I once was lost, but now … I’m still lost

I got lost coming home from the bar last Saturday night. I hadn’t been drinking, no, I’d been working with my little weekend band, The Guinness Brothers (which, admittedly, is named for the beer; but no, again, I swear, I hadn’t had any beer myself).

The club was one we’ve played dozens of times over the years, less than an hour’s drive from my house. I’m almost sure I know how to get there without the GPS, but after all this time, I still don’t quite trust myself to do so.

Which is why it’s odd I left the club without programming my return route into the directional gadget. I guess for once I was feeling fairly confident I could find my way home on my own.

I couldn’t. Two hours later, I realized I was in Cadillac. Somewhere along the line, I’d started daydreaming and had gone the exact opposite direction from where I wanted to be. I pulled to the side of the road and punched my own address into the GPS.

Thus guided, I finally rolled in to my driveway around 5 a.m.

I wish I could say this was an unusual occurrence. It’s not. I’ve been directionally handicapped since birth.

As a kid, I would get lost walking the six blocks home from school. It was so common my mother stopped worrying about me when I was late. If I still wasn’t home an hour after school let out, she’d stop what she was doing and drive around the neighborhood until she found me. More often than not, I wasn’t even aware I was lost.

This problem followed me into my teen years, where I spent a couple summers hitch-hiking around the country. Never knowing for sure just where you are or where you’re going can make for some interesting travels. Phoenix, Independence, Chicago and Tulsa are all cities I’ve seen by accident, because I turned left when I meant to turn right, or vice-versa.

At 17, accompanied by my girlfriend Dianne, I left a church camp near Kalamazoo and drove all the way to Indianapolis before I realized I was not headed toward Grand Rapids, where Dianne (and her father, the grim-eyed pastor) lived. The old man was neither amused, nor inclined to believe my stuttering explanation when his daughter and I pulled into his driveway around sunup the following morning.

As an adult, most of my geographical miscalculations have resulted in only minor inconveniences. Sometimes, especially when I’m out late at night, I’ll accidentally drive “home” to a house I’ve not lived at in years. That’s happened a couple times.

In recent years, I guess my worst directional faux pas happened after I’d gone to Lansing, where I interviewed then-Governor Jennifer Granholm. As a rule, I dislike covering politics, but there was a free lunch involved.

Miraculously, I found my way there just fine, despite the fact driving in Lansing provides an experience almost identical to that of being a blind mouse in a particularly complex maze, one with no cheese at the other end.

It wasn’t until the drive home that things got dicey. It was a beautiful, autumn afternoon; the sun was shining, the sugar maples ablaze with color, the roads clear of heavy traffic. The perfect day for a quiet drive back to Big Rapids.

I didn’t realize I’d gone off course until I began seeing signs informing me that the Mackinac Bridge was coming up in a mile or so.

My editor, who was almost as used to me getting lost as my mom had been decades earlier, let me file the story from a McDonald’s in Mackinaw City, rather than try to make it back to the paper before deadline.

I’m pretty sure I had a point for this column when I started writing it, or some punch-line … something. But somehow, it has gotten lost along the way.

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

Riding with a younger woman isn’t what it’s cracked up to be

I’m having relationship problems again. There’s a new woman in my life and, to be honest, things aren’t going that well.

She bosses me around, tells me where to go, when to go there. And though I hate to admit it, she’s too young for me. That’s part of the problem; I hate taking orders from a kid.

Sweet Annie is aware of this relationship. She’s not crazy about the idea of another woman directing my life (that’s her job), but she understands my need for near constant supervision. And try though she may, Annie can’t always be there to propel me unwillingly down the path of most resistance.

Hence, Maggie; the “other woman.” Maggie lives on the dashboard on my car, inside the GPS unit. I guess I should be calling her Maggie 2; Maggie 1 lived in my previous GPS device.

Over the past five years and thousands of miles, Maggie 1 and I developed a relationship. It was sometimes strained and I admit I frequently caught myself yelling at her. On more than one occasion I went so far as to employ the “B” word, as well as words beginning with even more dubious letters.

Maggie 1, see, was an older gal and her maps (which I was too cheap to update) were out of date. Because of this, she occasionally got lost, usually when I was driving somewhere I especially didn’t want to be lost, like downtown Detroit.

People get lost there and are never found again, no matter what Michael Moore wants you to believe.

Maggie 1 also sometimes had problems with rural roads, large apartment complexes and convoluted office blocks. She could usually direct me to a general vicinity, but never seemed able to get me precisely where I needed to be.

What Maggie 1 DID have was an authoritative, no-nonsense voice. She sounded matronly and sure of herself, even when she wasn’t.

Maggie 1 inspired confidence. I didn’t mind taking orders from her. I’ve been married repeatedly and am trained to do whatever a stern female voice tells me to do.

“Turn left in 200 yards!” she would bark. I would turn left. “In one-quarter mile, make a legal U-turn,” Maggie would command. I would start looking for a place to turn around.

I got lost a lot. Eventually, it would all work out, but I often arrived late.

So I replaced her with a younger woman. I felt guilty about it, but I’m a man and therefore shallow and self-serving.

I gave Maggie 1 to Sweet Annie, who has yet to switch her on.

Maggie 2 I mounted to my car’s windshield. That’s when the trouble began.

Maggie 2, though loaded with the latest maps, graphics, points of interest and — for all I know — telekinetic capabilities, is no Maggie 1. The problem is her voice.

Maggie 2 burbles away like a cheerleader on prom night. She doesn’t just TELL me to turn left, she ENTHUSES about it. Maggie 2 is simply thrilled as all get-out to be able to share the news that my destination is coming up on the left.

She sounds ridiculously excited just to be alive, though she’s not alive, not really.

I am old and crabby. I do not like to be around people that are TOO cheerful. Maggie 2 was old and crabby like me and I kind of miss her.

There’s some sort of moral here, I’m sure, or a lesson to be learned, but I’ve never in the past allowed experience to make me smarter and I’m not about to start now.

Besides, it’s kind of nice to get where I’m going on time for a change.

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

You can’t go home again, not without your GPS

I’ve been directionally challenged since Kindergarten. Even in first, second, third and fourth grades, I routinely became lost during the five-block hike home from school.

It happened so often my mother quit worrying about it. She would wait until I was 15 or 20 minutes late, then hop in the car and cruise around the neighborhood until she spotted me. Most times I would be strolling along unconcernedly, not even aware that I was lost.

A big part of the problem is—as my mother or any teacher whose classroom door I’ve ever darkened could tell you—I daydream. My mind isn’t especially active, but it does enjoy a rich fantasy life, and not just the one about the 747 filled with inebriated Swedish stewardesses, either. Though I’ll admit that’s one of my personal favorites.

Ahem. The point is, my mind wanders. It was worse when I was a kid, but it’s still pretty bad. Especially when I’m driving.

Driving is the second most boring activity in the universe. (The first is watching any movie starring Rob Schneider.) So when I’m driving, my mind—in an effort to stave off terminal boredom—meanders off onto pathways of its own devising.

I think: What would I do differently, if I were president? Why do Super Balls bounce so high? How do people eat tapioca pudding without barfing? What is tapioca, anyway, because it sure looks like fish eggs. And speaking of fish eggs, who decided those were food? Probably the same guy who invented tapioca. Look! A cow! It sure is sunny today. The clouds look beautiful. Are those cumulous? Or the other one? Cirrus. That’s it. Isn’t there a third kind of cloud? Hmm. Another cow! There are more cows per capita in India than any other country in the world. Where’d I read that? I sure like cheeseburgers.

And so on. By the time my mind gets around to asking, “Where am I, anyway?” or “Wasn’t I supposed to turn left about three exits back?” it’s usually too late.

So it’s only natural I finally broke down and purchased one of those GPS gizmos for my pickup. I’ve had it for about a month now, and lemme tell ya, these things are great!

No longer do I have to think about where I’m going. I just punch in the address before I leave home and the GPS tells me when to turn left, when to turn right, and when to go straight. It’s like driving with The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, only the GPS gizmo actually has some rudimentary idea of where we’re going. (Mrs. T makes her turn-by-turn suggestions at random, I think, or according to moon phases or something. I’m basing this opinion on typical results.)

Anyway, the GPS gizmo is wonderful. The only downside, as far as I can see, is that in the month I’ve been using it, I’ve become even more directionally handicapped than I was before.

I now find myself using the GPS to get to places less than a mile away; places I absolutely know how to find on my own. As Mrs. Taylor pointed out the other day, it’s getting ridiculous. I know she’s right, but I can’t help myself. It’s just too easy to punch in the pre-programmed destination and let the gizmo do all my thinking for me.

How long will it be before I need the GPS to guide me from my easy chair to the cold beer in the back of the fridge?

Sure, it’s great to finally know where I’m going, to drive anywhere without fear of becoming lost. But GPS ownership has opened up a whole new inventory of fears, the most pressing being—if I should misplace my GPS gizmo, will I have to buy another one just to find it?

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or directions to a map store, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.