Even now, hope springs eternal

I’m getting m—

I’m getting mmmmaaa—

Let’s try this again: I’m getting m-m-married.

There! I said it!

Those who know me well are by now undoubtedly speed-dialing a psychiatric interventions service.

I have been married once before. OK, twice. Three times. Four.

In between, there were innumerable relationships that also ended, sometimes amicably, sometimes to the refrain of automatic weapons fire.

Point is, after all these years, I’m beginning to suspect it’s me.

Actually, I know it’s me. I am charming and fun, which is why I always wind up in a relationship. I am also a narcissistic jerk, which is why I always wind up back out of a relationship again.

I would invite you to ask my ex-wives and girlfriends if this is true, but that would entail renting a hall large enough to hold them all and I just can’t afford that. So you’ll have to take my word for it.

Some might wonder (quite understandably) why someone with my track record would consider tying the knot yet again. Truth to tell, I’m kind of wondering that myself.

I guess it’s because I’m crazy in love with Lori and hope, apparently, springs eternal. 

She is intelligent, cute, strong, talented, kind, patient (most of the time), caring, passionate, honest … I dunno; there are plenty of reasons for loving her, many of which I could list here, and still more I could not because this is a family publication.

She makes me laugh. 

We’ve known each other for a few years and have been officially “together” for over 12 months. We fight once in a while. Her temper is as quick as mine and she possesses an equally impressive repertoire of profanity. But we’re quick to kiss and make up. Neither of us can hold a grudge longer than an hour or two.

If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that love, and by association, marriage, is a complicated dance of giving and taking, of knowing when to speak and when to keep silent. It’s a crazy carnival ride; a messy, complicated, exasperating, stress-inducing battle of wills that can bring even the strongest man whimpering to his knees.

It’s also the only thing that makes life worth living.

I was perfectly happy as a single man in the year or so before Lori and I got together. But not as happy as I am now. 

The children’s author Dr. Seuss is credited with saying, “You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” 

I haven’t slept well in months.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

My fondest dream is about to come true

I’ve been waiting for this since third grade.

We’re going to war with Japan. Well, we’re not, our robot is. Our giant, 15-feet tall, six-ton robot, “US MegaBot,” and yes, it’s going to be every bit as cool as it sounds.

MegaBot won’t be going after Japanese people, so everybody in Tokyo can relax (at least until Godzilla puts in his next appearance).

MegaBot will be battling Kuratas Bot, the Japanese robot built by Suidobashi Heavy Industry’s CEO Kogoro Kurata. Kuratas weighs in at 9,000 pounds and in keeping with cultural stereotypes, is a little shorter than the American bot.

I’ve seen pictures of both these robots online and lemme tell ya, they’re both 100-percent, pure end-of-the-world-Skynet-is-dropping-the-big-ones apocalypse fuel. They are scary-looking.

In fairness to our friends from the East, Kuratas looks a little cooler. It’s all C-3PO shiny chrome and steel and would look at home on the floor of a Mercedes dealership.

US MegaBot, on the other hand, is one big, ugly, rusting hulk that looks as if it’s already seen years of hard service in downtown Detroit busting up crack houses. The only thing lacking is some spray-painted gang tags.

The American model — again, in keeping with cultural stereotypes — is packin’ big time, though so far the only thing it has shot from its guns is paintballs. Those paintball cannons could easily be swapped out for the real thing, however, so it’s wise to avoid ticking MegaBot off.

The Japanese model is more about hand-to-hand combat. Though designed to fight “melee” style, I’m very hopeful it will know all the moves Miyagi taught Daniel LaRusso in “The Karate Kid.” Especially the Crane Position.

I would pay big bucks to watch a giant robot get into the Crane Position while an angry white guy on the sidelines shouts at the other bot to “sweep the leg! sweep the leg!”

Kuratas Bot also has guns (BB guns), but the Japanese insist the combat be hand-to-hand. That’s OK by me. In the Schwarzenegger flicks it always comes down to the mano y mano cliffhanger in the final reel anyway. 

Robots don’t have testosterone, but I do, and mine is percolating like an overheated coffee pot at the idea of this upcoming rumble.

Best of all, there are rumors that Kuratas Bot will go on sale after the fight; price, a mere $1.35 million. 

If I can find a second job that pays enough, I have some enemies who, one morning soon, are in for a big surprise.

Real big.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

A few thoughts on Independence Day

As I write this, Independence Day is right around the corner. It’s my favorite holiday, for a lot of reasons. 

Unlike Christmas and Thanksgiving, which in recent years have morphed into stress-filled nightmares of overindulgence and shopping! shopping! shopping!, the Fourth of July remains true to its origins. 

It’s a laid-back holiday set aside to denote what is best about our country, a time to remember the sacrifices made by our fathers, our grandfathers, our sons and daughters. And despite the fact the freedom we celebrate was predicated on the blood and sinew of countless men and women who gave their lives to defend it, it remains a joyous occasion.

So it’s only right we commemorate the holiday with fireworks. Like America — and Americans — they’re big, vibrant, a little too loud sometimes. But they speak for us. Every incendiary burst flung across the night sky is a declaration of independence, a voice crying out against the tin-pot tyranny of proselytizing despots who don’t understand freedom and never will.

Are there things wrong with this country? Hell, yes! I could go on all day about them.

And that’s the point. I COULD go on all day about everything wrong with the good ol’ U.S. of A. I could criticize Congress and the Senate in print, on the radio, on television. I could burn the flag on the steps of the capitol building (though I wouldn’t). I could stand on a soapbox outside the gates of the White House and use a bullhorn to call the President of the United States an idiot (something else I wouldn’t do, although I reserve the right to, depending on what happens at the polls next November).

This is why I love my country. I don’t just like it, I love it, and I am unashamed of my childlike patriotism.

Even the word “patriotism” undoubtedly sounds naive and simplistic to the political pundits out there. That’s OK; America wasn’t created by political pundits, but by the sort of men and women that will be standing alongside a thousand small town main streets this weekend, placing hands over hearts as the old guys from the VFW go marching past, shoehorned into uniforms that no longer quite fit, yet still looking proud and tough beneath the unfurled sheets of red, white and blue.

These are the people that made this country great. From England, Ireland, France, Asia, Italy, Iraq; all came with a common desire to share in the freedoms we celebrate on July Fourth, to embrace the American Dream.

I count myself blessed to be one of them.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

How many wives does it take to properly shape a man?

I read an article a while back about Bafut, which is in Cameroon. Cameroon is located, um, somewhere on planet Earth, I believe. Though, having been educated by nuns, I can’t say for sure. Fortunately, geography isn’t the issue here.

Wives are. The king of Bafut, whose name is Abumbi II, has nearly 100 wives. I’ve had close to that many myself, though not all at once. In this hemisphere, we do things sequentially; in Bafut, wives accumulate like rubber bands in a junk drawer.

According to the article, the role of the king’s wives is to “shape him in his kingly role.” This sounds very stately and dignified, until you examine what is really being said here.

It’s been my experience that when a woman says she wants to “shape you,” what she really means is she wants to “change you,” generally, into a man closer to the one she had in mind when she began making her long-term life plan, back in fourth grade.

That’s not the worst of it, though; the worst of it is that a wife’s version of that “perfect man” is ever changing. As soon as she’s got you molded into a suave, sophisticated man about town she decides she’d rather have a rough and ready cowboy or a steely-eyed astronaut.

If you’ve ever seen a woman try on 16 different outfits before leaving for work in the morning, you’re familiar with the syndrome.

Now, this is fine for a lot of guys. I have friends who change personalities more often than I change socks, depending on who they’re dating and how dirty my socks are. One day they’re sporting a nose stud and listening to death metal, the next they’re dressed in a canary-yellow cardigan sweater and have Barry Manilow seeping from their ear buds.

Personally, I can’t do it. Like Popeye, I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam. Which may help explain why I’ve had nearly as many wives as the king of Bafut. 

I like strong, intelligent women, but at some point they always figure out I’m just too dumb to train. Or obstinate. Or misogynistic. Or narcissistic. (These are all observations made by former wives, by the way.)

So my hat’s off to you, Abumbi II. If it takes 100 wives to “shape you” into your kingly role, you’re my kinda guy. 

Or, you were. Before you got shaped.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

Chocolate and beer, the twin keys to longevity?

This is a great time to be alive. For me, at least.

Why? Because science, at last, is on my side. This has not always been the case. For most of my life, science kept trying to take away the things I love. 

All life’s little amenities, the things that make it worth living, were, according to science, bad for me. A few of these, like cigarettes and heroin, still are. But since I’ve never smoked or used heroin, I’m not bothered by their inclusion on the Food and Drug Administration’s “naughty” list.

I’m talking about things that used to be bad for me that no longer are. Like coffee. Believe it or not, I was a Mormon once, a long time ago. I don’t know what the current church thinking is, but at that time, Mormons didn’t drink coffee. They weren’t supposed to, anyway. A lot of them still did.

But I didn’t. Because not only did the church elders say it was evil, science kept telling me it was unhealthy. 

Now, I stopped caring what church elders say a long time ago, but I still pay attention to scientific studies. Which is why I was so gratified to learn coffee is good for me after all. 

I don’t drink more or less of it than I ever did — two cups every morning — but it’s nice to know I’m doing my body good rather than harm.

Beer. (You just knew beer was going to find its way into this somewhere, right?) Turns out a little of it is good for you. Same story with wine. To be on the safe side, I drink both, though admittedly in quantities that might be construed by some as “more than a little.” Best to err on the side of caution, I figure.

Avocados. Until a few years ago, I’d never eaten an avocado. I shy away from fruits or vegetables that look more exotic than a potato, say. But an ex-girlfriend introduced them to me and it turns out they’re great! At first, science said don’t eat them because they have more calories per pound than bacon, a statistic I just made up.

But then science reversed itself and said they’re not only OK, they’re good for me.

The latest addition to the “nice” list is chocolate. Turns out eating 100 grams per day of chocolate can lower blood pressure, reduce your chance of suffering a stroke and even make you slimmer.

I don’t know what “100 grams” equates to in the real world, but I’m going to assume its the equivalent of about 2 1/2 Snicker’s Bars.

I figure if I go on a strict diet of coffee, beer, wine, avocados and Snicker’s Bars, I’ll live well into my mid-100s. 

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

A slow CPU equals fame and fortune

How do you get to Carnegie Hall? 

Buy an old computer. Preferably one running Windows 2.0, or even DOS. Then try to edit a bunch of large digital files. 

Before you know it, you’ll be awash in applause from an appreciative, cosmopolitan audience, one that has just paid big bucks to hear you perform on piano, French horn, or maybe tuba.

The system is so foolproof I’m thinking of marketing it on late-night television. “Mike Taylor’s Road to Musical Greatness Program,” or something like that.

And it really, really works!

Yes, but HOW does it work? you ask. I can see you’re a shrewd consumer, one not likely to part with his hard-earned cash without a little more information.

I don’t blame you for being skeptical. I would be myself, were it not for the fact that I know the system works, because it worked for me!

Because of the outmoded computer I used at home for years, I can now play flute, recorder, harmonica and a little accordion. Granted, I have never actually performed at Carnegie Hall, but I figure it’s only a matter of time.

For years, I kept a small musical instrument sitting on my desk. Every time I would begin an “operation” on my computer (changing the contrast of a digital photo, say), I would grab the flute (harmonica, recorder, whatever) and practice until the operation was finished. In the Long, Long Ago (maybe eight years), these “mini-rehearsals” could last as long as five minutes.

If you repeat this process 40 or 50 times a day for months on end, eventually you become an accomplished musician. And you do so on time that would otherwise be completely wasted!

Problem is, today’s computers are too fast! Even my lamest netbook has enough processing power to burn through any task I throw at it in an eye blink. My iPad, my laptop — even my smart phone — allow for instant everything!

When am I supposed to practice my music?

So I’m offering this one-time, early-adopter deal on my new music learning system: Just send me $649.99, care of this newspaper, and I will send you (1) old Windows machine gleaned from the refuse bin at Goodwill, (3,214) digital photos that are too dark and need to be lightened up in Photoshop, and (1) plastic recorder from the dollar store.

By the time you have all those photos looking good, you’ll be ready for your debut performance.

And I will be $649.99 richer. It’s a win-win, mostly for me.

As always, this offer comes with the Mike Taylor No Money Back Guarantee if you’re not completely satisfied! Order before midnight!

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

And the question remains, ‘How low can you go?’

Calvin told me about a new TV show the other night and at first I thought he was putting me on. Calvin’s a great guy, but his taste in television? Um, let’s just say if he had lived in ancient Rome, Calvin would have been first in line for tickets to watch Christians being thrown to Lions.

Calvin’s also one of my best friends and I love him like a brother, but he definitely represents that lowest common denominator network TV supposedly appeals to. I’ve told him this on numerous occasions and he seems utterly unfazed by my assessment. 

Cal loves “reality” TV; any show in which inbred hillbillies attack each other with a steady barrage of bleeped-out F-bombs is all he needs to achieve viewing Nirvana. He shares details of these shows with me all the time because he knows even hearing about them makes my teeth hurt.

If I actually tried to sit through one of these video travesties, I’m sure my head would explode.

I sound like an intellectual snob here, but I’m not. I watch all sorts of idiot TV; old episodes of “Star Trek” and “Law & Order,” Three Stooges shorts … that’s about it, I guess. Unless you count 300 viewings of the movie “Caddyshack,” which I never get tired of, assuming there’s beer in the house.

My point is, my own tastes aren’t all that high falutin’ and I probably shouldn’t be so quick to judge the viewing habits of others. But when Cal told me about this new TV show he’s watching, I couldn’t help it.

The show is called “The Briefcase” and if it’s not the work of either the Devil or Donald Trump, I don’t know what is.

As I understand it, the show revolves around two desperately poor families, each of which is given $101,000. They can use this money to pay for junior’s college education, buy a better brand of Ramen noodles, or settle accounts with the loan shark who’s been threatening to kill their children.

Or — and here’s where things supposedly get interesting — they can give some or all of the money to another family that’s in as bad, or even worse, shape than they are.

What fun, right? Let’s watch the poor people feel guilty about their one chance for a decent future! They’re so cute when they grovel! Oh, look! They’re watering down the baby’s formula to make it go further!

I’m sure the seven-figure network execs who came up with the idea for this abomination think its a real hoot, not to mention too, too droll, dahling. This is television for the 1 percent and those too stupid to know they’re in the other 99.

OK. I’m ranting. Old guys do that. 

But how long will it be before we’re watching “The Hunger Games” and it’s not a SF movie? How long before we tune in to see to two terminally ill patients cage fight over a vial containing the single available cure?

Society seems caught in an unending game of limbo and the question repeats, over and over: “How low can you go?”

With “The Briefcase,” the answer is, pretty low. And the scary thing is, I don’t think we’ve hit bottom yet.

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

I was made to serve a quadruped master

Some folks believe humanity evolved over millions of years, that we rose from the primordial soup; pulling ourselves up the evolutionary ladder to stand at last proud and strong at the pinnacle of the planet’s food chain.

Others think we are created beings, made in the image of a loving and all-knowing Creator, and that we’re only caretakers of this small, green world, destined in time to move on to other, better planes of existence.

Which of these is true? Personally, dear reader, I think whatever you think, wholeheartedly and without reservation. So there’s no need for angry letters.

Besides, for the purposes of this column, either theory will work. (By the way, I only use the word “theory” to placate those poor misguided fools who don’t think the way you and I do.) The point is, when it comes to Earth-bound vertebrates, we’re pretty much king of the heap, right?

Wrong! 

That’s what they want you to think. And when I say “they,” I mean the real rulers of this planet.

See, I’ve come to realize, in the past year or so, that humanity is little more than a slave race, bred and conditioned generation after generation to serve the true Masters of the Earth. 

I’m talking, of course, about cats.

Think about it. I know I have been. I look at my cat, Friday Magoo, and can’t help but notice some glaring disparities in our respective lifestyles.

I go to work each day and toil in the editorial vineyards to raise money to put a roof over my (and consequently, his) head, to buy food for myself (and, of course, the cat). I worry about bills, pollution, the ozone layer, melting polar ice caps, the neighborhood my daughter lives in in Detroit, my love life, the IRS, typos and whether I’ll be able to sleep tonight with all these other worries on my mind.

Friday Magoo’s day is very different. It consists mostly of sleeping in sunbeams, killing moths and moles in the back yard, and eating, sometimes the moths and moles.

I feed him, I house him, I brush him, I clean his litter box. I provide him with absolutely everything he wants, needs or desires. I even attend to his drug habit (he has a Keith Richards-like catnip addiction and can’t go a night without getting his nip on).

By way of expressing his gratitude, Friday deposits copious, repulsive hairballs on my expensive, Persian rug. I assume he does this only because he wants to communicate with me but tragically lacks a middle finger.

Between the two of us, it’s obvious who the boss is. 

I could rail against my fate, but like the rest of you catnip-serving, litter box-changing, fur-brushing drones out there, I’ve evolved to do what the cats want me to do. Or maybe I was created this way.

Either way, it stinks like a week old litter box.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273