My life as a Martian has ruined the movie for me

Everybody but me, it seems, has seen that new Matt Damon movie, “The Martian.” It looks cool and I love science fiction, but I just can’t bring myself to buy a ticket.

I’m afraid it would be too painful.

Why? Because I’m still carrying the emotional scars of the three weeks I myself spent as a Martian.

It happened 50 years ago, in 1965. That was a bad year for me, even before I became a Martian. 

I was a skinny kid — a year younger than most of my classmates — with a big mouth. That was a bad combination in my old neighborhood. My days consisted mostly of angering nuns and getting in fist fights while walking home from St. Isadore Elementary School — fights I usually lost. (I would say “fights I always lost” but for one glorious afternoon when I punched Chuckie Scraab in the face and broke his nose.)

At any rate, I was not popular.

So maybe it’s only natural my favorite holiday was Halloween. For one day out of the year, at least, I could become someone else, someone well-liked and popular. Like Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman.

This was 1965, though, and America was locked in a space race with our sworn enemies, the Soviet Union. The godless Commies had sent Sputnik into Earth orbit nearly a decade earlier and we were determined to keep outer space American, the way the Good Lord intended.

The country was gripped with a space fever that has taken decades to cool. Maybe if we find bug-eyed mermaids on Europa that’ll happen again; who knows.

My point is I was as space crazy as the next kid. Most of my friends wanted to be astronauts, but not me. I longed for the life of a Martian, preferably a scary one with ray guns, the sort that could enslave all humanity and finally get me my revenge on the bigger kids who administered my daily beatings.

To make this happen, my sainted Irish mother spent countless hours sewing a very authentic-looking Halloween costume. Lots of shiny silver fabric, futuristic zippers and snaps, a special pocket for my ray gun; it was a work of art.

To complete the look, however, I needed green skin. Martians have green skin. Everybody knows this.

Sadly, my skin was a boring pinkish-beige, same as now. So the evening before Halloween, I filled the bathtub with warm water and stirred in several bottles of green food coloring. Several. 

When I exited the tub after soaking for about an hour, my skin, my hair, everything, was green; real green. No part of me was not green.

I was the hit of the school during the Halloween parade the next day; my silver costume sparkled in the autumn sunlight, my green skin freaked out the little girls in my class in exactly the fashion I’d hoped it would.

Trick or treating that evening, everyone commented on my cool costume. I was the belle of the fourth grade ball.

Until the next morning. That’s when I learned green food dye doesn’t just wash off. It doesn’t scrub off. It doesn’t scrape off with washcloths, my mother’s facial cream, baby oil or 30-grit industrial-grade sandpaper. 

Green stays.

It was at least three weeks before I regained my pasty Irish beige. In the interim, I was in about 30 fights over my non-Earthling status. Some big kid would make a Martian joke, I’d take the first swing, and 20 seconds later I’d be picking my green butt up off the pavement.

So, “The Martian?” I think I’ll give that flick a miss.

Too many memories, Earthling.

My career as a judge was short, though not especially sweet

In last week's column I made a disparaging remark about judges and now I want to take it back.  No, I did not receive a threatening letter from some personal injury attorney and no, nobody has suddenly "discovered" an old bench warrant for my unpaid parking tickets (though I'm guessing there's probably one out there somewhere).

The reason I feel compelled to retract my previous derogatory remark (it's available online if you're really interested) is this: I was recently called upon to serve as a judge myself.  Happily, I wasn't asked to send anyone to prison or the electric chair; all I had to do was decide who had the best Halloween costume.

This may not sound like a job requiring much wisdom, fortitude or legal acumen, but first prize was $75.  There were party-goers at the Riverbend Bar & Grille who really wanted that cash.  This despite the manic pace of the waitstaff, which suggested $75 would not have covered the bar tab of most of the patrons present.

My band was playing Halloween weekend, so I was tagged to "supervise" the costume judging contest.  Theoretically, the winner is determined by audience applause, but as anyone who has ever officiated at one of these things can tell you, this is like trying to organize a can of earthworms.  Earthworms who really like margaritas.  Still, taking my responsibilities seriously (for a change) I downloaded a sound-level meter ap for my Android (there really is an ap for everything).  I even tested it on my girlfriend's snoring, which registered roughly the same sound pressure levels as a 767 taking off from JFK.  (For rebuttals to this comment, please see Sweet Annie's Facebook page.)

I thought I was ready.  I was wrong.

First off, there were far more costumed contestants than I had expected.  To make matters worse, many of the costumes were really good.  In addition to the usual barroom assortment of sexy kittens, naughty nurses and Blues Brothers clones, there were hippies, disco kings and queens, Mother Nature, Indian princesses.  I myself came disguised as my band's lead guitar player, Nelson, who looks just like Otto, the bus driver from the TV show The Simpsons.  Nelson also came as Nelson, since he's too cool to wear a costume.

In addition to the good costumes there were plenty of lousy ones, mostly worn by younger guys who were more interested in meeting girls than in winning contests.

It wasn't until I announced the contest and called for the contestants to gather on the dance floor that I fully realized just how many contestants we had.  It was a crowd.

With the help of our sax player, Rocky, we introduced each contestant in turn and asked the audience to show its appreciation with applause.  It was at this point I realized that--although there is an ap for everything--not all of them work.  My sound meter was going off the charts and proving to be more or less useless.

So I was forced to keep track, in my head, of which contestant garnered the loudest applause.  Also, second and third place had to be accounted for.  I did my best, but at contest's end I could tell there was some dissension amongst the multitude as to the veracity of my judgments.  I think it was the shouted epithets and thrown beer bottles that tipped me off.  I felt a sudden affinity for major league umpires.

I managed to get to my car and make good my escape at the end of the night.  I haven't received any death threats from losing contestants.  But I'm pretty sure my career as a judge is over.

And to all you judges I offended last week: I really am sorry.  Turns out that job is tougher than it looks.

Mike Taylor's book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available at mtrealitycheck.com and in eBook format at Barnes & Noble, Border's Books and other online book sellers.  Email Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I predict this column will anger a lot of ‘God-gifted’ psychics

I’ve mentioned here before that I love The Old Farmer’s Almanac. Not those lame-o rip-offs that some unscrupulous supermarkets have been pushing in recent years, but the real Almanac, the one featuring Benjamin Franklin and Almanac founder Robert B. Thomas on its cover. The one that – as of last year – was on issue number CCXVII (which is Roman for “older than Clint Eastwood”).

Growing up in big cities (Detroit, Grand Rapids, Phoenix, Indianapolis, etc.) I had little contact with the world depicted in the Almanac. I was in my teens before I realized carrots weren’t manufactured from long chain polymers in a factory in Queens.

But once I moved to my current home in the bucolic Michigan countryside, I moved with all my heart, might, mind and soul. I planted a garden. I walked and rode my bike alongside miles of corn, beans and ‘taters. I did everything but buy an Amish hat and plow my back forty (feet, that is) with a horse.

I learned a lot, and one of the first things I learned is that folks around here read the Almanac, even those who don’t farm. So I did, too. Sure, there’s plenty of advice for farmers in there; planting tables, frost predictions and so on. But there’s also stuff for reformed city slickers like me.

But the best part, in my opinion, is the advertising section in the back. One thing you can say about the Almanac – they will accept anyone’s advertising dollar. In this economy, you can’t blame ‘em.

The best ads are from psychics. The word “psychic,” as you may be aware, is derived from the Latin “psychulorum,” which loosely interpreted, means “fraud.”*

There are pages of ads from psychics anxious to help with everything from your love life to your problems with the IRS.

“Sister Chloe” is one of my faves this year. Not only is she – according to her ad – “God-gifted,” she can predict the past, present and future. Now, I’m no psychic, but even I can predict the past and present!

It’s getting clearer … clearer … yes! I predict that this morning I had Corn Chex for breakfast! I’m now eating a baloney sandwich for lunch!

Amazing, eh? Predicting the future is a little tougher, but Sister Chloe can do it, for a price. Same goes for Rev. Dr. Black. Not only a reverend, but a doctor as well. If you can’t trust a reverend doctor, whom can you trust?

In fact, about half the psychics listed in the Almanac classifieds are doctors, reverends or “sisters.” Most of the rest are “God-gifted.” (God, apparently, hands out psychic talent like Halloween candy.) That makes it tough for Martha. Martha boasts no medical or religious credentials, she’s just plain Martha. But she does guarantee immediate results! (She does not specify what those results may be, however. The psychic world is a mysterious thing.)

They all claim to be able to remove spells, hexes, voodoo, hoodoo, bad luck, sickness and even lawsuits! That’s cool, but personally, I’d like to get in touch with the folks who cast those hexes and spells in the first place.

Halloween’s coming, and I have enemies.

* OK, I made that up. The only Latin I remember is from morning mass in fourth grade. Dominoes and biscuits, I think it was. Something like that.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

It isn’t easy being green, even on Halloween

As I write this, Halloween is still a couple weeks away. I don’t know where you stand on the whole Halloween issue; it seems these days there’s almost nothing you can say about anything that won’t offend somebody. I could write that I like blue skies and some nitwit would claim I’m promoting melanoma and that statistics show gray skies are “safer.”

The same holds true for Halloween. Yes, I know there are folks who consider it an open gateway to Satanism, Paganism, Diabolism and probably a couple other isms I haven’t even heard of. I like to think it’s a chance for kids to have fun and eat too much chocolate.

If you think otherwise, feel free to move on to the sports section now. Larry, our sports editor, is good at his job and there’s a lot of great local coverage there. Read how lousy your local team did Friday night and get mad at Larry instead of me. He’s a sports guy. He can take it. I’m a writer/artist type and therefore too sissified and delicate for that sort of conflict.

Don’t make me hit you to prove it.

At any rate, I’m not trying to promote the Trick or Treat ethos. In fact, this week’s column is a cautionary tale, a warning to youngsters who may become too intensely focused on developing the perfect costume.

My experience in this arena reached its zenith in October of 1964. It was a time when the United States was working overtime to get somebody—anybody—into space, into orbit, and on the moon before the Ruskies did. I was too young to know just why this was important, but I was definitely caught up in the excitement of it all.

Every week I thrilled to the campy thrills of The Outer Limits. My long term goal in life was to be abducted by space aliens. It still is. That may explain the current state of my 401k.

Anyway, I was a space geek. It’s only natural my Halloween costume would reflect this fact.

Now, you have to remember, this was a far-off, primitive age, when kids (at least in my neighborhood) still had to make their own costumes! Kids from good families got their mothers to make ‘em; kids from bad families cut two holes in a pillow case and called it good.

I came from a good family, so mom pitched in.

When I told her I wanted to trick or treat as a Martian, she immediately set about designing a costume that would make Rod Serling proud. She sewed shiny, silver fabric into a Martian-esque tunic, located some pre-cursor to “moon boots,” and even fashioned a pair of antennae from coat hangers and aluminum foil. (Everyone knows Martians have antennae, right?)

I slicked my hair back in a menacing fashion and voila, a Martian was born.

Only problem? Martians, as everyone also knows, are green. I was not, at least by nature.

I lobbied for green spray paint, preferably with metal flake, like I used on my model cars. My mother, no doubt picturing long afternoons removing it with a bucket of turpentine soaked rags, vetoed that idea.

In the end we opted for food coloring. Several bottles of it turned the water in the bathtub the appropriate shade of green. I soaked my skinny body—making sure to submerge my head until my lungs gave out—for about a half-hour. When I finally climbed, dripping wet and pruny, from that tub, I could have passed as a Martian in any club the Jetsons frequented.

At school, my costume won first prize. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

Less proud was the day after Halloween, when I tried to wash off the green. I tried soap. I tried cold cream. My mother tried kerosene, baby oil and several products designed, I think, for removing rust from mailbox posts.

Nothing worked. I was still a little green on Thanksgiving. By Christmas, I was an Earthling again.

I was glad to be pink, I guess. But a part of me, to this day, still misses being a Martian.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

It’s hard for a dog to feel burly when dressed like a clown

My new dog is a wimp. There, I said it. I might as well; I’m sure other folks around town are saying it, too, after what happened last weekend.

As usual, I blame The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. It was, after all, her idea to dress our hound up like a clown with gender identity issues and force him to prance around in a “Halloween for Pets” competition.

Now, those of you who read this column regularly (both of you) already know Prince is a big dog, or a small horse; the jury’s still out on that one. He’s a beautiful, noble greyhound, recently “rescued” from the track where he used to chase mechanical bunnies while race fans lost money betting on him. (He’s fast, but not by greyhound standards.)

Despite his losing nature at the track, he is a magnificent example of the breed. I always feel cooler when he’s walking beside me, even though I am not such a hot example of my breed (middle-aged, Caucasian human).

So I was vexed when Mrs. Taylor told me of her plans to drape the poor animal in a frilly clown suit and force him to wear it in public. But once an idea enters her mind, even a bad one, it’s there to stay. I learned long ago it’s easier just to step aside and let things run their course.

Still, I felt pity for the hapless beast as Mrs. T slipped the ruffled, multi-hued anklets over his immense paws. Prince stood stoically as she stretched the collar—also ruffled and gayer than a San Francisco Mayday parade—around his thickly-muscled neck. He balked at wearing the goofy, pointed hat; I give him credit for that.

By the time Mrs. Taylor was finished, Prince could easily have landed a job dancing with The Village People, right between the Indian and the construction worker.

I made one last, desperate plea to Mrs. T to let the poor dog keep his dignity, but my entreaties fell on deaf ears.

“Oh, he looks soooo cute!” Mrs. Taylor enthused.

Prince, meanwhile, huddled behind the big recliner in the corner, trying to hide his shame.

The walk down the street to the old library, where the contest was being held, was an uncomfortable one. Cars slowed, faces gawped through tinted windows. Prince struggled to keep his head up, but was making a poor show of it.

About 50 dogs gathered in front of the library, all looking about as miserable as Prince. My stepson James was there; his girlfriend had dressed their Pit Bull mix as an angel and was introducing her around to the other dogs. James looked every bit as embarrassed as I felt.

Halloween parties for dogs are, not to put to fine a point on it, a chick thing.

The worst part was, despite being by far the largest pooch in attendance, Prince was scared to death of all the other dogs. At one point, a brown ball of fur small enough to fit into my shirt pocket backed Prince into the library doorway where he stood shivering like a naked, wet Eskimo.

Former racing greyhounds can be, well, weird when it comes to socializing with other dogs and Prince, it seems, is no exception. Or maybe it was that idiotic clown suit that sapped his self-confidence.

Whatever the case, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor had to practically drag him past the judges’ table.

Prince won an honorable mention. That’s too bad, because it encouraged Mrs. T, who’s already talking about his chances in next year’s competition.

Poor, poor dog.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I may have found a way to help Mrs. T kick her chocolate addiction

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor loves chocolate. No, more than loves. It’s more like the attraction Romeo felt toward Juliet, that the Dalai Lama feels toward achieving oneness with the universe, that Ronald McDonald feels toward cheeseburgers.

It’s an addiction.

Our annual summertime trek to Mackinaw Island inevitably becomes, at some point, an orgy of fudge. Come Halloween, we wind up having to purchase nearly twice as much candy as we strictly need for trick-or-treaters; half goes to the kids, half is consumed by Mrs. T in the days leading up to the holiday.

Despite being a choco-junkie, she manages to stay slim and beautiful. (Feel free to hate her for this, ladies. All her friends do.)

At any rate, with every illicit nibble of chocolate Mrs. T takes, she complains bitterly about her habit.

“Oh, I shouldn’t be eating this junk,” she moans. “It’s so bad for me!”

And then the Snicker’s bar disappears. She can’t help herself.

But maybe I can.

This notion came to me recently after reading an article in a Canadian newspaper about a woman, Sabrina Orrico, who found an unpleasant “surprise” in a box of mini chocolate bars she purchased from a Toronto drug store.

She intended, allegedly, to hand out the candy to trick-or-treaters. But—being a chocoholic like Mrs. Taylor—she felt obliged to “sample” the goods first.

Inside the box, along with the candy, Ms. Orrico discovered four packages wrapped in newspaper.

Ms. Orrico was upset, thinking the newspaper had been stuffed in the box to make it appear fuller. She pulled the bundles out and unwrapped the first of the four packages. It contained wire cutters.

The second package held a section of plastic pipe. Inside the final two packages were copper wire and a half-empty bottle of liquid.

Now, 20 years ago, someone might have found all this stuff and thought, “That’s odd.” Times being what they are, however, Ms. Orrico’s response was, “Holy moley! A bomb!”

Despite filmmaker Michael Moore’s assertion that the only crime in Canada happens when Snidely Whiplash ties Sweet Nell to the railroad tracks, Ms. Orrico was worried. So worried, in fact, that she shook the package.

I’m guessing Ms. Orrico has had no formal bomb squad training. I don’t know about you, but when I’m holding a box that I suspect is a bomb, the last thing I’m inclined to do is shake it. Placing it gently on the ground, and then running several miles in the other direction while repeatedly reciting Hail Mary’s is more my speed.

Instead of calling the police, Ms. Orrico repackaged the bomb-making equipment and returned it to the store for a refund. I’ve dealt with employees at those ironically-named “courtesy counters” before, and frankly, I can understand Ms. Orrico’s thinking on this one.

At any rate, Ms. Orrico got her refund, nobody got blown up, and Halloween progressed as it always has. With one minor difference: Ms. Orrico says she is now afraid to eat chocolate. She has developed a serious aversion to it, in fact.

So I’m wondering if a similar trick might work on Mrs. Taylor. There’s a huge, orange tub of candy bars sitting in our guest room closet right now, awaiting the arrival of this year’s crop of costumed children.

I have a windup alarm clock, some wire and a couple pieces of scrap PVC pipe. Come Halloween night, those items will be halfway buried in the candy and I’ll be standing in the shadows behind Mrs. T with an inflated paper bag.

I’ll let you know how it works out.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Halloween brings memories of scariest job ever

Halloween’s coming. That puts me in mind of my old buddy Clarence, from Detroit. We went to high school there, back in the ‘70s, and though I haven’t seen Clarence in decades, I still think of him from time to time, mostly around Halloween.

I do so because Clarence, for a few weeks in October of 1976, had the scariest job in the world—night attendant at the city morgue.

The Detroit morgue in the 1970s, was—you should excuse the pun—a lively place. People were dying to get in. (Feel free to groan at this point.)

Clarence had no medical experience, nor did he need any. All he had to do was catalog incoming “residents,” file the requisite paperwork, and lock up when his shift was over. The rest of the time he just read or watched late-night programming on a portable, black-and-white TV.

Despite the “creepy factor” of spending nights alone in a tiny office adjacent to a large room filled with the recently deceased, the job was a cushy one. The only downside came at the end of his shift.

To close up, Clarence had to switch off the lights and make sure everything was locked down tight. Problem was, the light switch controlling the overhead fluorescents was on the opposite side of the room from the exit. After killing the lights, Clarence had to walk, in the dark, through a room full of folks who wouldn’t be getting up for breakfast the next morning. Or ever.

For someone with a less active imagination, this might not have been a problem. But Clarence had seen every slasher movie in existence and consumed the entire catalogues of Stephen King and H.P. Lovecraft. His psyche was primed for what came next.

As he did every night, Clarence steeled his nerves before entering the refrigerated room where the bodies lay. He propped the door open with a folding chair to let in light from the office. A water cooler—the sort with an inverted five-gallon jug on top—stood to the right of the door. Clarence paused long enough to fill a Dixie cup and drink.

Then he crossed the frigid room. Fingers on the switch, he turned back to focus on the rectangle of light slanting in from the open door; the exit.

Clarence flipped the switch, enveloping the room into semi-darkness. The dim yellow glow from the office was now the only illumination; the bodies on the tables no more than vague shapes beneath hospital-blue sheets.

Sticking close to the center of the room, Clarence inched his way toward the exit. He was about halfway there when the folding chair scraped free and the door slammed shut.

Clarence froze in the utter darkness, determined not to panic. Mustering his flagging courage, he eased toward where he guessed the door to be.

It was at this point that two unfortunate things happened simultaneously: Clarence bumped into a table containing a “guest” and the water cooler “gurgled,” making a loud, gulping noise.

Choking off a scream, Clarence stumbled backward. Instinctively reaching out to halt his fall, he grabbed the first thing his hand came in contact with—the arm of the table’s occupant. Clarence hit the floor, pulling the body on top of him.

Clarence arrived at my apartment 15 minutes later asking to borrow my phone. He explained to his supervisor that he hadn’t locked up, that there was a body on the floor, and that, as of that moment, he quit.

I don’t think he even went back for his final paycheck.

I sometimes wonder what Clarence is doing for employment these days. Whatever it is, I hope he’s working with the living. He never got on well with the dead.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.