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.

Be careful what you ask for, you just might get it

 Boys, I've noticed, often want foolish things. Your average nine-year-old, for instance, has no practical use for a flame-thrower. But I've never met a boy who didn't want one.

When I was nine, there was nothing in the world I longed for more than to be shot. With a gun. Preferably in the leg.

I knew it would hurt, probably a lot, but I didn't care. I gladly would have paid someone my allowance for a month to shoot me just above the knee. If I'd known anything about calibers, I would probably have chosen a .22 with a low-yield round, maybe bird-shot. The point was to get myself an awesome scar, but live to brag about it.

Just like the kid I met on the drive-in movie playground. It was summertime and the playground was crowded with the noisy progeny of middle-class parents waiting for the sun to set so the projectionist could cue up the latest James Bond thriller. I saw the kid's scar while we were spinning on the merry-go-round.

Nine-year-old boys don't know from social graces, so I blurted it out: "What's that?" I asked, pointing to his truly impressive wound; a shiny, round hole, healed over and surrounded by scar tissue radiating outward. It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

"My dad shot me," he answered without preamble or explanation.

"No way," I said. A small crowd of boys had begun to gather around the kid and his scar. He was enjoying the attention and who could blame him.

"My dad was cleaning his gun and it went off," the kid explained.

This was followed by a chorus of "Cool!" and "Wow!" and "Did it hurt?"

It was cool and it was wow and—according to the kid—it did hurt.

I didn't care. From that point on I wanted a cool scar of my own. Oh, I had a couple by then; one on the forehead from a car accident and one on my right hand, from the time I tripped while carrying a glass jar filled with caterpillars. But I had nothing to compare with this kid's bullet hole. Compared to that, my scars were stubbed toes, the sniffles, hiccups.

A couple years later I was hit by a car and had to walk around on crutches for a few months. That was OK, but still, nowhere near as cool as a bullet hole.

Considering the end-of-the-relationship moments I’ve had with at least a couple of my ex-wives, it’s a miracle I haven’t been shot by now. I still think it would be cool to have a bullet scar, but I’m no longer so sure I’m willing to live through the pain involved in getting one.

 Who says I never grew up?

Mike Taylor’s book Looking at the Pint Half Full is available in eBook format from Borders, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers or in paperback from mtrealitycheck.com.