My official Top Five Christmas Movies countdown

Most readers don’t know this, but my first real newspaper “gig” — nearly 25 years ago — was writing movie reviews. That’s how I got started in the business and I’ve never looked back, despite numerous editors who have suggested I probably should.

So this week’s column — my top five Christmas movies countdown — is a return to familiar territory. Let’s begin.

Listed here are what I feel to be the five most important holiday films of all time. There are of course some glaring omissions and opinions vary. These are the five I can’t live without.

What’s in YOUR top five? Send an email to the address at the end of this article and add your voice to the conversation! But for now, these are mine:

Number 5: A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS

“A Charlie Brown Christmas” should not have been the hit it is. The made-for-TV special, which originally aired in 1965, was produced on a shoestring budget under a sponsorship deal with Coca-Cola.

Lack of decent funding resulted in the film’s sometimes choppy animation. Likewise, stilted voice-overs — some from child actors too young to read their lines — produced dialogue as choppy as the video. Then there are the editing snafus, such as the one in which Schroeder stops playing piano while the characters go right on dancing.

None of that mattered to viewers or critics, however. In fact, those “quirks” are precisely what make “A Charlie Brown Christmas” so popular, year after year.

For those who grew up with the film, it just doesn’t feel like Christmas until you’ve heard Linus explain the holiday to Charlie Brown by reading from the Gospel of Luke.

Best line from the movie? “…And that’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

Number 4: HOME ALONE

“Home Alone,” which hit theaters in 1990 and has since made yearly TV appearances, is the most recent film on my “must see” list.

The film features a young Macaulay Culkin as Kevin McCallister, an eight-year-old boy mistakenly left at home when his upper-class family flies to Paris for the holidays.

An ensemble cast, with standout performances by Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern as two inept burglars, help this flick transcend its slapstick origins. A heartwarming sub-plot involving “Old Man” Marley, Kevin’s scary next-door neighbor, further elevates the film beyond the one-liner, “jokey” status that bogs down so many holiday comedies.

Best line? “Keep the change, ya filthy animal!”

Number 3: A CHRISTMAS STORY

While “Home Alone” is among the top-grossing comedies of all time, “A Christmas Story” bombed at the box office and only gained popularity after it began airing on television. Since its release in 1983, it has become a holiday staple.

The story is a brilliant compendium of loosely-joined vignettes centered on the life of nine-year-old “Ralphie” Parker, played by Peter Billingsley, and his quest to snag a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas.

The charm of this film is found in the way it manages to capture that elusive “something” that reminds viewers of what it’s really like to be a kid at Christmas. From bullies and clueless teachers to coming to terms with the possibility Santa may not be everything he’s cracked up to be, “A Christmas Story” delivers a holiday present no home should be without.

Best line? Nope, it’s NOT, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” The BEST line is, “In the heat of battle my father wove a tapestry of obscenities that as far as we know is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan.”

Number 2: MIRACLE ON 34TH STREET

There have been many remakes of this 1947 classic, but this one, starring Edmund Gwenn as an elderly man who believes (or indeed, probably is) St. Nick, is the only one you need to see.

After being hired on as an emergency replacement for an inebriated Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Santa, Gwenn proceeds to slowly convince those around him that it is indeed his name on the title of the fabled reindeer-powered sleigh.

A young Natalie Wood as the girl who has trouble relating to such childish notions as Santa Claus demonstrates a talent far beyond other child actors of the time. Likewise, Maureen O’Hara brings the character of the overworked, divorced mother to the screen for what may have been the first time ever.

As for Gwenn, it’s no surprise his role as Santa netted him an Academy Award for Best Actor in a Supporting Role. The writing, story and screenplay also garnered an Oscar nod.

Best line? “Maybe I didn’t do such a wonderful thing after all.”

Number 1: IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE

Produced and directed in 1946 by Frank Capra, who more than any other director of his time truly understood the American zeitgeist, “It’s a Wonderful Life” tells the everyman tale of George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart), a small town businessman who yearns for wider horizons.

After his uncle misplaces a large sum of money from the bank George manages, George considers suicide, only to be halted at the penultimate moment by a floundering Clarence Odbody (Henry Travers), who turns out to be his guardian angel.

Clarence shows George a world in which he has never been born, and in the end, George realizes his life truly is, well, wonderful.

Rarely has a film managed to so deftly walk that narrowest of tightropes between preachiness and the truly inspirational. 

Though “It’s a Wonderful Life” didn’t turn big numbers at the box office, it has over the years won the hearts of generations of viewers and is recognized by the American Film Institute as one of the 100 best American movies of all time.

Best line? George’s angry tirade to his money-grubbing nemesis, Mr. Potter, played to crotchety perfection by Lionel Barrymore: “Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about ... they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle. Well in my book, my father died a much richer man than you'll ever be!”

OK, that’s my top five and I can’t believe I left out “White Christmas” and “The Bells of St. Mary’s” either. “The Polar Express” and “Scrooged” are another pair of gems that didn’t make my personal cut. Likewise, I had to deep six “Elf” and “Nightmare Before Christmas,” both of which I like.

I’m sure there are others I’ve neglected. I’m hoping readers will point them out, since this year I’ve already seen those listed above, and there are plenty of cold evenings between now and Christmas.

To those who hate every film on my list, well, what can I say? Keep the change, ya filthy animal!

Share your top five with me at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Riding with a younger woman isn’t what it’s cracked up to be

I’m having relationship problems again. There’s a new woman in my life and, to be honest, things aren’t going that well.

She bosses me around, tells me where to go, when to go there. And though I hate to admit it, she’s too young for me. That’s part of the problem; I hate taking orders from a kid.

Sweet Annie is aware of this relationship. She’s not crazy about the idea of another woman directing my life (that’s her job), but she understands my need for near constant supervision. And try though she may, Annie can’t always be there to propel me unwillingly down the path of most resistance.

Hence, Maggie; the “other woman.” Maggie lives on the dashboard on my car, inside the GPS unit. I guess I should be calling her Maggie 2; Maggie 1 lived in my previous GPS device.

Over the past five years and thousands of miles, Maggie 1 and I developed a relationship. It was sometimes strained and I admit I frequently caught myself yelling at her. On more than one occasion I went so far as to employ the “B” word, as well as words beginning with even more dubious letters.

Maggie 1, see, was an older gal and her maps (which I was too cheap to update) were out of date. Because of this, she occasionally got lost, usually when I was driving somewhere I especially didn’t want to be lost, like downtown Detroit.

People get lost there and are never found again, no matter what Michael Moore wants you to believe.

Maggie 1 also sometimes had problems with rural roads, large apartment complexes and convoluted office blocks. She could usually direct me to a general vicinity, but never seemed able to get me precisely where I needed to be.

What Maggie 1 DID have was an authoritative, no-nonsense voice. She sounded matronly and sure of herself, even when she wasn’t.

Maggie 1 inspired confidence. I didn’t mind taking orders from her. I’ve been married repeatedly and am trained to do whatever a stern female voice tells me to do.

“Turn left in 200 yards!” she would bark. I would turn left. “In one-quarter mile, make a legal U-turn,” Maggie would command. I would start looking for a place to turn around.

I got lost a lot. Eventually, it would all work out, but I often arrived late.

So I replaced her with a younger woman. I felt guilty about it, but I’m a man and therefore shallow and self-serving.

I gave Maggie 1 to Sweet Annie, who has yet to switch her on.

Maggie 2 I mounted to my car’s windshield. That’s when the trouble began.

Maggie 2, though loaded with the latest maps, graphics, points of interest and — for all I know — telekinetic capabilities, is no Maggie 1. The problem is her voice.

Maggie 2 burbles away like a cheerleader on prom night. She doesn’t just TELL me to turn left, she ENTHUSES about it. Maggie 2 is simply thrilled as all get-out to be able to share the news that my destination is coming up on the left.

She sounds ridiculously excited just to be alive, though she’s not alive, not really.

I am old and crabby. I do not like to be around people that are TOO cheerful. Maggie 2 was old and crabby like me and I kind of miss her.

There’s some sort of moral here, I’m sure, or a lesson to be learned, but I’ve never in the past allowed experience to make me smarter and I’m not about to start now.

Besides, it’s kind of nice to get where I’m going on time for a change.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in ebook format from Amazon.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

How much would you pay for a spider in an ice cube?

It’s official. The world has gone crazy. I’ve suspected for some time we were headed for a global mental meltdown, but even I am surprised it came about this quickly.

No, I’m not talking about the election results; I’m writing this the Monday before election day, so at this point I have no idea whether the country is doomed to a four-year nosedive or is now on the road to rapid and total recovery.

I say the world has gone crazy because of the pine cones.

My postage stamp-sized back yard is surrounded by pine trees, towering, evergreen sentinels that provide shade, protection from the wind, and about a gajillion pine cones on the lawn every autumn. 

I rake most of the cones along with a seemingly endless supply of dead leaves from the ancient oaks which also crowd my property on three sides.

Pine cones are a nuisance, but not a big one. Just one more chore to take care of before the snow flies.

Or so I thought.

Then I saw — and this is the point at which I realized the world has gone crazy — a bag of pine cones at the store. For sale.

There was nothing special about these pine cones. They had not been decorated with glitter, covered with sweet-smelling wax, or fitted with glimmering LED bulbs. They were just … pine cones. The same pine cones I’ve been raking by the thousands from my back yard.

Even the bag they came in was nothing special; just red, plastic mesh, like a bag of onions or potatoes. No fancy label boasting that the pine cones were harvested from virgin forests in the heart of beautiful Maine, no pretty ribbon tying off the bag; nothin’. 

Each sack contained four or five cones at three bucks a bag. I stink at math, but near as I can figure, this works out to about 60 cents per cone. That means — based on my estimation of how many cones I’ve raked and tossed this fall alone — I COULD have raised somewhere in the neighborhood of $180,000. This is a neighborhood I would very much like to live in.

It’s too late now, of course. Somebody else came up with the idea first. 

But the pine cone thing got me thinking. Maybe this is just the leading edge of a huge, untapped market; people willing to pay big bucks for yard waste and other stuff I don’t want.

I have about four tons of fallen pine needles and oak leaves in my back yard right now. If I cram some of each into a burlap sack and market them as “craft supplies,” will anyone fall for it?

Living as close as I do to the beach, in the summertime my kitchen is usually full of sand, particularly when my grandkids are visiting. Somehow, they manage to carry about a pound of it back into the house every time they return from a swim.

That sand could be sold to people who own shuffleboard tables or sandpaper companies. Or maybe I could sell it back to the city for use at the beach. At the rate my grandkids track it into my kitchen, they’re going to need a truckload or two at the beach within a year just to halt the erosion there.

Then there are the cobwebs. My apartment seems to generate a ton of these for some reason. Surely I could seal them into plastic baggies and market them as Halloween decor. 

And spiders! Because I was too merciful to kill Charlotte, the spider who made herself at home in my bathroom last spring, I now have spiders everywhere! Charlotte was nothing if not prolific.

I could freeze the spiders into ice cubes and sell them as “joke” novelty items, something with which to prank your friends at New Year’s Eve parties. I personally know at least three guys that would pay big bucks for a spider-laden ice cube.

Anyone who doesn’t believe I could market oak leaves, pine needles, beach sand, cobwebs and spiders is obviously too young to remember Pet Rocks (Google it, junior).

In a world gone crazy, anything’s possible.

Mike’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full” is available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in ebook format from Amazon.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

My book signing was a success. For Sweet Annie

I picked up enough cash at my Saturday book signing to pay the bar tab I ran up later that evening. I didn’t pay it, Sweet Annie did, but I could have. And we had prime rib, so, all in all, I consider the signing a rousing success.

As I mentioned in a previous column, I was scared shirtless (that’s not a typo — this is a family newspaper!) about doing a public event. I needn’t have been.

The folks who showed up were very nice, especially Lois, who said I was “handsome.” That’s not a typo, either, and she said it with a straight face! Yes, really. All I can say is, Lois must be a heckuva poker player.

Since I’m not Stephen King, there was no long line out the bookstore’s front door and I had plenty of time to chat with everyone who stopped by. 

I spoke with snowbirds June and Mike about their upcoming trip to Arizona, where they plan to hide out until the ice melts next April. I offered to accompany them as their houseboy, but apparently, they can do better by way of domestic assistance.

Carla bought a copy of my book for her son, who lives in the U.P. Carla sends my newspaper column to him every week, in part because I remind her of her son. I hope Carla hasn’t mentioned this to the poor kid, since a comment like that can only be interpreted as an insult.

My neighbor, Linda, from across the lake, also attended, even though she could drop by my place any time if she really wanted a copy of my book.

So rather than being the flop-sweat fest I had anticipated, the signing was … well … kinda fun. 

Also, I liked hanging with Kevin, the guy who manages Robbins Book List, where the signing was held. He’s the first person I’ve met who likes beer as much as I do. Plus, he’s a Gove Scrivenor fan. (You would be, too, if you’d ever heard him play, which you haven’t, because almost nobody has. That’s another story.)

The only downside to the whole affair was this: I couldn’t get over the feeling that nobody was really there to see ME. They were there to see my g-friend, Sweet Annie.

Annie stood by my side, like a good woman in a bad country-western song, to lend moral support. But it wasn’t long before I noticed a disturbing trend: Everyone — EVERYone — who showed up, shook my hand, introduced him-or-herself, and then turned to my honey and said, “And YOU must be Sweet Annie!” At which point they would toss me a copy of my book for signing and thereafter ignore me completely.

Annie, more poised than Marie Antoinette prior to her “Let them eat cake” faux pas, engaged each reader with a charm and grace any political candidate would spend millions to replicate. She was definitely the star of the day.

I was the schmendrick sitting next to her.

But I don’t mind. In fact, watching her converse with these folks, genuinely interested in what each had to say, I couldn’t help but feel proud. 

You know that scene in “The American President” in which Annette Bening suddenly begins conversing with the French ambassador in his native tongue and Michael Douglas is duly impressed? It was like that.

I was hoping somebody from France would show up, just so Annie could speak French to them (she does, you know; speak French, I mean).

At any rate, I now have a plan for all future book signings or other public events I’m coerced into doing. From now on, I’ll simply stand by the door, shake hands as folks come in, and then point them to Sweet Annie. She can take it from there.

I’m crazy about that girl. After all, she did pick up the bar tab.

Mike’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full” is available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in ebook format from Amazon.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

It’s hard to know how to feel about guitar player resurrections

Tom Webber is alive. I’m not sure how to feel about that. He was dead for nearly 30 years; now he’s not.

I suppose I should be glad. After all, back in the ‘80s, Tom was one of my best friends. A tall, skinny kid (weren’t we all back then?) with a cool, vaguely Mediterranean look, Tom was one of the best guitar players I’d ever worked with.

Plus, he was a genuinely nice guy.

I no longer remember the name of the band; just another four-piece combo cranking out “hair band” covers at west side dives. It was a decent group, though, thanks mostly to Tom’s impressive playing.

We were good friends, but I done him wrong. We were young, we were musicians, so of course it was over a woman.

She was beautiful, a willowy horse trainer named Denny. Denny showed up one Saturday night at the club. Flowing, honey-blonde hair, intelligent blue eyes, a smile that could break hearts at 200 yards; Denny was pretty much the whole package. She even drove a cool car; a Camaro, if memory serves.

It took about 10 minutes for Tom to fall hopelessly in love. Being somewhat more mature and just a little cooler than Tom, it took me 11.

For the next couple weeks, we both vied for Denny’s attention. Tom hovered over her like a lion over a freshly-killed gazelle; he bought her roses, cocktails and even performed this little trick he had, the one where he drank some sort of flaming shot without setting his considerable mustache ablaze. Even I had to admit it was impressive.

I, meanwhile, mostly admired Denny from afar. Yet in the end, she chose me, a decision she later came to regret.

Tom’s heart was broken, but he took it like a man. We kept working together, despite the fact it must have bothered him greatly to see Denny and me off in a dark corner during band breaks, making googley-eyes at each other.

A few months later, I broke Denny’s heart when I threw her over for a girl named Laurie, a decision I’VE regretted ever since. But we were young, stupid, selfish and completely full of ourselves. Which, I suppose, is the definition of young. (If you’re reading this, Denny, I hope you find some solace in the fact that, four years later, Laurie threw ME over for some zit-faced guy who serviced electronic dart machines. Karma’s a drag.)

At any rate, Tom carried a torch for Denny for a long time. The band eventually broke up, as bands do; Tom and I went our separate ways.

Three years later I learned Tom had died. He’d moved back to his hometown of Chicago and contracted some sort of exotic illness for which there was no known cure.

I don’t remember who told me this, but whoever it was, I believed him.

I felt terrible. I was going through girls back then like Rosie O’Donnel goes through a box of donuts. Tom, unlike me, was a sensitive kinda guy who really, REALLY, liked Denny. I’m sure he would have treated her far better than I did, and they could have had at least a few happy years together before Tom succumbed to his exotic disease.

In fact, had I not stolen Denny from him (which is how I was now thinking of it) Tom might never have contracted the disease to begin with and might still be alive and living happily ever after with the woman of his dreams.

I had killed Tom.

That was nearly 30 years ago and I’ve felt deeply guilty about it every day since.

Then last night I was talking to a drummer at the club where my current band is playing. We were discussing great guitar players we have known over the years. Tom’s name naturally came up.

“I really miss him,” I said. “He was a good guy.”

“You should call him,” said the drummer. “I think he’s back in town.”

“Tom’s dead,” I said.

“What? No, he’s been touring with Eddie VanHalen,” said the drummer. “He’s been VanHalen’s guitar tech for years.”

I know better than to trust a drummer, so I checked it out online this morning. Tom, it turns out, is very much alive and living a fabulous life I can barely imagine. Rock stars, gorgeous groupies, room service at four-star hotels, jamming with Eddie VanHalen … Tom’s living the rock & roll dream.

So. Thirty years of guilt. For nothing.

I may have gotten Denny, but in the end and without even knowing it, Tom got his revenge.

Have I mentioned how I feel about Karma?

Buy my book!  Just click on the link over there on the left side of the screen.  You'll be glad you did or no money back!  mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com (616) 548-8273

C’mon, Mike, don’t fear the Reader…

You are SUCH a chicken, Mike Taylor; a coward; a complete and total wimp! You are pathetic! What are you, a man or a mouse?

(Squeak.)

Nope, it’s not working.  I was hoping that by berating myself I could work up some nerve, in much the same way as did the Cowardly Lion as he approached the throne of The Great and Powerful Oz.

I’ve mentioned before how terrified I am of making public appearances, right?  I know I have. Yet, for reasons I can’t fully explain (greed), I have a book signing coming up Saturday, Oct. 27.  It’s at Robbins Book List in Greenville, just for a couple hours beginning at 1 p.m.

Sounds easy, right?  I mean, I already know how to sit; I know how to sign my name; I know how to smile and say thank you.  One would think this gig had a zero learning curve.

So why am I suddenly beginning to smell like poultry?

Well, first off, there’s the very real possibility nobody will show up.  Maybe, just maybe, I’m not as wonderful as I think I am, nor as universally loved.  

I base this possibility on the fact nobody showed up for my 50th birthday party except my then-wife and kids.  Despite my having mailed out a dozen invites a week earlier, it was just the four of us.  At that party there was tequila and a live band, so whatever embarrassment I felt at being stood up was soon assuaged through the liberal application of Cuervo and classic rock.  

As I understand it, there will be no tequila at the book signing; no live band.  If nobody shows up, I will have to face the humiliation without, um, distilled assistance or rock & roll.

Then again, maybe people WILL show up, people who read my column or have already read my book.  They will expect me to be funny, clever, articulate; all things I can easily fake in print but never seem able to pull off in real life.

I’ll stutter, I’ll mumble, I’ll blurt inappropriate things I will deeply regret later on.  I’ll make a fool of myself.

Regardless of whether anyone actually shows up, I’m doomed.

This is all made so much worse by Helen Simonson. Simonson’s book, “Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand,” was chosen as this year’s One Book One County selection for Montcalm County. Everyone who’s read it says it’s a great novel.

That’s fine.  What’s NOT fine is Simonson herself.  She was in town last night to speak to an audience of about 400 readers (myself included) and she was brilliant.  She was articulate, interesting, entertaining … everything one expects an author to be at a book signing.

I sat in the front row, enthralled — like the rest of those gathered at the high school — with her clever stories, witty observations and wry sagacity.  Her book was a best seller and she’s done a lot of these appearances; she made it look easy.

And maybe for her, it was.  If so, that serves only to make me feel even worse about my own pathetic lack of social graces.

Sure, part of Simonson’s charm came from her British accent. “Put your hand up! This is a robbery!” sounds altogether charming when you say it with an English accent. An English accent is the polar opposite of a German accent, where even a statement such as, “I love you, darling,” tends to sound like wine glasses being cruelly crushed between two large, wet stones.  I’m fairly certain German is the language Klingons revert to when they want to sound scarier than they do in their native tongue.

Anyway, her accent was part of her charm, but not all of it.  She was collected, cool and in complete control.

I hate her.

No, that’s not true.  I thought she was great.  I just hope folks who attended her signing don’t show up at mine.  I can’t follow an act like that.

Sweet Annie has agreed to accompany me to the signing to offer moral support, but I suspect she plans to wear dark glasses and a fake Groucho mustache.  No need for us both to go down in flames, I guess.

Dallas Ford Lincoln, a fellow author, friend, and man with the names of two car companies in his monicker, also will be there signing his latest book. So if nobody shows, at least I’ll have another writer there with me suffering a similar fate.  I don’t know if misery loves company, but I do.

Ah, if I only had da noive.

BUY MY BOOK, YA CHEAPSKATE!  Available in eBook format at Amazon.com and in paperback at Robbins Book List and Greenville and online by clicking the links over on the left, there.  mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com (616) 548-8273

Television is to blame for the way I smell

To my co-workers who sit near me at the office, my sincerest apologies. I know, I’m starting to smell … well … bad.

It’s not my fault. I’m bathing regularly. My teeth are brushed, may hair is washed (and combed to perfection, if false modesty, for a moment, may be set aside).

Yet I stink.

It’s not my fault, but the fault of the laundry where until a couple weeks ago, I washed my clothes. It’s a nice enough laundry; most of the machines work, the dryers are hot, the attendant keeps things clean.

The problem is the televisions. There are two of them, and they are ALWAYS tuned to the most vile garbage imaginable; the most vile garbage I can imagine anyway. Maybe you can imagine worse, but I doubt it.

Before I go on, let me state emphatically that I am NOT one of those literary elitists who watch only PBS while nibbling Brie and sipping Chateau Lafleur from a crystal goblet. In fact, I had to Google “expensive wines” to obtain that Chateau Lafleur reference; I drink the stuff that comes in a box.

I enjoy the Three Stooges (at least the episodes with Curly), the “Planet of the Apes” movies, and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sure, I’ll occasionally watch “Masterpiece Theatre” or listen to “World News Tonight,” but mostly because I dig the British accents.

So what does all this have to do with the way I smell? I just can’t go back in that laundry, that’s what. I can’t. I can’t bear to fold sheets and socks for 45 minutes while some TV judge tries to shout down the two morons in his (or her) courtroom; while a TV host with hair even more perfect than my own gives his (or her) second-grade-level opinions on what’s wrong (or right) with teenage motherhood while a studio audience of what can only be described as the Stupidest People on Planet Earth shout and moan their collective approval or dissent.

I have only a handful of working brain cells left and they are being rapidly depleted by talk shows covering topics like “Lesbian space aliens who have been kidnapped by Amish farmers and forced to do the work of plough horses!!!” or “When weight loss turns deadly! Why the California Banana Cream Pie diet may kill you!!!”

Enquiring minds may want to know, but mine does not.

My wardrobe is beginning to show evidence of this fact; my socks in particular. They used to be white, but no longer. My pants all have bicycle chain grease on the inside right cuff. The pits of most of my office shirts carry an odor that can only be described as tragically reminiscent of my ninth grade gym locker.

I suppose I could bag up all my filthy clothes and drag them along some weekend when I go to visit Sweet Annie. She has her own laundry facilities and would be more than happy to share. But we see each other too seldom and when together, prefer to do fun stuff rather than ironing.

As a last resort, I could take my laundry in later in the evening, after the cultural and moral wasteland that is daytime TV has ended for the day, but who wants to spend Saturday night watching a spin cycle?

So for now, at least, I’ll continue to smell funky. I figure, eventually the stench will grow bad enough that when I enter the laundry, everyone else will leave. At this point, I’ll be free to change the channel to PBS. Or maybe find a “classic” channel airing the Three Stooges.

Mike Taylor’s paperback book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is now available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in eBook format from Amazon.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.