For the sake of the congregation, please choose another speaker

I’m not sure why, but lately I’ve been asked to do a lot of speaking engagements. Well, not a lot, but many. Not many. Five.

For me, five is a lot.

I’ve been asked to speak at schools, hospitals and, just this morning, a church. According to the pastor, his wife thinks I’m “as entertaining as Don Rickles.”

I only wish this were true. This column may be mildly amusing (or not) but in real life, I’m about as entertaining as socks drying in a laundromat. Gray socks.

It’s a real problem. Regular “Reality Check” readers (both of ‘em) are always disappointed when they meet me in person. In real life, I’m just not all that funny. In fact, I tend to be long-winded and boring. If you don’t believe me, just ask any of my ex-wives, whose phone numbers and addresses I will happily provide, assuming you’re not some sort of crazed, psycho killer (nudge, nudge, wink, wink).

But the “boring” thing is just the tip of what is, I fear, a rather large iceberg. Far worse is my utter and undeniable inability to speak like a rational person when standing in front of an audience. I stutter, I repeat myself; for all I know I drool, but I wouldn’t know for sure because I’m so terrified I lose all sense of feeling in my upper body.

And that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is, I blurt. My blurtings are usually wildly inappropriate, inaccurate, or outright obscene. I have some sort of stress-induced Tourette syndrome.

Over the years I have tried the usual public speaking “tricks,” such as picturing members of my audience in their underwear. I don’t know who came up with this bit of lunacy, but it has never worked for me. It might, I suppose, were I addressing an audience of Swedish stewardesses or a convention center filled with Victoria’s Secret models. But the last picture I want rolling around in my head is that of a bunch of Rotarians in polka-dot boxer shorts and wife-beater T-shirts eating donuts and drinking bad coffee.

A doctor I went to while living in Detroit prescribed a double-shot of Jameson just prior to any speaking engagement. There’s a reason I chose this doctor. But the idea of standing in front of an audience of nice, decent church folk while half in the bag is not one I really want to entertain.

While it’s true that a generous shot of good whiskey does calm my nerves, it also has the unfortunate side-effect of making me think my every utterance is brilliant, hilarious and otherwise on a par with the teachings of the Buddha. This is fine for a Saturday night at Driftwood Bar & Grill, but probably not the state of mind one should aspire to when speaking in a church.

Also, booze only worsens my blurting problem. After the application of even a couple drinks, my address to the congregation would probably go a little like this:

“Hi folks! Thanks so much for asking me to be here today. I’m nervous, so I’m a little bit drunk and picturing you all in your underwear. Hope you don’t mind. I wish you could all see what I’m seeing right now, in my head. You, especially, ma’am; I mean, whoo-ee! I didn’t even know Frederick’s of Hollywood was still in business!

“Um, anyway, I could go on forever about the underwear thing, but I can tell by the torches and pitchforks I should probably move on to my main topic, which is, um … the debilitating effects of Jameson on nervous columnists.

“No, wait, I mean, writing. Yeah, I can talk about writing. But really, the whole underwear thing is SO MUCH more interesting, right? Let’s get back to that for a minute…”

Things would go downhill from there.

I know this because I have done a few speaking engagements in the past. I am never invited back for an encore performance.

So, Pastor Baynai, for the sake of both your reputation and my own continued popularity with your wife, I’m going to have to decline your offer to speak at the pancake breakfast. I hate to disappoint, but honestly, this is for the best.

However, if those Victoria’s Secret models are still looking for a speaker…

mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com

(616) 548-8273

For five bucks, you too can listen to me talk about nothing important

It’s happened again; they’ve asked me to speak in public. Last time it was to a bunch of grade school kids, and even that scared me to death. This time it’s to a singles group. Grownups.

Apparently, the collection of columns I've come to think of as the “Break-up Essays” caught the eye of Marie, a local singles group leader. I wrote those essays several months ago, while dealing with my sudden, unanticipated bachelorhood.

Some are sad, some funny; in some the anger and hurt I was feeling at the time is barely veiled beneath a thin veneer of humor. At least I hope the hurt and anger is veiled; that was my intent.

These days—thanks to time, crazy good luck and an amazing, wonderful woman named Anne—life is again good. It has been for a while. And it’s looking to get a whole lot better.

At any rate, Marie sent me an email last week asking that I share my experiences with her organization’s membership.

She offered me money.

I hate public speaking, but I really like money, or rather the things money can buy, like next month’s allotment of Ramen noodles. So I have—tentatively at least—agreed to address the singles group.

Problem is, I have no idea what I’m going to say. The elementary kids were easy; they wanted to know where I grew up, who my favorite writers are, and whether I had any kids of my own. I’m guessing the singles group is expecting something a bit more enlightening.

According to the group’s Website, most of the previous speakers (they host one every Monday) are experts on one thing or another. Psychologists, sociologists, guys who have written self-help books on dealing with divorce…then there’s me, a humor columnist who don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout nuthin’. I couldn’t feel more confident.

Yeah, I could.

I have to speak for 45 minutes, followed by a Q&A. I’m guessing the Q&A will be easy because everyone will be sound asleep by then. If I’m lucky. If I’m not, the singles group members will be outside keying my car, angry about having forked over five bucks to listen to a doofus who don’t know—as I mentioned earlier—nuthin’ ‘bout nuthin’.

I know if I paid good money to listen to me, I’d be out there keying my car right along with ‘em.

I mean, five bucks man! You can see a movie for that—if you go to a matinee at a theater that shows flicks from years ago. You could see When Harry Met Sally, and that offers more wisdom about relationships than I’ll ever be able to provide.

But it’s not just the money; even if these folks were getting in for free, I’d feel I was cheating them somehow. I am, after all, an expert on absolutely nothing, unless you count my rather extensive knowledge of beer and burritos. I could speak on that, but I’m not sure that’s exactly what they’re paying me for. More importantly, I’m not sure if they’re paying me before or after I speak. (I’m hoping for before, otherwise I may be forced to shoplift next month’s supply of Ramen noodles.)

So what will I talk about? I have a few ideas, none of them good. I’m hoping something will come to me between now and the date of my speaking engagement.

If not, I’ll just bring along my DVD of When Harry Met Sally and we can all watch that together.

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