I’m ready for my robot chauffeur

I’ve hated driving since the day I received my license. Unlike most teenage boys, I didn’t spend the night before my 16th birthday sleeping in the backseat of my parents’ Country Squire station wagon, waiting for that magic moment when I became street legal.

I enjoyed driving for a day or two, because mobility equalled freedom. Freedom to get away from my crazy family for a few hours, freedom to leave the neighborhood, freedom to introduce my girlfriend, Dianne, to the wonders to be found on deserted country two-tracks.

But the thrill didn’t last. Well, maybe that’s not true with regard to Dianne and the two-track … but every other aspect of driving soon grew tedious.

Part of it early on had to do with the car I was driving, a 1964 Beetle that needed to be push-started every morning.

A string of equally luxurious automobiles came after the bug. Most of the time I could have afforded something better, but I just didn’t care enough about my ride to spend the money.

I might have invested in a vehicle with more paint than rust, but I sang in a rock & roll band and therefore didn’t need a cool car to get girls. So instead I spent the money on leather pants and new guitars (this was the ‘70s, remember). 

Long trips, even during times I owned nice cars, were nightmare-city for me. The idea of being cooped up behind the wheel of a vehicle just scares the bejeebers out of me.

It’s not that I’m especially claustrophobic (though I am), it’s that I hate paying attention to anything for extended periods of time. This lack of attentiveness was my bane in ninth-grade algebra class and has been a problem for me as a motorist my whole life.

My mind wanders. I miss freeway exits, the occasional stop sign, guardrails along steep mountain passes. My highway speed — when I’m not using cruise control — fluctuates from 32 mph to 80.

I am a menace.

Which is why I’m so geeked by the idea of self-driving cars. I keep reading about them and with every article I read, I get more excited. Several major car companies are testing them, as is Google. Most of the testing is going on in California, apparently; I’m not sure why. 

As I understand it, there have been a few accidents, but none the fault of the self-driving technology. It’s been human error. Humans like me.

Frankly, my robot chauffeur can’t be delivered soon enough. I’m more than ready to stretch out in the backseat, put my feet up and watch the countryside roll by while Robbie does the driving.

My only regret is the technology didn’t come along sooner, back when I was still dating Dianne. It’s harder for cops to shine that flashlight into a moving vehicle.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Did you see the Facebook post I tweeted about my blog on my website?

I do two things for a living: 1) I write, and 2) on the weekends, I play music with my band, The Guinness Brothers. That’s it.

There was a time, not long ago, when performing these two jobs consisted of 1) writing, and 2) playing music. For me — because I love doing both these things — it was a great time to be alive.

No more.

These days both these jobs entail all sorts of busy work that has nothing to do with either writing or music. There’s so much busy work, if fact, that I barely have time to perform my “real” jobs.

In the Golden Age when the band had a gig, we played the gig, we collected our fee, we left. It was a system so simple even a musician could understand it.

Then came (cue ominous music) the Internet. 

At first, this consisted of nothing more than setting up a cheesy band website featuring a few photos, a schedule of coming shows and a little contact information. Since this was still the early days of online life, I had to teach myself HTML to build the site. I wasn’t interested in learning to write code, but I couldn’t afford to have someone else do it for me.

Then I had to set up an email account to let our “regulars” know where we were playing each week. Bothersome, but still not too time-consuming. 

Then came Facebook. All of a sudden it was imperative the band have a “presence” there, a presence that was updated at least a few times a week with “behind the scenes” photos, comments from listeners, and personal information in which no rational person could possibly be interested.

And then came Reverb Nation, where I was supposed to upload recordings of our music. And YouTube, where I was supposed to upload video of the band’s recent gigs. And Twitter, where I was supposed to upload “tweets” that show how witty and fun-loving all we band “boys” are.

Meanwhile, this whole ridiculous scenario was being mirrored in my other pursuit, writing. Writing was no longer enough; I was expected to “promote” myself on — you guessed it — Facebook, Twitter, websites and YouTube.

Then I was supposed to blog about my writing and then promote the blogging on all those same social media outlets!

Why must I do this? Because everyone else is, so I have to as well, in order to stay “competitive.”

It’s reached the point I no longer have time to produce any actual music or writing; I’m too buy promoting myself. 

With these constraints on my time, it’s unlikely I’ll ever create any music or literature worth the paper it’s written on. But I will probably be famous.

Just like everyone else.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

My rear end is NOT a billboard, thanks

I don’t know how it started; probably with a Grateful Dead concert T-shirt back in 1968. Or maybe in the ‘80s, at some mall chain store touting overpriced rags for valley girl wannabes. I really wasn’t paying attention, so I couldn’t tell you.

All I know is, one day clothing was something used to cover the your body or keep you warm, the next it was a medium for advertising the manufacturer’s product.

I got thinking about it this past weekend while visiting family in Detroit. I love my family, but sometimes there are too many of them and I need to get off by myself for a while. On Saturday, I chose one of the city’s big, honkin’ malls.

Detroit hasn’t yet received the memo about malls being a thing of the past and this one was crowded with shoppers, browsers and mothers with little kids kept under tenuous control with promises of an eventual visit to the Cinnabon kiosk.

I hate shopping and haven’t been to a mall in years. I was surprised to see how little has changed. There were fewer overly-made up girls packed into Spandex and sporting really big hair, but otherwise, the place looked about the same as it had the last time I was there in 1985.

The mall boasted more stores than I’m interested in visiting in a day (or a lifetime!) but I saw a lot of them while trying to find a Spencer’s Gifts in order to laugh at all the ridiculous junk they sell there — always a good time.

And one thing I noticed that’s changed since the ‘80s is the proliferation of stores selling clothing bearing the shop’s name. I’m not talking about the discreet, little Izod alligator or Nike “swoosh.” I’m talking about the store’s name plastered like Goodyear on a blimp over every available inch of made-in-Pakistan fabric.

There’s CBGB (which reminds me of “heebie-jeebies” for some reason), there’s a store called “Pink.” At least I think that’s the name of the store; everything in it is covered with the word. There were half-a-dozen others.

Most of them seem to cater to 13-year-old girls and older woman who really, really need to face some hard facts about time and gravity.

When did this happen? This trend toward using customers as walking billboards? 

I’ll admit I’m not only clueless with regard to fashion, I’m opposed to clothing in general. 

Were it not for winter and laws prohibiting me from doing so, I’d run around naked as a hairless lab rat 365 days a year. This despite the fact that my doing so would no doubt lead to hysterical blindness in anyone unfortunate enough to glance in my direction while I was bending over to pick up a penny.

At any rate, I’m glad there are still places you can find a T-shirt and jeans with nobody’s message on them. 

I’m a relatively large guy. If Versace wants to use my backside to advertise their clothing line, they can rent the space. 

If I charge by the yard, I should be able to retire by the end of the year.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

A rose by any other name would still prefer 'Dimitri'

"Hi, Mark. What'll ya have?" 

Julie had been saying the same thing for 25 years, every time I strolled through the doors of the Mexican restaurant she owned with her husband, Dale. She said it a lot because I ate there a lot; twice a week, at least.

Chico's was my kind of joint. Though it may have occasionally skirted to the edge of what the health department would tolerate, the food was great, the beer was cheap and the portions were behemothic. 

I had been going there since before my children, long since grown, were born. Chico's was the first restaurant my daughter was ever in. My son ate his first taco there. I had gone there on a regular basis with my first wife, my second wife, my third wife and a few girlfriends in-between.

I had celebrated birthdays there with large groups of friends. I had even been invited to join Julie's own birthday parties on two occasions and she had picked up my tab. I was more than a customer, I was a friend. 

And still, every time I walked through the door, Julie would greet me with a "Hi, Mark. What'll ya have?"

"The usual, Julie," I'd say. "And it's Mike. My name is Mike."

"Oh, right," she'd say. "Sorry." But the next time I would stop by, I'd be Mark again. Eventually, I just gave up and let Julie call me Mark. I've never been crazy about my name, anyway, though if if somebody's going to get it wrong, I'd prefer they call me Raúl or Dimitri. 

Something cool.

But to Julie, I was forever Mark.

Over the years, I watched their son, Johnny, grow from an infant to a young man and eventually become a father himself. Eventually, Julie and Dale decided they'd had enough of 15 hour days. They managed to find a buyer and they retired. I went to the big farewell party, a bittersweet experience. Sweet because the beer was free; bitter because it would be the last time it was.

I hugged Julie before leaving and told her how much I'd miss her. 

"I'll miss you, too, Mark," she said.

It was the last time I saw Julie or Dale. From what I hear, they moved back to Julie's hometown, somewhere in Mexico.

I found a new place to eat, though nobody there knew my name, be it Mike or Mark. At the new place, I was just another guy with an appetite.

Years passed. I was working at a newspaper up north and one day I got reminiscing with a co-worker on bars we had loved. This co-worker, it turned out, was Julie's niece.

"What?" I said. "Really? I loved Julie and Dale."

"Judy," said my co-worker.

"Huh?" I said.

"My aunt's name is Judy."

"Are you sure?"

She was. All those years she'd been calling me Mark, Judy had been trying to make a point and I'd missed it. It was her little joke, one that lasted 25 years.

So, wherever you are, Judy, Juarez or Tijuana, I hope this column eventually finds you. I still miss your hot sauce, your burritos, those great spicy carrots and peppers, and eating at a place where they knew my name after all, even if they chose to call me something else.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

If it’s shape up or ship out, I’m looking for the ship

I’m thinking about running a 5K race. That’s right, fat people can run, we just do it more slowly than skinny people. And usually only if there are donuts waiting at the finish line.

Oh, I don’t plan to run in any organized event or anything like that. I try to avoid organized activities whenever possible.

Last time I joined an organization, they cut off all my hair and put a rifle in my hand. That wasn’t as fun as I’d hoped it would be and I’ve sort of soured on organized activities ever since.

The kind of 5K race I’m talking about would involve only one participant: me. It would not be a fierce competition because the only participant (me, again) is not fiercely competitive.

Basically, if I make it to the end of the 5K without dying, I’ll consider the whole business a job well done.

I don’t want to run a 5K. Hell, I don’t want to run a 1K, or even half a K. What I WANT to do is drive to Germaine’s, waddle from my car to my usual seat in the corner and order a chicken burrito and several large beers. 

But that’s what I’ve been doing three days a week since last September, and frankly, that workout regimen is not giving me the buff, Brad Pitt-in-his-prime physique I was hoping for.

It was OK during the winter months, when I could camouflage at least some of the blubbage with Bill Cosby sweaters and a goose down coat. But summer’s coming. My current body is built for a life lived on an arctic ice floe. Like a manatee, I have developed a layer of protective blubber that would keep me warm were I lying naked on a slab of permafrost.

That’s not going to be much of an advantage at the beach in August. It’s not that I’m worried about impressing beach bunnies; that ship has sailed. I just don’t want to frighten young children. “Mommy, mommy, the beached whale is still breathing!!”

Also, it would be nice to be able to fit into last summer’s wardrobe (three Hawaiian shirts and some khaki shorts). These still fit me, but only if I don’t bend over, move my arms or inhale. If I do, seams start popping.

So later today I begin training for my 5K. I’ve purchased new sneakers, downloaded a training app (there’s an app for everything), and dug my old sweats out of the back of the closet.

I’m stoked. Before I get started, though, maybe I’d better plan my workout strategy. Over dinner and a couple beers.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

From Smokey to Rambo, a sad decline

I don’t mind being bribed, but I hate being bullied. I don’t like bullies (who does?) and whenever possible I stand up to them even if it means taking a punch or two myself. This is not always easy, since, by nature, I’m a coward. But sometimes you’ve just gotta take a stand.

My problem lately is with the biggest bully on the block. I’m talking about the formerly friendly Uncle Sam and the advertising firms he’s hired to scare us into being good drones. 

What am I talking about? (To be honest, sometimes I wonder myself.)

To fully understand where we are now, you have to go waaaay back, back to Smokey Bear. Smokey was a nice bear, a gentle bear, the kind of bear who would never eat you if you were lost in the woods. All Smokey wanted was to let you know that only you could prevent forest fires. For a bear, he really knew a lot about woodland conflagration issues. When you live in a forest, it pays to be aware of this stuff. I liked Smokey. 

Then came Woodsey Owl. He wasn’t nearly as cool as Smokey, but he cared a lot about environmental issues. Like Smokey, he suggested things adults and kids could do to make the world a cleaner, better place in which to live.

I liked following Woodsey’s and Smokey’s advice. I put litter in its place, I poured water on my campfire, stirred the ashes, and poured again. It was fun to be a good doo-bee.

Then the insurance company lobbies decided it would be a good idea to pay off a bunch of duly-elected congressmen to pass a seat belt law. But there was no “Buckley” to suggest I wear one. No friendly, talking seat belt explaining how much safer I would be, buckled in.

What there was instead was: CLICK IT OR TICKET!! You could almost hear the heels clicking together and somebody shouting “Ja, mein Kapitän!” It vas an order und you vould obey!

Not long after, I saw my first anti-drinking and driving billboard. No sane person is in favor of drinking and driving. But the billboard was designed not to inform or advise, but to frighten the already terrified sheep (us) into submission.

In giant type, pasted over a pic of a dumb-looking kid being dragged off in cuffs, was the legend: “YOU JUST BLEW $10,000!!” Yup, that last beer you had at the class reunion put you one-fiftieth of a point over the legal limit and now the fee collection machine previously known as the legal system is going to absolutely ruin your life and set you on the path to financial ruin! Have a nice day!

Are you scared yet? As Yoda said, “You will be. You will be.”

The most recent ad campaign is geared toward motorcycle riders. Again, it shows a dumb kid being lead off in cuffs, while in the background, his bike is being hoisted onto a truck. The legend? “GET CERTIFIED OR GET TOWED!!”

See what I mean? Threats, threats, threats! And for what? Not taking care of bureaucratic paperwork in a timely manner, that’s what.

It’s bad enough already, but I’ve seen the government in action. It’s only going to get worse. 

How long before we see billboards reading: “USE THE CORRECT POSTAGE OR GET BEATEN TO A BLOODY PULP!” or “JAYWALKERS WILL BE SUMMARILY EXECUTED!!”

It’s no coincidence many urban police departments are now outfitted with more military hardware than a Navy Seal team. We’re getting Rambo when we need Andy Taylor.

I swear, Smokey would be turning over in his woodland grave if he could see what we’ve come to.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

I think its time I jumped on the discrimination-for-bucks bandwagon

If your hair is red, stop reading this now! I mean it. You're not going to like what follows.

As of today, I'm making it official: this column will no longer bring joy and merriment to gingers. I feel kind of bad about doing this, but I'm determined to make enough money (without working very hard) to retire comfortably and discriminating against a large segment of the population seems the best way to accomplish this goal.

I'm basing this assumption on the recent Facebook-and-TV-news fueled accounts of that catering service and non-licensed auto garage where the owners very publicly stated they would not provide services to anyone that was gay. This made liberals very mad. So mad, in fact, that they made a lot of noise about it.

All this noise attracted the conservatives, who made even more noise. 

Amidst all this noise — in the case of the catering business, at least — a lot of money changed hands. Most of that money wound up in the caterer's bank account.

Now, I'm not a political person, mostly because I just don't care what other people do as long as they leave me alone. But I know a good scam when I see one.

My first thought was to deny gays access to this column. Problem is, I have too many gay friends and a couple of them can beat me up. (Don't believe everything you see on TV about all gays being frail little guys who like to buy antiques; some of 'em drive Harley's and could crush me like a Dixie cup if they took a mind to.)

For a while, I considered discriminating against practitioners of Wicca; you know, modern day witches. I don't believe in any of that hooey, but decided against it anyway, on the off chance I'm wrong. I mean, who wants to be turned into a frog, right?

The idea of discriminating against telemarketers appealed to me. Problem is, I can't see anyone, liberal or conservative, getting too worked up over that. Not worked up enough to send me money, and that's the goal here, remember?

I could discriminate against old people, but I'm too close to being one of them myself. Some would say that line has already been crossed, in fact.

Discriminating against various ethnic groups is generally frowned upon, except by real idiots and I don't want to join their ranks. Sure, it's a well documented fact I do not like the French, but they don't like me, either. And none of them read this column, so denying them access to it would have little effect.

So I settled on redheads. I'm not talking about you reddish-brown, auburn-haired folks, or even you strawberry blondes. I'm talking about the Bozo-orange, Ralph Malph from Happy Days gingers here.

Now, personally, I have nothing at all against gingers. Why would I? But in order to pull in the big discrimination dollars, I'm going to have to pretend I do, okay?

I have only one good friend with red, red hair and she lives in Alabama these days. I'm hoping she won't hear about this.

Look, I'm not proud of myself for doing this, but I'm not getting any younger and so far my long-term financial planning has relied heavily on a world-killing asteroid striking the Earth within the next five years.

At any rate, if you're a redhead, please do me a favor and get all aggravated about this. Call the TV stations! Post vitriolic comments about me on Facebook! Call me with death threats!

I, in turn, will do my part and make really stupid comments when the local TV news folks stop by for interviews. With any luck, the checks will start rolling in soon from people who really do have negative feelings about redheads.

If this works, I may stop servicing blondes as well.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Modern shopping is going to land me in the ‘big house’

“That’ll be $9.95.”

“Here’s a ten.”

“And here’s a nickel back. Have a nice day.”

In the long, long ago, this was known as making a purchase. The transaction transpired in much the same way no matter where you shopped.

It was how we bought and paid for everything from sweaters to auto parts to snow cones. The system was straightforward.

Things have changed, and unsurprisingly, not for the better.

I’m writing about this now because my other option is punching someone in the face and I do not want to go to jail.

I just arrived home from a mega-mart. I won’t say which one because nothing I write about it is likely to be flattering.

My cart contained a small wheel of expensive cheese, a bottle of very cheap wine, a birthday card for my granddaughter, Rosie, a pair of sunglasses that were supposed to give me the night vision of a panther but as it turns out didn’t, and a Hawaiian shirt with a floral pattern that would embarrass even Jimmy Buffett. 

“Phone number?” said the woman operating the cash register.

“What?”

“Can I get your phone number?” she repeated.

“Why?” I said. “Are you going to call me later to make sure I’m happy with my purchases?”

“It’s for our system,” she said. “In case you need to return anything.”

There were other customers behind me. I didn’t want to hold them up, so I gave the cashier my phone number. She entered the digits into her computerized register.

“You live on Grand?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“On Lincoln Avenue?” she said.

“No,” I said. “What else ya got?”

Finally, she pulled up the right Mike Taylor and guessed my correct address. She now knew enough about me to ring up my purchases; she scanned the first item, the godawful Hawaiian shirt. It rang up at $24.95.

“That’s wrong,” I said. “That shirt is supposed to be 30 percent off.”

The cashier sighed heavily. I was, obviously, a trouble maker. “Are you sure?” she said.

“Would anyone pay $24.95 for a shirt that ugly?” I asked.

The customers behind me could see the lay of the land and relocated to other lanes containing less problematic buyers.

Five minutes of annoyed phone calls and pages later, the cashier reluctantly keyed in the shirt for its sale price, though her demeanor left little doubt she thought I was trying to pull one over on her.

The other items scanned without incident, though I did have to provide my birth date in order to buy the six buck bottle of wine. This stranger (and possible serial killer; you never know) now knew my phone number, address and birthday.

I scanned my bank card. I’m sure the digital information being transferred at that moment included my shoe size, name of my first-born child and the number of times I use the bathroom each day.

“Do you want cash back?” the cashier said.

“No.”

Another sigh. “Then you have to tell it no,” she said, nodding to the card reader.

Using the provided stylus, I told it no.

It was raining as I exited the store. I stopped for gas and swiped my card at the pump. Before the pump would dispense gas, it wanted to know if my card was debit or credit; if I wanted a car wash; it wanted my zip code; it wanted to know if I required a receipt. I was soaked by the time the pump stopped playing 20 Questions and agreed to sell me some gasoline.

You know, I thought writing about this might help release a little pent up anger, but it’s not working. I think I’d better wait a while before shopping again. 

I would not do well in prison.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273