bucks and wasn’t particularly terrified at the notion of parading my birthday suit into a room full of strangers. All in the name of art, of course.

The reality turned out to be somewhat different. The first thing I learned is they heat the studio (located in the basement of the old Grand Rapids Art Museum) to a temperature comfortable to people wearing clothing. Those of us with none were soon puckered and shivering.

Also, sitting or standing stock still for 25 minutes at a stretch is tougher than you think, particularly when you’re slowly frosting into a 19-year-old nudie-sickle.

The real downer, though, comes when you see the manner in which the students have “interpreted” your beloved physique. Let’s just say not all those interpretations were flattering and few of the students will ever be mistaken for Michelangelo.

To be fair, I wasn’t exactly presenting them with “David” material. (Feel free to Google it if you’re missing some of the artsy-fartsy references here.)

I only modeled nude that one time, but it’s good to know I have something to fall back on should the writing thing not pan out.

Catch Mike Taylor’s Reality Check radio program every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM, m106.3 on your FM dial.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273