We can learn what not to do by watching the birds

There’s a bird feeder just outside the dining room window. Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) put it up there at the start of summer. Since then, it’s proved immensely popular with the local avian population. If that feeder were a nightclub and birds could afford a cover charge, I’d be a rich man by now.

The feeder is actually four feeders in one, set up on a shepherd’s hook, with each feeder appealing to a different subset of birds. The sunflower seeds seem to attract the widest variety; the smaller seeds draw only a couple different types. The hummingbird feeder and live flowers are intended to bring in, not surprisingly, hummingbirds.

All summer long the birds fly in and the birds fly out, an unending rivulet of beaks and feathers that drive our five cats out of their fuzzy, carnivorous little gourds. And now, as summer wanes, the traffic has only increased; it’s a rare moment that doesn’t see at least five birds out there jockeying for position.

The hummingbirds are long gone, wimpy deserters that they are. Off to warmer climes where they can continue their endless cycle of being beautiful and yet somehow, kinda creepy. (They’re too much like overgrown bumblebees.)

Because I have no life to speak of, I’ve spent a lot of time this summer sitting on the patio watching those birds and wondering if it’s too early in the day for a Bloody Mary. In that time, I’ve noticed one thing about birds. One important thing.

They’re jerks.

I know, I know, they look beautiful. When folks picture an idyllic, sylvan scene, it’s always populated with winged creatures fluttering between autumn leaves or along misty, rain-swept beaches.

But if you watch them, I mean really pay attention and observe their habits, it doesn’t take long before you realize birds are the high-school-mean-girl clique of the animal world.

As I mentioned earlier, our backyard feeder is capable of servicing five or six birds at a time, maybe more. Mrs. T (fLF) refills the seed as fast as it’s depleted, so the feeder is never even close to empty. It is, for birds, a bottomless pit of avian treats, an endless, self-refilling (to their way of thinking) Holy Grail of birdy goodness.

One might think the birds would want to share this good fortune with others of their kind. One would be wrong.

See, every bird, large or small, who visits that feeder immediately tries to take full possession of its rich bounty. There is no sharing in the bird world, no concept of spreading the wealth to the less fortunate. There are no socialist birds.

To the casual observer, that bird feeder is a social hub for the avian community, a place where they meet, feed and discuss the bird-related issues of the day. Closer observation, however, tells a different story.

That feeder is a war zone.

With the notable exception of crows, most bird calls are pleasant to the human ear. But I’ve been listening to them all summer (sometimes with the translation abilities afforded me by my second Bloody Mary) and I can tell you, what those birds are saying ain’t good.

CHICKADEE: At last! At last! The feeder is mine! I claim this feeder in the name of … ME! Everybody else get off’n my property!

BARN SWALLOW (swooping in): Your mother! This is MY feeder! MINE, I tell ya!

HUMMINGBIRD (zipping in at Mach 7 and scaring all the other birds away): Ha! Come back when you can imitate a giant bumblebee, suckers! Until then, this is MY feeder!

Between all this chasing each other back and forth, all this trash talk and dive bombing raids, almost no seed gets eaten. If these feathered idiots would cooperate and learn to coexist, there would be plenty for all and birdkind as a whole would be better off for it.

But nope. They’re all too busy trying to stake a claim on their little patch of feeder (which isn’t really their feeder at all; it’s MY feeder). They’re too busy trying to make sure nobody else gets any. And so, they all wind up going just a little bit hungry. Makes you wonder how the whole species has managed to survive, doesn’t it?

So. Is there a moral here? Some cautionary memorandum we can take away from these observations? Do I look like Aesop to you? Or maybe Thomas Aquinas?

See? We're twins!

No, I do not. (Well, maybe a little like Aquinas; the resemblance is quite striking, actually.) But I’m not him. And if there’s a moral implied in this column, it’s coincidental.

Besides, surely people are a helluva lot smarter than a bunch of moronic birds, right? Now, if you’ll excuse me, the neighbor kids are playing on my lawn again.

Gotta go chase ‘em off.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

My solution for bringing dignity back to American politics

"A lot of folks probably didn’t know this, but there’s an election coming up next month. Presidential, I think. I could be wrong, but I saw a comment about it on Facebook the other day; just the one, from one of my civic-minded friends encouraging everyone to get out and vote. Can’t believe more people aren’t talking about this."

Ah. Wouldn’t life be grand if the above paragraph reflected reality?

But it doesn’t.

The truth is that every American with a laptop and Wi-Fi connection has for the past 18 months buried my Facebook newsfeed with comments, criticisms, insipid memes, admonitions, lies, truths and outright BS regarding the upcoming circus … election, I mean.

At this point, I’d vote for the biggest bloviating idiot in America, just to have it over and done with. And this year, as it turns out, that option is available to me. (If you pictured your favorite candidate while reading that previous sentence, that’s your business, not mine.)

Like a lot of voters this election cycle, I feel one candidate is horrible, terrible, unfit for office and a national disgrace. The other is slightly worse.

But this is America and regardless of which joker winds up driving the clown car to the Oval Office come November, I believe the Republic will survive. Our forefathers – who were considerably better at this job than our current fathers – had enough sense to build the country on a system of checks and balances, all designed to keep one individual from having too much power. “Mad” King George III was still fresh in their minds.

Of course, I do have a candidate I loathe slightly less than the others, but I’m not inclined to tell you which that is. Nor do I care who you’re voting for. Again, it’s your business.

I will never understand why so many folks feel duty bound to cram their point of view down the throats of friends and neighbors like a farmer force-feeding a foie gras goose.

Personally, I don’t like it. I’ll bet you don’t like it, either. In fact, even the most virulent, rabid political zealots don’t like it. Unless they’re the ones doing the force-feeding, of course.

My point is, nobody likes it but nearly everybody does it. Frankly, all this ranting over which candidate is “least worst” makes me long for those civil, friendly Facebook debates over whether people who say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas” should be summarily executed as part of a jolly new seasonal tradition.

Fortunately, I have a solution. Under my plan, there’d be no need for this undignified ruckus every four years, with all its accompanying “sound and fury, signifying nothing” – to quote Willie (Shakespeare, not Nelson).

No, I have a better way to elect our nation’s leader, one far more civilized and elegant, yet still in keeping with current American attitudes and values.

I call it “Presidential Smackdown 2020!!!”

I’m still working out the details, but it’ll involve cage fighting, a lot of glittery, Spandex outfits, that guy who yells, “Are you rrrready to rrrrrumble?!” and maybe even a shark tank with lasers if I can work out the logistics before the next election rolls around.

It’ll be almost as entertaining as this election has been, but more dignified. Best of all, it’ll last for only four, 15-minute quarters. Or until one candidate falls into the shark tank.

Or, if we’re very lucky, all the candidates.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

I just wanna have fun, but (fLF) says I’m too old

Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) seems determined to make me feel old. It started a few weeks ago, right after we got hitched.

I’m not sure what’s behind this nefarious anti-youth campaign. Maybe she thinks old guys make better husbands. Or that I’ll wind up in the emergency room less often if I admit my break dancing days are behind me.

I don’t know. I’m sure she has her reasons, but it’s driving me crazy anyway.

At first it was little things, like reminding me to take my meds. I take pills for a few “conditions,” slightly elevated blood pressure being one. I take a couple others, but I no longer remember what they’re for. I have great faith in the medical profession, however, and my doctor no doubt had a good reason for telling me to take them, so I do.

I also take pills for the ongoing pain in my left foot – the result of a botched surgery, which, now that I think about it, kind of negates that “great faith in the medical profession” comment I made earlier. The pain pills I don’t mind so much, because taken in slightly higher-than-recommended dosages, they can be quite entertaining!

Anyway, nothing makes a guy feel more geezer-ish than having to down a handful of medically-necessary pills every morning.

Also, Mrs. Taylor (fLF) signed us up for AARP memberships. As you may know, AARP stands for Ancient Aged Rinkled People. (Don’t ask me why they spelled “wrinkled” with an R; the motivations of old folks are inexplicable to a kid like me.)

The AARP has been sending me offers to join up since about a week after I started shaving, if memory serves, which it no longer does. But since I’ve never been old (at least when compared to some of those redwood trees out in California) I just tossed ‘em.

Not Mrs. T (fLF). She wants those AARP member discounts on motels and McDonald’s coffee and surgical stockings and all the other paraphernalia geezers need to get through the day.

Along with the AARP membership comes AARP Magazine, a publication devoted to reminding me my best years are behind me. It does this every month by featuring a celebrity on its cover; not an old celebrity, but a young one! And when I say “young,” I mean someone whose popularity peaked around the same time I was getting my first driver’s license.

Sometimes the cover story is about a rock musician, somebody best remembered for copious cocaine ingestion and trashing hotel rooms in the ‘70s. The article usually explains how this rebel rocker is still living a rich, full life, thanks to Maalox and orthopedic shoes.

Other times it’s an actress sharing her secrets for maintaining a youthful appearance. (I can’t help notice repeated and expensive cosmetic surgeries are rarely mentioned, even though the actress du jour often looks like her facial epidermis has been stretched repeatedly over a large, helium birthday balloon.)

But the cover that really, REALLY bugged appeared on the September issue.

Cyndi Lauper.

You remember. Girls just want to have fun, and all that? In 1983, I was madly in love with Cyndi Lauper. She was exactly what I was looking for in a woman. Cute, funny, talented, with a good job and a nice house in Malibu.

I figured it was only a matter of time before we got together and had a wild affair. Oh, I knew she’d break my heart in the end, but I figured it would be worth the ride.

But that never happened. And now, here she is on the cover of AARP Magazine. To her credit, she’s still cute, funny and talented. But she’s on that cover, man! And that means she’s old.

And if Cyndi – that wild, vivacious young girl who stole my heart in ’83 – is old, that means that … I … am … old.

Sigh.

Thanks a lot, Cyndi Lauper! You wound up breaking my heart, after all.

And I never even got to see the house in Malibu.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

Going from ‘love machine’ to ‘dirty oatmeal’ isn’t easy

It’s going to take me a while to get used to this marriage thing. There’s so much I’ve forgotten in the 20-plus years since I last walked the aisle.

Oh, I remember the important stuff, like how to say “yes dear” more often than “are you nuts?” How to fold a towel three ways before putting it on the rod. How to pretend I’m remotely interested in the junk they sell at the Hallmark store.

No, it’s the little stuff I’ve forgotten. Like, for instance, how when you get in a fight you can’t just move to another city, get a job working the loading docks and change your name to Max Steele. Well, I suppose you could, but being married makes for too much paperwork to bother.

Not that Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) and I have had a fight lately. We haven’t. Not since the wedding a couple weeks ago. The tension of waiting for the inevitable is killing me.

But last Tuesday, I did see a precursor to what might, possibly, become a fight somewhere down the road.

Mrs. T (fLF) told me I smell like “dirty oatmeal.”

Not all the time, she said, but on days when I do a lot of yardwork and don’t shower. Her exact words were, “On days like that, when you come to bed at night, you smell kinda like dirty oatmeal.”

Seriously? Dirty oatmeal? Is this the same woman who has for the past two years consistently told anyone who would listen what a great guy I am?

Things she said before the wedding:

“Mike’s a columnist! He’s hilarious.

“Mike’s a musician! He’s so talented!

“Mike’s a love machine unmatched since the ‘70s, when Richard Roundtree starred as ‘Shaft.’”

OK, I made that last one up. My point is, she said a lot of nice things before we got hitched. Now? Dirty oatmeal.

Since this is the 21^st Century and no humiliation is complete unless posted to Facebook, I shared her comment with the world at large. I was fishing for sympathy, but I might as well have left the rod and reel at home.

Instead of “Oh, you poor, poor boy,” which is what I was hoping for, I received comments and private messages from other wives anxious to share the details of their own husbands’ unique bouquets.

Mary, for instance, calls her husband’s unwashed odor “Oily Old Man.” Not words you’re likely to see on a bottle of after shave.

Cynthia said her husband smells “a little like wet dog.”

Poor beleaguered Seth (the only man to comment), said his wife refers to his natural, manly odor as “milk and pickles.”

Karen admitted (gleefully, I thought) that her husband carried the heady aroma of “cows.” In all fairness, Karen’s husband is a dairy farmer and was before they tied the knot over 40 years ago. She should be used to it by now. My opinion.

At any rate, it appears I’m in good, if smelly, company and that my situation is in no way unique. Still, it’s hard – in just two weeks’ time – to go from from “hilarious, talented love machine” to “dirty oatmeal.”

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414