We all knew how to sing in Kindergarten and we still do

I did Karaoke last night and enjoyed it. There, I said it and I’m not ashamed. Not too ashamed. OK, maybe a little ashamed.

Longtime readers of this column (Hi Dad!) already know my feelings about Karaoke; that it is, in fact, the work of the Devil and one of the signs of the Apocalypse. That’s how I felt about it before last night.

Now—after experiencing what I can only describe as a pop music-induced epiphany—I’m having second thoughts. Maybe Karaoke is not so bad after all.

Oh sure, there are the singers—I estimate about 50 percent of ‘em—who sound pretty much like a coyote tangled up in barbed wire; and those that take the whole thing way too seriously (the vocalists dressed up in sequined cowboy shirts and Ray-Ban sunglasses); and those that don’t approach the stage until they’ve gone several martinis over the line.

Then there are also the singers that are truly good; those that would be at home onstage with Ella Fitzgerald or Aretha Franklin. Granted, the good singers make up an amazingly small percentage of the overall “talent,” but they are out there.

However, it’s the bad singers I want to talk about today, the really bad singers. No sense of pitch, meter or dynamics. A complete disregard for timing. An inability to count to four (as in 4/4 time). These are the singers that make Karaoke great in my opinion.

Now, there are no doubt some of you who assume I’m going to veer off into sarcasm here, but I’m not. I mean it when I say the bad vocalists are the very heart of Karaoke.

Maybe everyone but me already knows this and I’m coming late to the party. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m not especially quick to grasp sociological trends. Like I said, last night was an epiphany.

It happened at Cascade Roadhouse, where Karaoke-meister Donna plies her trade three or four nights a week. I was in the joint to grab a burger and Bud Lite before heading home for the night; the last thing I wanted was to spend the evening listening to a bunch of CPAs and Wal-Mart greeters massacring off-key versions of “Feelings” and “Achy Breaky Heart.”

But as each nervous American Idol wannabe paraded up to the stage for his or her moment in the spotlight it occurred to me—this isn’t supposed to be great music, or even great entertainment. What it is is a chance for regular Janes and Joes to let out a little bit of that music that lives inside us all, that fragile, ephemeral joy we all knew back in Kindergarten as we belted out “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” with wild abandon.

We were kids and it never occurred to any of us that we might not be budding opera stars. The music was in our hearts and it found expression through our singing, godawful though it may have been.

Karaoke, I figured out last night, is nothing more than an extension of Kindergarten music class. It’s a chance for even the most musically-challenged songster to reconnect with that uninhibited five-year-old he or she once was.

If the end result sounds like train wheels grinding over gravel, well, that’s why so many places that feature Karaoke also offer beer. So grab that microphone, throw caution to the wind, and let what’s in your heart back out into the world where we can all enjoy it!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to rehearse. I’m going back tonight with a killer version of “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.” Cher, eat your heart out.

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

How do you say goodbye to the woman who gave you life?

My mother died.

Those are the three hardest words I’ve ever written. She suffered from Alzheimer’s the past several years and we all knew this was coming. But somehow, despite all those months of preparation, I still wasn’t ready when my sister Carol phoned yesterday with the news.

In her life, my mother was a homemaker, a business owner, a telephone operator, a computer programmer, a student, a dancer, and a hair stylist. But if you asked her what she “did,” she would say she was a mom.

For her, that was the job that mattered.

When she was young, my mother had potential; she was intelligent, beautiful, witty, talented. She had it all. And then she had me.

From that point on all her hopes, dreams and aspirations took a back seat to my needs and my wants. Two more boys and two girls followed in quick succession, and her love and protection encompassed each of them in turn, like a goose down comforter.

My mom always saw the best in her children, though that must sometimes have been hard, at least in my case. No accomplishment, however insignificant, escaped my mother’s notice. No failure was beyond redemption.

She was proud if I brought home an A. Or a B, or a C. She would have been proud had I brought home a note from the principal saying I’d been suspended for carrying a knife to class. (Which actually happened once, in seventh grade. It was a linoleum cutter; I’d been helping my dad with a project that morning before school and had stuck it in my pocket without thinking when the bus arrived.)

At any rate, my mom loved us no matter how badly we screwed up. For the life of me, I can’t remember her ever saying anything bad about me or my siblings, even when there were plenty of bad things just begging to be said.

In the year or two before her Alzheimer’s stole away the last of her, I called her almost daily, just to check in. By then, she was easily confused, had a hard time finding the words she wanted to say. It frustrated her greatly, but she faced her pitiless decline the way she faced every adversity life threw her way: with a sense of humor.

Even as her mind slipped away a piece at a time, she never stopped loving life, never stopped being proud of the children she had brought into this world.

One day before things got too bad we were conversing on the phone and—as she so often did—she shifted the subject to her kids.

“Your brother is doing so well,” she said. “He’s writing for the papers now and working on a book. Michael’s really making something of himself. He’s such a hard worker.”

“Mom, I’m Michael,” I said. “You’re talking to Michael.”

There was a beat while she sorted this out.

“Oh,” she said. Then: “Your brother William has a new nursing position. He’s supervisor of his whole floor and Julie’s managing a blood bank. How’s the book coming?”

“It’s coming,” I said. That’s what I always said. Five years later, it’s still coming, because writing a book is hard work and I’m not a hard worker, despite what my mom thought.

But if I ever do finish it and see it published, I know whose name will appear on the dedication page. Even if the book sells a million copies and my mother’s name is read by a million readers, it won’t be enough.

The hard truth is, no matter what I do, it will never be enough to thank the woman who gave me life.

I miss you mom.

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

Passing the torch of sophisticated humor to my grandson

It’s comforting to know my sophisticated, urbane, cultured, refined sense of humor will not die when I pass from this mortal coil; I’ve passed it along to my grandson, Edison.

Named for the famous inventor who in actuality probably stole as many inventions as he created himself, nine-year-old Edison has inherited my sense of humor. Last night while rooting through some of my boxes in the basement, he also inherited the device which best exemplifies this particular brand of humor: my fart machine.

Oh, the cognoscenti among us might refer to it as a “flatulence generator” or “electronic rude noise apparatus,” but it’s a fart machine. Says so right on the box.

Essentially, it’s nothing more than an updated version of that staple of yesterday’s sophisticated humorist–the whoopee cushion. It consists of two parts; the transmitter and the noise-making receiver.

When Edison found the fart machine at the bottom of the box, it was love at first sight. He didn’t come right out and ask that I gift it to him, he didn’t have to. I saw the look in his eye. Being a grandparent, there was no way I was going to get between him and that fart machine.

“It’s yours,” I said.

Five minutes later he was across the street spending his own allowance on the batteries needed to resurrect the electronic whoopee cushion to flatulent life. That was three days ago. Since then, no one in the house has stood up, sat down or bent over without experiencing Edison’s judicious application of pooting sounds.

He and I think it’s pretty funny. Everyone else in the house responds to the joke with a weary sigh, for some reason.

I don’t know who invented the fart machine, but I’m glad he or she did (almost certainly he—humor as sophisticated as a fart machine seems to elude most women; not sure why).

At any rate, Eddie is having a great time with the device and I’m happy to see it getting some use again. It had been in that box for about ten years, since I had to hide it from the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor in order to keep her from selling it at a garage sale.

Before that, though, I had a pretty good time with it myself. One of the best days of my life was the day I duct taped the receiver to the underside of the chair of the sales manager at my old office in Lakeview. She was a nice enough lady, though pushy, like all sales people have to be if they’re going to be any good at their jobs.

Every time she stood up or resettled in her chair, I would depress the button on the transmitter. The office secretary and I thought it was hilarious, the sales manager somewhat less so.

In the week or two I actually used the fart machine, it found its way beneath sofa cushions, into the bathroom (of course!), under the dinner table, and even into my bed. (That, I thought, was especially hilarious, though there was some contention on this point, as I recall.)

And now the torch has been passed to my grandson. No matter what, sophisticated humor finds a way to live on.

By the way, I’ve heard—and I don’t know if this is true—that the original Edison (Thomas, I mean) invented the whoopee cushion. Of course, it’s possible he just stole the idea from someone else.

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

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.