It’s hard to maintain a sense of honor while dating the enemy

So now I’m back to dating. I was hoping I was past that once and for all, but I guess not. I’ve trimmed my toenails, ironed my best shirt, shined my shoes, paid down my primary credit card, told myself repeatedly how wonderful I am, purchased new cologne…I am again ready to rock and roll.

Problem is, my heart’s not really in it. I’m doing fine on my own, really (insert pathetic, sobbing sounds here), and I’m not exactly anxious to jump back on the dating bandwagon.

Oh, I’m anxious to date the right woman; I’m just not crazy about the idea of dating all those other women during what will be, if past experience is any indication, a long and arduous search. Frankly, I just don’t know if I have it in me to go through all that again.

But I will, because I don’t like living alone. I’ve admitted it before and I’ll admit it again; I like having a wife. Those of you who have one and don’t like it are probably married to the wrong woman. I know because I have been, on several occasions.

At any rate, in recent weeks I’ve been sort of dipping my toes in the water, just to see how I feel about things. I’ve been talking to a girl I saw last summer that I really liked. I’ve reposted my “profile” on the singles Website I frequented a while back. And I have gotten a few “hits,” some from girls who seem very nice.

But the one I’m most interested in at the moment is from a girl I always hated. I used to work for her, about eight years ago, if memory serves.

I’ll call her “Sue,” though her real name is “Deb.” Deb managed a hotel bar where my little weekend band played regularly. She managed the place with an iron fist; I wasn’t the only one there who hated her.

Nobody got away with nothin’ there. Not the waitresses, not the busboys, not the chef, not even the band! And the band usually gets away with murder everywhere.

But not at the bar Deb—I mean Sue—managed. She ran a tight ship; no free drinks, no smoking stinky cigars, no playing too loud or taking long breaks. To Sue, the musicians were employees, not spoiled, middle-aged rock stars. We like being spoiled, middle-aged rock stars!

Now, if I had been manager of that bar, I would have run things exactly like Sue. If a bar manager doesn’t keep a tight rein on things, the bar sinks faster than the Titanic. I’ve been in the business a long time and have seen this scenario played out repeatedly.

Even so, we all still hated Sue. This despite the fact she was super-cute, intelligent and basically a nice person, when she wasn’t “managing.”

Anyway, she emailed me the other day after seeing my profile on the singles Website. She said she saw my profile, remembered me from the band, and thought I was “yummy.” I’ve never been called yummy before, and to my surprise, I really like it.

So now, I’ve got to decide; do I give her a call, ask her out, see what happens? Heaven knows I want to. Like I said, she’s super-cute.

But if I do, I’ll be betraying all the guys I played with back then, some of whom I work with to this day. They’ll never forgive me if I sell out to the enemy. Also, there’s a code of honor between guys who play music together, a sacred bond that transcends male/female relationships, that…that…

Oh, who am I kidding? She thinks I'm yummy. Yeah, I’m gonna call her. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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

Just how obvious is my evil nature, anyway?

I’m not a particularly evil person. Despite what my ex-wives may say. No, really. I rarely lie, I never steal, I try to follow the Golden Rule unless somebody cuts me off in traffic, in which case all bets are off.

I don’t remember all ten of the Commandments, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t broken any in a long time.

But just lately I’m starting to get a little paranoid about my eventual fate in the afterlife. It’s not that I’ve suddenly begun living a hedonistic life filled with degradation, self-indulgence and debauchery (though I’ll admit that sounds kind of fun).

I’m worried because of the priest.

See, for the past couple months, I’ve begun—after decades of inactivity—to attend mass again.

I’ve been going Sunday afternoons to St. Robert’s in Ada. It’s a relatively new church compared to the antediluvian west-side structures of my youth.

St. Robert’s is a nice parish. The people are friendly and I really like the pastor there. His sermons, as a rule, are clever, engaging and charged with good advice sinners like me can make use of in real life.

But like the nuns of my Catholic school days, the Father sometimes seems to know too much, about me, I mean. St. Robert’s is a big congregation, and by all rights I should be just another anonymous face in the crowd. However, there are times during the weekly sermon when I could swear he’s addressing me personally.

Last week’s topic was the Prodigal Son, and the good Father looked my way throughout the entire sermon. I think he did, anyway. I suppose it’s possible that I—like the narrator of Poe’s “The Telltale Heart”—was simply dealing with my own sense of guilt and imagining the whole thing.

But it sure seemed that way.

Surely, I thought to myself, there must be other sinners in a crowd this big; other evil-doers in need of special priestly attention. Why was I being singled out?

This uneasy feeling was only exacerbated when, after the service, I met the Father on my way out. He regularly stands near the exit shaking hands and speaking briefly with parishioners as they make their exodus.

“Nice to see you!” the Father said to the well-dressed couple near the doorway.

“Have a good week,” the Father said to the folks just in front of me.

The Father offered his hand as I approached the exit. I shook it. Then he said—and I’m not kidding here—“Looks like we’ve got all kinds of people here this Sunday.”

By the time I realized what he’d said, I was down the steps and halfway to my car.

All kinds of people? I thought. What does that mean? What kinds of people?

Does the Father know something I don’t? Have my ex-wives been reporting to him directly? Is there some sort of tattle-tale network I don’t know about? Some overly-blabby Facebook kind of thing?

Or is he just guessing? Back in my youth, the nuns at St. Isadore Elementary School seemed to possess a preternatural ability to ferret out my guilty thoughts. Am I still as transparent to members of the clergy as I was in fourth grade?

I’d like to think not, but I just don’t know.

This coming Sunday I plan to attend mass in a fake moustache, baseball cap and sun glasses. If the Father still picks me out of the crowd, I’ll know for sure it’s time to mend my ways.

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

Tune in this summer for the Olympic sport I invented

I didn’t get too caught up in the Olympics this past winter; sometimes I do, but not this time around. I think some of it may have to do with the fact there are now so many sports I don’t even recognize.

Half the time when I did tune in I was treated to athletes riding—boards, vehicles, devices—that I couldn’t begin to identify. It’s just further proof I’m older than dirt, but I kinda miss skis; not the little, sissy “ballet” skis they strap on these days, but the big old Giant Slalom monsters Head manufactured back in the iron age.

At any rate, I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before advanced pottery is added to the Olympic roster of events. But I’m not complaining. Because I have an idea myself for a new Olympic sport, one that guys like me (read: old) can participate in.

Not only does my new sport fit the currently-critical criteria of being “extreme,” but it’s dangerous, foolhardy, possibly fatal and requires only a moderate outlay in equipment expenses, if one doesn’t include the cost of medical coverage.

Also, it makes for great video. The day after my new sport debuts at the Olympics, it’s gonna be all over YouTube like a rash on the butt of baby that’s been fed too much Hormel chili. Trust me.

I tried the sport a couple weekends back while visiting my daughter in Detroit.

The visit was kind of unplanned; in truth, I was hiding out at my daughter’s house because my sweetie and I were having a fight and it’s easier for me to simply avoid stuff like that than face it head-on. I’m a chicken, sue me.

Since my daughter’s busy work life doesn’t come to a grinding halt whenever I’m having woman trouble, I had a lot of time to myself. Much of that time I spent riding my bicycle around Royal Oak, watching the pedestrians, and feeling sorry for myself.

The shopping district in Royal Oak is nice; city planners have included lots of wide sidewalks, benches and trees planted at discreet intervals to provide shoppers with shade on sunny days. Each tree is planted right on the sidewalk, within a circular iron grating about three feet across. They’re pretty to look at and give the neighborhood an upscale look retailers no doubt love.

As I pedaled along on this particular sunny, unseasonably warm Saturday, I was filled with a sense of well-being. Everything will work out, I told myself. Everything will be fine; relationships take work, I told myself. I should call her. I will call her.

Lost in this affirmationist, positive thinking, Zippity-Doo-Dah frame of mind, I didn’t notice the missing tree. The iron grating was there, as was the foot-deep hole the tree used to occupy.

I rode over the grating at a gentle ten miles per hour, and directly into the hole.

The convolutions I performed as I flew over my handlebars would have brought tears to the eyes of any Olympic diver. On my return trip to the sidewalk, I managed to perform a triple-gainer, two pirouettes, and a pas de deux (no easy trick when you’re by yourself).

Though my performance up to that point was flawless, my dismount left something to be desired and I landed directly on my right shoulder and chest, which hurt like crazy for two weeks following. Also, my rotator cup now makes an odd clicking sound I don’t care for at all.

On the plus side, the Royal Oak business district was crowded with shoppers, all of whom showed great appreciation for my athletic prowess, once they discovered that I was, in fact, not dead.

The summer Olympics are not far off, but maybe there’s still time to get my new sport on the schedule. I don’t plan to compete myself, because of my injury, but I’d be happy to coach any team fielded by an English-speaking country.

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

I can’t afford to dress properly for modern biking

When I was 17, I rode my bicycle from Grand Rapids to Quebec. I no longer remember how far that ride was, but it was a long way. By the time I got to where the road signs were in French, I had calluses on my butt that rivaled any bicep Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his “Terminator” days, could have boasted.

I pedaled my Fuji the whole way wearing cutoff Levi’s and a pair of Red Ball Jets sneakers. If I stopped at a roadside café, I’d pull on a T-shirt. Other than that, I had no specialized equipment.

If I chafed, which I sometimes did, I stopped pedaling for a day or two and pitched camp in a pinewood or nearby corn field. It gave me a chance to read whatever Ray Bradbury had written recently and partake of the questionable nutritional value of Lipton’s Cup-a-Soup, the camper’s best friend (at least in the ‘70s).

I was thinking of those times earlier today, while riding my bike for the first time this year. The temperature finally climbed above the 45-degreee mark, melting most of the snow from the bike trails near my new home in Ada.

The first thing I noticed is: my new neighborhood is hilly. Riding around Ada, I felt like Hannibal trying to get his elephants over the Alps. Holy moley! What were they thinking when they built this town? No two homes should be located anywhere near the same sea level? It’s like San Francisco without the palm trees and silicone-enhanced actresses.

Anyway, it’s a lot of up-and-down for an old guy whose only exercise since last November has been drinking beer and eating pizza. But the hills I’ll get used to, or die trying—a distinct possibility. (That “elephants over the Alps” reference wasn’t entirely metaphorical.)

I only rode for about 15 miles, a short run by summertime standards, but enough to work up a sweat beneath my ski jacket this time of year. And while cruising the neighborhood I discovered something wonderful—and dangerous; there are two really good bike shops nearby. They’re the kind of places that offer bikes that require financing plans. Bikes made not from steel, but from carbon fiber. Bikes that weigh six ounces. Bikes that Lance Armstrong would prefer over Sheryl Crow.

And along with all those cool bikes, they have the cool bike accessories. Headlights, tail-lights, water bottles, water bottle holders, bags, baskets, bells, air pumps, and clothes, clothes, clothes, clothes, clothes!

Apparently, riding a bicycle around here without the proper attire is considered rather gauche. Before I go any further I’ll admit, I do have a pair of Spandex bicycle shorts and no, they do not do my backside any favors. The only purpose they serve, that I’m aware of, is to alert approaching motorists to my presence. (The shock value alone often causes drivers to swerve to the opposite side of the road.)

At any rate, the stores offer all kinds of clothing, including leg, arm and knee warmers. Most of these duds are skin tight, because cyclists are supposed to look like Lance Armstrong and date girls that look like Sheryl Crow.

Did I mention I rode to Quebec in cut-offs and sneakers? Quebec, man! I was built like Lance Armstrong back then, but nobody had invented Spandex. Now that they have, I (sadly) look more like Drew Carey than Armstrong. Spandex is no longer an option for me (except as a means of startling motorists).

I just Google-mapped Quebec; turns out the trip was just over 1,000 kilometers. I don’t know how many miles that is, but it looks like quite a few on the map. And I did it without Spandex, special shoes, a helmet or padded underwear.

I had a point to make earlier in this column, but I can’t remember what it was. I’m chafing that bad right now.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

There’s plenty of wisdom online—or is there?

Is there anything you can’t get online these days? That’s a rhetorical question; there’s isn’t. Anything you can’t get, I mean.

You can buy everything from cars to shoes to surgical procedures online. I met my fiancée online. I took my cat to get “fixed” yesterday, at a veterinary office I discovered—you got it—online. When I want to talk with my kids or find out if any of them have recently gotten married, divorced or convicted of a felony, I go online to their Facebook pages. The kids tell me nothing; they tell the world everything.

I pay my bills online, or rather I go online to explain to my numerous creditors why I am not paying my bills this month. The only bill I’m never late with is my Internet bill, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to contact all the other people I owe money to. (At this point, I could launch into a diatribe on how much fun it is to be unemployed these days in Michigan, but why? Most of you know already.)

At any rate, I’ve grown used to handling everything, from research to romance, online.

But even I was taken aback last week, when after dining at a neighborhood Chinese restaurant (all you can eat buffet; only seven bucks!) the waitress delivered my bill, along with the requisite fortune cookie.

Now, I love fortune cookies. I choose to believe everything printed in red on the little slip of paper inside them, including my lucky numbers. Some even have Chinese-to-English translations printed there, the idea being that if you eat enough Moo Goo Gai Pan, you will eventually be able to speak fluid Cantonese. (“Gung ho fat choy” for instance, means—if memory serves—“You are one gullible Yankee!”)

The fortune in this particular cookie, however, contained something more—a web address. Following the fortune: “You will win success in whatever calling you adopt” (proof positive that fortune cookies are not always right) was printed: “Want more? Visit: www.myfreefortune.com.”

Naturally—as I always do whenever an anonymous company tells me to visit their website—I rushed home, switched on the laptop, and checked it out. I shouldn’t have.

It turns out fortune cookies aren’t the infallible predictors of future wealth, health and happiness they claim to be. The fortunes contained within are not inscrutable prophecies dictated by a wise old monk sitting on a satin pillow in some cookie factory in Xi’an, as I had always imagined. Fortune cookies, it seems, are not even Chinese in origin! They might be Japanese, they might even be American. Apparently, there’s some contention over the issue. But they’re definitely not Chinese.

And they’re most assuredly not written by a wise old monk.

I was so bummed! For the past 40 years, I’ve been basing all my major life decisions on the advice put forth in fortune cookies! Now I discover the fortunes are simply made up by some surfer dude in a factory in San Francisco?

That fortune cookie company better hope I can’t find a good personal injury attorney online. I predict I’ll be able to retire on the settlement money!

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I’ve finally found my dream job, again

I’m thinking of retiring from the column-writing game. I’ve been tempted to give it up only once before, when I learned that the American Tasting Institute (there really is such a place) has full-time employees who do nothing but taste stuff, then report on whether they like it. Near as I could tell at the time, it was the only job easier than writing a column.

Turns out there’s one easier still, and I’m thinking of applying.

The job? In-house human bed warmer, and no I am not kidding.

I would have to move to the United Kingdom (some folks call it England or Great Britain—the Queen should make up her mind on this one; the whole thing’s been ambiguous too long). That’s where three Holiday Inn hotels currently offer the service.

As I understand it, the human bed warmer climbs between the client’s frosty sheets and lies there until the temperature of the bed reaches 68-degrees, at which point he or she vacates the premises to be replaced by the hotel guest.

The article I read on the subject didn’t mention how long it took for the sheets to reach the proper temperature; I’m guessing that would depend on the size of the human bed warmer, her fat-to-lean ratio, and whether she was post-menopausal and experiencing hot flashes.

Whatever the case, this does not sound like a job for skinny young girls. I, on the other hand, would be perfect for the gig! Not only am I slightly fat, but I sport more body hair than your average wildebeest. According to at least one woman who should know, sleeping next to me is like curling up with a silverback mountain gorilla that’s been jogging through the rain forest in August. (Although the woman I’m thinking of may have been referring not to heat, but odor.)

Regardless, I’m sure human bed warmer is a job I could handle. Not only am I imminently qualified with regard to heat-producing potential, but there are few things I’m as good at as lying about all day. Why, Superbowl Sunday alone I maintained a prone position on the sofa for six straight hours and nobody was even paying me! I did it for free, fool that I am.

I could have lasted longer, but I had to get up for beer ingestion and release a couple times.

I also should mention on my resume that I fall asleep easily, but rarely stay asleep for more than a half-hour. So I could move from bed-to-bed ‘round the clock, never having to take a break. Thirty minutes of shuteye here, 30 minutes there; that’s all I’d ever need. A couple meal breaks throughout the evening and I could “work” indefinitely.

At just under 30 minutes per bed, I figure I could service nearly 50 beds in a 24 hour period. That’s a full day’s work in anybody’s book.

The only thing I can think of that might keep me from fulfilling my new career dreams is this: I don’t wear pajamas. Never have, never will.

This, I’ll admit, could be a concern for some of the hotel’s more fastidious guests. It could also make my trips from room-to-room, um, interesting, though I suppose I could throw on a robe while traversing the hallways, if management insisted.

I could probably write more on this topic, but if I’m ever going to land the job, I should probably get down to some serious training. Zzzzz.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Me and the beer can lady; it’s gonna get ugly fast

I finally had it out with the beer can lady. The throw-down was a long time coming and in the end, nowhere near as satisfying as I had hoped it would be.

It started over a decade ago, when I moved to Lakeview, the tiny hamlet north of Grand Rapids where I would spend the next ten years of my life. The town, as I’ve mentioned before, grew on me in that time, and I was sorry to leave it when I relocated to Ada a month ago.

In the ensuing weeks, I’ve made the drive back and forth a dozen times or more, each trip hauling a couple loads of dishes, bathroom stuff or clothing in my dinosaur of a car. I could have rented a U-Haul truck three times over for what I’ve spent so far in gas, but I’m far too clever for that.

It was during my last trip that I finally had it out with the beer can lady.

It’s a tale that, like Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, “grew in the telling.” Or it will, once I tell it. And heavily embellish.

The beer can lady always hated me. She works at the town’s lone grocery store, back in the room where they store the returnable cans and bottles. Unlike most stores which now feature automated can return machines, the grocery in Lakeview still hires a (omigod, how archaic!) human to do the job.

It works like this: I take my empties for the week to the store, toss them in a cart (or carts, if my sons have been visiting), wheel them to the back of the store and turn them over to the beer can lady. She counts ‘em up and prints out a little receipt which I must then sign (first and last name, just in case I’m some kind of beer can forger or something) and take to the checkout.

It’s a good system, far better than the machines at other stores. You leave the store without all that sticky goop on your hands, and a job is provided for the beer can lady, who, I’m guessing, could never find work elsewhere because she’s so flippin’ mean.

She really is. I’m not sure if she’s mean to everyone, but like I said, she’s hated my lousy guts for ten years and hasn’t missed a chance to show it. And the other day as I was returning what will be my last beer cans ever at that store, I asked her why.

Why has she given me dirty looks every time I drop off cans and bottles? Why does she never say thank you? Why does she always count my cans so slowly, like she thinks I’m trying to pull one over on her?

Why does she hate me? Why, beer can lady, why?

That’s exactly how I asked the question: “Why do you hate me?”

I asked boldly enough, knowing I never would have to face her again. I asked and—for the first time in ten years—the beer can lady looked at me and … smiled. I could tell this was a question she’d been waiting for, hoping for. She wanted to answer me.

“You always bring your cans back in plastic garbage bags,” she said. “The sign says to use paper.” She pointed to the sign, a 3-by-3 inch card taped near the storage room’s entrance. I’d never noticed it before.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was personal.”

“Nope,” she said. “The plastic bags are just a lot messier. This ain’t a fun job to begin with. I wish they’d get one of those machines.”

It’s almost a shame I won’t be seeing the beer can lady again. I’d like to make amends, start using paper instead of plastic. Maybe even rinse the cans out, like the ex was always trying to get me to do. I could even learn her name, so I wouldn’t have to call her the beer can lady.

The fancy machine at my new neighborhood grocery works faster and doesn’t hate me. It doesn’t think about me at all, in fact. I think I’m already starting to miss the beer can lady.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.