I knew this would happen; I’m starting to repeat myself repeat myself

It’s what every aging columnist fears. The day he begins to repeat himself repeat himself.

It happened to me while writing last week’s column. That column dealt with a kid I met on a drive-in movie playground back when I was only nine. Months earlier the kid had been shot in the leg and bore the cool scar to prove it.

I thought the column was kind of clever; not Pulitzer material, but a cute enough story. Turns out it was a story I’ve told before and less than a year ago. I wasn’t plagiarizing myself. I just forgot.

This faux pas was pointed out to me by Sweet Annie, whom I’m seeing again, at least until she wises up. Again. Unlike the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor, Annie not only reads my column religiously, she remembers what she reads and can recite it back to me months later, long after I’ve forgotten even the topic, much less the content.

I feel I should be forgiven this lapse in memory, however. I’ve been writing this column for over 20 years, every week, rain or shine. That comes to well over 1,000 columns. At approximately 700 words each, that’s over 700,000 words written. How can I be expected to remember them all, and in order?

And this column is only one of many things I write each week. I also write four different horoscopes for an English-speaking newspaper in Russia, news articles for an insurance company website, press releases for a place that sells athletic supplements online, a novel (though not in its entirety), occasional short stories, bad poetry no one will ever see until after I’m dead, return letters to readers of this column, and text messages to my grandson, Edison.

That’s a lot of words. Is it any wonder I can’t remember one column from nearly a year ago?

I know, I know…they do pay me a fair wage for this turkey and—in theory, at least—I should be putting so much thought and effort into each and every entry that there’s no way I could forget one. That’s rarely the way it works in real life, though. In real life, I simply sit down in front of the laptop once a week, usually at a nearby coffee shop, where I am frequently distracted by the cute office girls coming in and out to purchase their daily mocha-frappa-chino-latte-whatevers.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah. I sit here and write about the first thing that comes into my mind. It takes about an hour and even then I usually write more words than my editor, Mike, really wants to see in any given week. Mike likes about 500 words because they fit into more places throughout the newspaper. I can rarely articulate my admittedly jumbled thoughts in less than 700.

In fact, I just checked and I’m about to pass the 500 mark right now. Or right now. No, now. Now. Yup, that last “now” was it. And I still haven’t figured out whether this column is about my poor memory, my ability to write fewer than 700 words at a time, or the fact I’m dating Annie again. You see my problem.

I probably should have just gone with my first idea; this story about a kid I once met who had been shot in the leg…

Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Please stop me if you’ve heard this one before

Before my grandfather died I used to love spending Sunday afternoons at the country home he had for 40 years or more shared with my grandma. It was a big old sun-filled place with lots of rooms, odd angles and even a root cellar (which, it was discovered after my grandpa’s passing, was filled with Mason jars stuffed with money! He had been secreting them away down there for decades.)

The reason I visited wasn’t the house, though, or even my grandmother’s Sunday dinners, which were the stuff of legends.

I went for the stories.

As I’ve mentioned in this column before, my grandfather could spin a yarn to make Twain (Mark, not Shania) jealous. It was in his living room that I learned my appreciation for the storyteller’s art.

But even when I was a fairly young man, grandfather was getting old. Like most old men, he tended to forget what stories he had related before, and my visits often involved three or four “re-runs” before he would happen on a new tale, one I’d not heard before.

I didn’t mind; his stories were as good the second, third, or even fourth time around. They held up. My grandmother might have disagreed with this assessment, but that’s just the nature of married life.

When I was young, I never really understood how he could forget that he had just the week before told me all about “The Day the Still Exploded,” or “The Day I Shot an ‘Alligator.’” (He never titled his stories, but in the years since, I have.)

I couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t keep track of what he had said and not said.

I can now.

I’ve been writing this column for nigh on (“nigh on” is what we geezers say when we mean “nearly”) 20 years. That adds up to well over 1,000 columns – as many words as one of Stephen King’s “short” books.

That’s over 1,000 stories, most gleaned from my own life or the lives of those around me.

When I sat down this morning to write this column, I had a topic in mind; a story about the time my son (then 15) swiped the family car to go joy riding in the middle of the night. But as I started hammering out the words, they all seemed somehow too familiar. Had I written this column before? Years ago, maybe?

I just couldn’t remember. I looked through all my old paper files, but couldn’t find it there. Considering the state of my files, that proves nothing. I checked my backup drive, found nothing there either.

It’s a good story, and funny, I think. I’d like to share it with you. Maybe next week. If I remember. Or maybe I’ll tell it to my grandson.


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

Poor memory equals loss of wedding cake opportunities

I missed my buddy Bob’s wedding last Saturday. It was—from what I hear—a nice event; casual, fun, romantic. Everything a wedding is supposed to be, but without all the uncomfortable, formal hoo-hah associated with many such ceremonies.

I missed Bob’s first wedding, too, but that was mostly because his first wife hated my filthy guts. Probably still does. I am not universally loved, especially by my friends’ wives.

Apparently, I am a bad influence.

Bob’s new wife, however, is a real sweetie who doesn’t hate my guts. At least, not yet. So I got an invite.

I had been looking forward to the reception for weeks. Bob and I grew up together and all our old friends—Nosepick, BT, Blub and Frizzy Bri, among others—all were going to be there. I couldn’t wait to catch up.

But when the big day arrived, I forgot. It was as simple as that. I just plain forgot.

How, you might ask, could someone just forget something this important? I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t.

Somehow, Bob and Tally’s wedding just slipped my mind.

So instead of attending a pleasant wedding, followed by a reception populated with good friends, conversation, and great food and drink, I instead did yard work, putted around the house, clipped the dog’s toenails. I feel so cheated!

And all because I have the memory of a 98-year-old recovering alcoholic with a severe cranial injury and late-stage Mad Cow Disease.

I get no sympathy from The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. According to her, my tendency is to “forget” things like roof tile mending, snow shoveling, grass mowing, and trash taking-outing. Also, she rightly notes that I never forget to buy beer, watch the opening credits to Baywatch or pick up new batteries when the two in the TV remote start getting weak.

I’m not sure why I’m so scattered. My schedule is full, but not Type-A-personality-overbooked-stress-inducing-think-I’m-gonna-have-a-major-coronary-by-age-30-die-young-leave-a-frazzled-looking-corpse full.

I stop to smell the roses. I take the path less traveled by. My mind is not chock-full of things I simply must remember. In fact, through a careful mix of avoiding responsibility whenever possible, volunteering for nothing, and cultivating a reputation for being an utter flake, I’ve managed to construct a lifestyle that requires me to remember very little.

Yet, too often, even those few things I should remember—that I want to remember—I somehow manage to forget. Sometimes, my forgetfulness results in nothing worse than a trip back to the grocery to pick up whatever it was Mrs. T wanted me to get while I was there buying beer. Sometimes, it means I miss a good friend’s wedding.

I’m like the dumb uncle in It’s a Wonderful Life, the one who manages to misplace the bank deposit.

Hopefully, my buddy Bob and his new wife will be as forgiving as Jimmy Stewart was in that movie. You know, the one we were talking about a minute ago? I forget the title.



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