No matter where you go, chances are you’ll wind up living in a small town

When I moved two years ago from the tiny burg of Lakeview to the bustling metropolis of Detroit, I was worried. I had been living in Lakeview for nearly 15 years and had grown accustomed to life in a community where the sidewalks roll up promptly every night at seven. I knew not only my neighbors, but most of the folks who lived on the next block over, and the block after that. After the third block it was mostly cornfields as far as the eye can see.

How would I fare in the big city? I wondered. I was a country mouse, coming from a world in which the biggest traffic hazards were Amish buggies, combines and the occasional deer. In my new neighborhood, traffic hazards are…well…traffic. Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of cars blast past my front door on a daily basis, all driven by people in a big hurry to get where they’re going, which—judging by the number who text while they drive—is the afterlife. I wouldn’t mind so much were it not for the fact they seem determined to take me with ‘em.

The thing I liked least about life in “The D” was the anonymity. I knew no one and no one knew me. Every face belonged to a stranger. Detroit seemed a place of monumental disconnection; I could have been living on the moon.

But we human beings (I consider myself to be one despite the disparaging comments of various ex-wives) are a resilient species. We adapt to our surroundings and over the past two years or so, I’ve adapted to mine. And I’ve done so in much the same was as the rest of the folks living there: I built a small town right in the heart of the big city.

It began with my basement apartment. That by itself was a little too small, even for me. So I annexed the upstairs apartment and granted my daughter and grandkids citizenship. The guy living next door joined up next, mostly because he likes to drink beer and I usually have some in the fridge.

I needed groceries, so I invaded Aven’s convenience store a couple blocks away and claimed aisles two (Ramen noodles) and three (pistachio nuts) in the name of Taylorville. Aven, who hails from Baghdad and is used to regime changes, didn’t mind, so long as I paid for the stuff I plundered.

Man cannot live by Ramen alone, however, so I was forced to conquer a couple nearby restaurants, Moose Winooski’s and Zorba’s. I tried to annex the Albanian coffee shop, but the Albanians hate me for some reason; mostly, I’m guessing, because I am not Albanian. (One of the first things you learn in the big city is that not all bigots are white.) Anyway, it was obvious they were going to put up a fight, so I adopted the Caribou Coffee place down the street instead. The coffee’s not as good, and I hate the fact they always try and up-sell me a bagel every morning, but they do have fast wifi and don’t hate me because I can’t speak Albanian.

I’m now on a first-name basis with maybe 100 Taylorville residents and the list grows every day. Not all my subjects recognize, or even acknowledge the fact they’re living in Taylorville. They think I’m living in Smithtown, Johnsonville or even Avenburg.

It doesn’t really matter what you call it. The point is, working together, we’ve managed to carve out our own small town, one in which we can all feel comfortable and at home. If I could only annex a couple Amish, I’d be all set.

Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I’m not sure I’m ready to lead the robo-teller revolution, but I’ll be happy to delegate

 Last week’s column hit a nerve. Boy, did it ever. In the past few days I have been deluged with letters from readers who feel much the same as I do about the robot tellers now found in some major retail outlets; retail outlets which shall remain nameless because I fear lawyers even more than I fear a beer shortage and that’s saying a lot.

In fact, several readers obviously hate robo-tellers far more than I do. For me, they’re an annoyance and further proof, should any be needed, that some stores couldn’t care less if I live or die, so long as my money keeps flowing through their greedy, little corporate hands. The braniacs making recommendations to the stores’ boards of directors no doubt assume we’ve all been thoroughly acclimated (brainwashed) into accepting ever-decreasing levels of personal service and customer care and will barely notice this latest outrage.

Well, guess what, braniacs; you’re wrong. Based on my mail over the past week, shoppers are mad as you-know-what and many of them are showing their displeasure by switching to other, smaller stores; stores that don’t expect you to scan your own groceries, bag ‘em, and then return after midnight to mop the floors and stock the shelves.

Let me share a few reader letter excerpts with you here. These folks said it better than I ever could:

LINDA: I, for one, feel that if I am spending my time and money in a store I should get my groceries rung up, bagged and put in the cart for me.  Even a "thank you" would be a great addition to the customer service. Now, I walk in the store, maybe get greeted, maybe find what I would like, maybe find someone to help me and then have to scan and bag my own groceries and have a machine to say thank you!

VALERIE: (I) remember when grocery stores were friendly places. They provided starter jobs for high school kids and flexible hours for moms. The parking lots were clean and you never had to walk to your car alone. The cashiers were quick to point out if you'd missed a coupon because they actually cared. I used to love going to (store name deleted because of my fear of attorneys—see above). Not any more. Greed is their new business model. It's no longer enough for the (deleted, again) clan to be well off - they must be wealthy. Their cost-costing, their hostility toward their employees (and customers) shows in every aspect of their store.

STEPHEN: Once they have found a way to eliminate every employee and replace them with machines, who do they think is going to buy their goods? Here is a word of advice for you, Mr. (deleted…lawyers, lawyers, lawyers!), robots don’t need produce. I’m clipping your article out and sending it to the (deleted) manager.

BONNIE: I do not mind the automated tellers at all. They don’t bother me. As soon as they put them in, I started shopping somewhere else. The store I go to now not only bags my groceries, they carry them out to the car for me, too. It makes me wonder why I didn’t make the change years ago.

There were plenty more, but many were too profanity-laden to edit down for inclusion in a family newspaper. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.

Personally, I don’t like the robo-tellers, but I’m not nearly as vehemently opposed to them as some folks out there. I thought I was writing on a fairly innocuous topic last week, but uh-uh. I could not have generated more righteous anger from the public had I suggested we lower the drinking age to 9, but only for illegal immigrants, all of whom should be given executive positions at General Motors as soon as they cross the border into Michigan.

If I were a politician (shoot me first, please!) I would run on an anti-robo-teller platform. There are only about seven guys in the state who wouldn’t vote for me, and they’re all on (deleted deleted deleted deleted)’s board of directors.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available in eBook format at most online booksellers, but will likely never be found at (deleted); not after this column.

The sound a disappearing job makes is ‘beep’

 Beep. That’s the sound of a half-gallon of two-percent milk. Beep. That’s a pint of blueberries. Beep. There goes a can of mosquito repellent. Beep, beep, beep. A pack of Big Red chewing gum, some shaving soap, a liter of Diet Coke.

Beep. Red, flashing light. Robot voice: APPROVAL NEEDED! APPROVAL NEEDED! Several minutes spent waiting for one of the three girls lounging around the “master register” to finish explaining to the other two exactly why Shawna is no longer speaking to Darnell.

Beep. Boop, beep, boop. Click. Beep. Boop, boop, boop, boop. Bing. Etc. The sound of the two-hundred keystrokes it takes for the store girl to let the robot know that I am at least 21 and won’t hurt myself if it allows me to buy a six pack of Sam Adams.

Boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-BING! The sound of me trying to get the robot to give me the price of two apricots.

Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep. The sound of me telling the robot that I would like to pay with a credit card.

Beep. Beep. Boop-boop-boop-bing. PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE. Red, flashing light. Several minutes spent waiting for the three girls lounging around the “master register” to finish discussing a recent “big win” one of them had at the casino near St. Ignace.

Boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-boop-BING! The sound of the store girl manually punching in the numbers from my credit card.

“Something’s wrong with the reader,” she tells me, handing back my card. “It hasn’t been working all day.”

“Why should it be different?” I ask. The store girl doesn’t get it, but rightly interprets my comment as rude and stalks away. She and her friends near the master register give me the ol’ stink-eye as I wait for my receipt to print.

THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING AT ----- says the robot. I, like the thousands of people who have come through this repellent gauntlet of a checkout before me, tell the robot to get bent. The robot does not care. The robot is not insulted. The robot does not require a paycheck, medical insurance, sick days, or holiday pay.

The store’s stockholders love the robot. The eight humans whose jobs were lost when the robot was brought in do not, I’m guessing. I don’t love it, either, in large part because the robot is an idiot with no more common sense than a pocket calculator. And yet it’s being asked to perform the job of eight humans. Well, it’s not, exactly; I’m being asked to perform the duties formerly handled by a check-out girl, a bag boy and the kid who pushed the cart to your car and loaded your groceries into it. (Yes, such exotic services were once commonplace, kiddies! Google it if you don’t believe me.)

But that’s OK, I can adjust. It’s a bad situation, but I can live with it, since I have no choice. My concern is for future generations. How bad will it be by the time my grandson is my age? Will he have to trudge out to a field, till the soil, plant some corn seeds, water them daily for months, harvest the corn, deliver it to the store, price it, then take it to the checkout, ring it up, bag it, and finally, pay for it? It’s the ultimate in self-service and I can’t believe the store’s stockholders haven’t been considering ways to achieve exactly this sort of business model.

Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-boop-beep-flush. That, folks, is the sound of civilization slowly circling the drain.

Mike Taylor’s book, Looking at the Pint Half Full is available online at mtrealitycheck.com. E-mail Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

When it comes to dating, that’s just false advertising sister

It’s been well over two years since the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor boogied into the night and I’m still not entirely accustomed to single life. Though I’ll admit most days I’m grateful I no longer have to answer to a higher power (wife) and that my time is my own to spend as I please, unfettered from the frequent reminders that the hedge needs trimming and the faucet is leaking.

All I need worry about these days is that the bicycle needs riding and the beer needs drinking. You’d be amazed how quickly a man’s priorities can change when he is allowed to decide for himself what they are, exactly.

I’m trying to make the most of it because I know in my heart that I will, eventually, be married again. It’s human nature; my nature, at any rate. In fact, I’m a little surprised I’m still unattached after all this time. Maybe it’s because I spend all my free time riding bikes and drinking beer, rather than hanging out in singles bars; I don’t know.

But the other night I was in a single’s bar, for the first time in years. I was there with a friend from out of town who, unlike me, is very into the “singles scene,” whatever that is. He dates a lot and spends most of his waking hours devising new and ever more devious ways to meet girls.

The bar was his idea. To his credit, the place was filled with women and not just the nubile, 20-somethings that always make me feel like I should be filling out paperwork at the sex offender registry. There were actually women present close to my age (106), which was a welcome change of pace.

My friend—I’ll call him Bob—pointed out a nearby table around which sat four attractive women, all done up nicely and looking pretty, happy and successful; not my type at all if past experience means anything. Bob, who makes more money than I do and can afford to be stupid, sent over a round of drinks.

When they were delivered, the girls smiled, waved and said thanks. Bob moseyed over in an attempt to close the deal. I remained at the table watching the band. I’m not good at this sort of thing. I’m not shy; I just don’t enjoy the whole “hunt” thing. If I meet a girl, I do. If I don’t, well, that’s fine too.

After a bit Bob, who was apparently making headway, waved me over. One of the girls offered me a seat, which I accepted. We began making small talk and—miracle of miracles!—the girl was not only pretty, but interesting; not the sort I’d expect to meet in a singles bar.

We talked for over two hours and I was enthralled the entire time. She read Kurt Vonnegut, she preferred beer to wine, she was an avid bicyclist; she was witty, charming and intelligent. After only two hours I was ready to propose.

Then she mentioned what I later thought should have been the first thing out her mouth, rather than the last: she’s a nun.

When I attended St. Isadore Elementary School, nuns were dark engines of terror that stalked the hallways, rosary beads slapping one massive thigh, yardstick slapping the other. They dressed in long, black robes and there was no possibility that anyone, ever, could mistake one for a real woman.

To say I felt conflicted that the woman who now held me in a deep and abiding infatuation was of the same breed as Sister Sulpischa, the nun who in 1965 put more fear into my soul than The Wolfman, The Mummy or The Book of Revelation combined is an understatement.

My friend Bob left the bar alone that night. So did I, but at least I had a good excuse.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available from Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon.com, and other online booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I miss Dave, but maybe I can find him in Winnipeg

I miss Dave. Dave was my neighbor for two days, but he’s gone now. In his place is Larry, and Larry is—not to put to fine a point on it—a pig. Seriously, he makes Wilbur, Porky and Babe seem positively fastidious.

I should probably mention I’m on the second leg of this summer’s Geezer-thon, my futile attempt to visit every county in Michigan via bicycle. I’m not going to make it; I’m old and summer’s not going to last long enough for me to peddle that far. But it’s fun to try.

Geezer-thon Part One took me from Grand Rapids to Traverse City. Geezer-thon Part Two has me just north of Port Huron, on the east side of the state. There’s a Part Three coming in September, but it’ll be getting cold and rainy by then and chances are I’ll spend most of my time in a tent playing Angry Birds on my iPad. Though not as healthy to my cardiovascular system as peddling a bike through country back roads, Angry Birds is still fun and only slightly more addictive than crack cocaine.

Anyway…my neighbors: At a state park, where I’ve been staying for the past few days, neighbors come and go. But when I moved in last Monday, Dave was my neighbor. Dave is from Canada, so he’s been specially trained to be friendly and social, even to guys who look the way I do after coming in from 50 dusty miles on a bicycle.

Dave shook my hand anyway and said, “Howdy neighbor” ten seconds after I rolled in.

“Howdy,” I replied, sweating profusely and smelling like something found dead by the side of the road. Something that has been there a while.

Dave introduced himself, his wife and his four kids, all of whom had blond hair, blue eyes and perfect teeth. Canadian dental care. It’s a wonder.

Dave told me where he was from, I told him where I was from. He told me what he did for a living, I shared the same info. He asked where my wife was and I told him I hadn’t seen her for a couple years and couldn’t say for sure. Dave was embarrassed, leading me to believe Canadians are a little like the British; they embarrass easily.

As I set about unpacking and making camp, Dave offered me a beer. I knew we were destined to be best friends. That night he invited me to his family’s campfire, even though I already had mine going strong. (At $5 per bundle of state-approved wood, a merrily-blazing campfire attests to one’s fiscal potency. A Lexus parked in front of the tent couldn’t boast more loudly.)

Dave’s kids were cute and polite, his wife offered me S’mores. By camper standards, we were practically engaged.

Then yesterday I came home (to my tent) from a ride into nearby Lexington. Dave was gone. His wife was gone. The kids were gone. Their tidy little pop-up camper with Canadian plates was gone.

In their place arrived (shudder) Larry. Larry rumbled in behind the wheel of an RV the size of Wisconsin. He rolled over my tent stakes. Backing in, his RV knocked branches from the trees. One landed on my tent, punching a hole through the rain-fly. Eventually, Larry’s diesel-belching freeway whale managed to insinuate itself into the space previously occupied by Dave and company.

The door to the RV opened and three—not one, not two, but three—pit bulls piled out, sans leashes. I was grilling steak on the campfire and the three dogs immediately descended on my makeshift kitchen.

Larry, all 400 pounds and no I am not exaggerating of him, squeezed through the RV door, screaming in a wet voice to “get the #$@% back over here.” Reluctantly, the dogs complied. Larry tossed a carton of raw eggs—and no, I am again not exaggerating—onto the ground. The dogs broke the shells and dug in.

Within a half-hour of getting the freeway whale situated, Larry had transformed the previously pristine Canadian campsite into the equivalent of the city dump, circa 1957. Trash was everywhere. When I say trash, I mean paper litter, half-eaten hamburgers, scraps of toilet paper, paper plates…if I had seen a spent nuclear fuel cell lying in the vicinity I would not have been surprised.

My only regret is that none of my ex-wives, most of whom have at one time or another accused me of being a pig, were in attendance. If nothing else, Larry makes me look like Felix Unger by comparison.

After being repeatedly scolded by the park rangers, Larry did tie up his three pit bulls, which immediately set about barking their damn fool heads off. Larry seemed not to notice.

I slept badly last night, for the first time since arriving here. But in the morning I’m back on the road, so I guess I can live with it for a while longer.

You know, instead of trying to hit the remaining Michigan counties for Phase Three of Geezer-thon 2011, I may cross the bridge and see what Canada is like.

If I’m found by the side of the road dead, the first suspect should be my bike seat

I’ve sweat off half my body mass in the past week and have developed a tan to rival James Brown’s, but I’m loving every minute of it. In addition to playing with my new bike, I’m training for the second annual Geezer-thon Cross-State Bike Tour, coming up the first part of August.Last week I told you about my new Wonder-Bike, normally a crazy expensive road bicycle I purchased off Craigslist.com for $95 from a woman determined to give her ex-husband (the bike was his) an apoplectic fit. Since then, I’ve put nearly 300 miles on the thing, despite the fact temperatures have been in the high 90s nearly every day.

Last year, I pedaled from Port Huron to Stony Lake, near Lake Michigan. This year I’ve planned a slightly more modest route, from Grand Rapids to Traverse City and back, about 300 miles as the bike rolls.

I’m not sure how many days it will take me. Originally, I thought about doing four 75 mile days back-to-back. Then last Saturday I did a 70 mile ride and it nearly killed me. Seriously, it took me about 20 minutes to extricate myself from the car when I got back home. My knees were stiffer than the Tin Man’s prior to Dorothy’s application of oil. My butt felt like it’d gone 15 rounds with Muhammad Ali in his prime.

The problem is the seat that came with my new Wonder-Bike. Like the rest of the bike, it’s a miracle of modern technology and French engineering; part carbon fiber, part titanium alloy…if the Space Shuttle came with bicycle seats, they would look like this thing.

And because my Wonder-Bike was designed to be raced by guys like Lance Armstrong, the seat is about the size of a postage stamp. It weighs next to nothing. In fact, if detached from the bike, it must be tied to a string to prevent it floating away like a helium balloon.

Plus, it looks really cool! So cool, in fact, that I left it on there during my recent 70 mile ride. I could have achieved similar results by sitting on a rabid porcupine.

Since my butt looks more like Homer Simpson’s than Lance Armstrong’s, the cool seat and I are not precisely simpatico. The seat is small. My bootie is big. It’s as simple as that. One good bump in the road and I’m off to the proctologist’s office. I’ve heard the outpatient procedure for bicycle seat extraction is not pleasant.

So I broke down and bought a new seat. Like my own backside, it is somewhat wide and somewhat padded. It doesn’t look as cool as the old seat, but I can perch on it for hours without whimpering like a wet kitten.

And when I get to Traverse City sometime early next month, there’s a good chance I’ll still be able to walk.

Mike Taylor’s new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available online at mtrealitycheck.com or in eBook format from Barnes & Noble, Borders and other major booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylore325@gmail.com.

For once, I got the deal of a lifetime and I’m not going to feel guilty about it

Yesterday, I bought the bicycle of my dreams. It’s a Motobecane, a carbon fiber/titanium/aluminum alloy beauty that retails for exactly twice what I make in a year. I’ve had dreams about a bike like this, the sort of dreams which, back in high school featured cheerleaders and Swedish flight attendants. I’ll admit it; I have, in my heart, lusted after this bike. I’ve put nearly 100 miles on it already, and I still can’t believe it’s mine.

How did a lowly doofus like me come into possession of this two-wheeled miracle of French engineering and cutting edge science, you may ask. Go ahead, ask. I’m dying to tell somebody.

I found it yesterday morning, around 6 a.m. As is all too usual, I was suffering from insomnia. To pass the time until the sun came up, I opened my laptop and began paging through the Craigslist classifieds. I like to peruse the high-end bikes listed there. I knew (or thought I knew) I’d never be able to afford one. I like to look at ‘em anyway, in much the same way guys who are never going to date Irina Shayk like the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue--it’s fun to dream.

I pulled up ads for Specialized, Trek and similar upscale two-wheelers, marveling at the four-figure price tags and wondering how anyone besides Lance Armstrong could justify paying $6,000 for a bicycle when my first Schwinn—purchased for five bucks at a garage sale back in 1965—served me just fine for nearly a decade. In 1976, I replaced the Schwinn with a used Fuji for the then unheard-of price of $300 and rode that for the next 30 years. So, yeah, six large seems kinda pricey to me.

But like I said, I like to look, to ogle, to…well…drool a little bit.

Then suddenly, there it was, right at the top of the listings; my dream Motobecane, one of the company’s top end models, priced at $95. Being a rational man and not given to flights of fancy, I assumed the price was a typo and the ad should have read $950, which still would have been a steal. Since the ad had posted just seconds earlier, I called the listed number, even though the sun had been up for only a few minutes. A woman answered.

“Hello,” I said. “Sorry about the early hour, but I’m calling about the bike you just listed? I was just double-checking the price. It says $95.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the woman. “But if that’s too high, I might be willing to entertain an offer.”

Twenty minutes later I was driving up to a prearranged meeting place. She had the bike, a thing of exquisite beauty and in like-new condition; I had 95 bucks. We made the exchange. Once the bike had been transferred to my car rack, and locked securely in place (touch black! no trades back!) I couldn’t resist asking her the question.

“Why are you selling this bike so cheap?”

 “Am I?” she asked. “Is it worth more?” I told her it was. “Well, I guess I knew it was an expensive bike,” she said. “It belonged to my (expletive deleted) ex-husband. He left it at the house when he moved in with his girlfriend. He called yesterday and said to get what I could for it and send him the money. How much is it worth, exactly?”

I told her.

“Whooooo,” she whistled. “He is not going to be happy.”

She didn’t sound too concerned about Mr. Expletive Deleted’s happiness. As I drove off with my dream bike, I realized that I wasn’t either.

Mike Taylor’s new book, Looking at the Pint Half Full is available at mtrealitycheck.com or in eBook format at Barnes & Noble, Borders and most other online booksellers. Email Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.