Let’s personalize daylight savings time

Just got done “springing ahead” all the clocks in the Taylor home. It took a while, since somebody around here (hint: not me or the dog) is obsessed with punctuality. The Lovely Mrs. Taylor has three clocks in the master bedroom, one in each bathroom, one in the guestroom, two in the kitchen, one in the dining room, one in my office, two in her office and two in the living room. There are also clocks in the garage and basement.

By the time I get done with the annual springing ahead, it’s usually time to “fall back” again.

I’m not sure why we do it. There just aren’t that many farm kids who need those extra hours to help bring in the crops anymore, not even around my Mayberry-esque community.

But someone – I have no idea who – says move those clocks ahead, and so I do. In the fall they tell me to move them back again and I do that, too, no questions asked.

I’m beginning to think that whoever is making the call is just messing with our heads, seeing how long we’ll continue to blindly follow the herd. Could even be a secret military mind control experiment, you never know.

A lot of people have called for the abolition of daylight savings time in recent years. I’m not one of them. In fact, I’m in favor of taking the whole premise to the next level, something I call Personal Emergency Savings Time, or “PEST.”

PEST would work like this: instead of following some government-sponsored dictum, each individual could decide when – or if – to spring ahead or fall back an hour. The decision would be dictated not by crop plantings or harvests, but by an individual’s own requirements.

The only caveat would be that at the end of the year the number of hours in each of the past 365 days would have to balance out to “about” 24.

I know it sounds confusing, but let me muddy up the waters further with a couple “for instances.”

It’s 4 p.m. Friday and you’re at work; the minute hand is crawling. But wait! You just remembered, today is the day you’re “springing ahead.” Kazaam! It’s 5 and you’re out the door. You can make up that hour later in the day, when you’re hanging with friends around the backyard barbecue having a couple beers. Time to call it a night? Heck, no! Time to “fall back.” All of a sudden you have time for one more frosty one and another plate of ribs.

The next night you order pizza from that place that gives it to you free if they take more than a half-hour to get it to your front door. When the delivery guy arrives, you explain that you’ve just “sprung ahead” and so, technically, it has taken him an hour and 20 minutes to deliver your pie.

You can even show him your watch, so he knows you’re not trying to cheat him.

The possibilities are endless. Early morning staff meetings? Fall back. Discussions with insurance salesmen? Spring ahead. Dances with pretty girls? Fall back. Doing the Hokey Pokey with your Great Aunt Edna? Spring ahead.

You get the idea. The things we love will last longer, the things we don’t won’t last as long.

I can’t believe nobody’s thought of this before now.


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

Selling defective merchandise is, unfortunately, a ‘known issue’

“It’s a known issue.”

I first heard that phrase five years ago at a computer repair shop on Grand Rapids’ west side. The person saying it was one of the store’s techs, describing a problem I was having with my new computer, purchased less than a month earlier.

The previous day I had been writing merrily along; the sun was shining, birds were singing, words were flowing. Then – pfffftttt! (That’s the actual sound the computer made) – no picture; just a blank, gray screen.

After an unfruitful hour on the phone with Apple’s tech support department, I was told to take the computer to a local repair shop. I did.

“What do you mean, ‘It’s a known issue?’” I asked.

“It’s a known issue,” the tech guy repeated.

“Known by whom?”

The tech guy gave me that withering, superior look, the one computer geeks seem capable of churning out by the sack full. “Known by Apple, I guess,” he said.

“Then why didn’t they fix it before they sold me the computer?” I said.

The tech guy shrugged and stacked my computer alongside two dozen identical units waiting to receive the exact same repair procedure.

“Next Thursday,” he said, handing me a ticket.

My next encounter with a “known issue” was software related. A music production program I had just installed kept freezing up at the same point for no apparent reason. Each time this happened, I lost about an hour’s work.

After dropping nearly $300 on this program, I figured it should be bug free and – with a list of my favorite profanity in front of me – I phoned the company’s tech department to tell them so.

After listening to 90 minutes of “The Girl from Ipanema” interspersed with recorded announcements telling me how important my call was, I was told, “It’s a known issue.”

“What do I do to fix it?” I said.

“We’re working on an update,” the tech guy said.

“Meanwhile?” I asked

“Um, the update should be out early next year,” the tech guy said. “That should take care of the problem.”

“Meanwhile?” I asked again.

The tech guy suggested I save my work every couple minutes so that when – not if, but when – the program froze up, at least I wouldn’t have to start over from scratch.

Apparently, if an issue is “known,” then everybody’s supposed to be cool with it. If I buy a car and one of the “known issues” is that the tires fall off at speeds over 35 mph, then – according to tech guy logic – I should just shut up and drive under 34 until they come out with next year’s model.

My most recent known issue encounter arose shortly after I purchased a Blackberry and signed up for the requisite two-year contract. At first, everything was groovy. The phone worked perfectly.

Then suddenly and for no apparent reason, the unit would no longer allow me to text photos. Since I rarely spot Bigfoot, Elvis or white cops beating Rodney King, I wasn’t overly concerned with this limitation. It took weeks before I got around to dropping by the phone store to speak with them about it.

“It’s a known issue with that model,” the tech girl said.

“If you knew it didn’t work, why didn’t you mention it to me a month ago when I was buying the phone?” I asked. “I wouldn’t have purchased it.”

The tech girl looked at me like I had just answered my own question, which, I suppose, I had.

My phone bill’s due in two days, but I think I’ll wait a week to pay it. Maybe two. When they call to ask why it’s late, I have an answer.

It’s a known issue.


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

I can no longer hide from my criminal past

Unlike former President Nixon, I admit am a crook. Until now I’ve done my best to conceal my sordid past, but I’m not getting any younger; maybe it’s time to come clean and let the warrants fall where they may.

So, confession time. In my life, I have stolen the following items: a tiny flashlight, batteries for that flashlight, a Superman comic book, a television set and several dozen milk bottles. I have also been known to eat a grape from the grocery store bin if I thought no one was watching.

The flashlight theft was my first intentional caper. I was 10 years old, and for some reason, I decided I simply had to have one of those little pen lights, the sort powered by a single double-A battery. Using Mission Impossible-like stealth and planning, I managed to make it out of Cook’s Five & Dime with the light concealed in my jacket pocket.

It wasn’t until I was out on the sidewalk that I realized batteries weren’t included. Unaware of the criminal’s maxim about never returning to the scene of the crime, I went back in to swipe a battery and was immediately apprehended.

The store manager called my old man. Retribution was swift and Draconian. When I had sufficiently recovered, I was marched before Father Mike at St. Isadore’s, where I confessed my sins, asked forgiveness and recited several Hail Mary’s. I was happy to be kneeling; sitting down was not an option.

This effectively ended my crime spree, until age 12 or so, when I swiped a Superman comic book from Reagan’s Pharmacy. I was never caught, but I was so scared of being found out that I never really enjoyed the comic. At the time, I’d never heard the phrase “Catch 22,” but I understood its meaning.

The television theft, decades later, was an accident. Honest. I was at the mall two days before Christmas with my two small children in tow. I was laden with packages, both kids were whining and I could think of nothing but finishing up and getting out.

The last item on my list was a portable TV. I found one at the mall’s big “anchor” store, stuck it under one arm, and marched out the door, right past the security guard.

I loaded kids, packages, and the TV into my broken down Volvo, drove home, unloaded the whole mess and spent the evening watching shows on my new television. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I had shoplifted the thing.

Remembering all too well my encounter 20 years earlier with Father Mike, I drove back to the mall, explained what had happened, and paid for the set. The mall people acted like I was nuts. I had, after all, made a clean getaway. They did not understand Catholic guilt.

Also unintentional was my very first crime, involving the milk bottles. It went down the summer after my ninth birthday. The bottles were the old fashioned, returnable glass kind. I spent the entire summer removing empties from the racks behind Booth’s Diary on Michigan Street and walking them around to the front of the store, where I turned them in for the 5-cent deposit and purchased ice cream.

I couldn’t figure out why the dairy would give me good money for something they were just going to throw out anyway, but I wasn’t going to rock the boat.

My dad did, however, when he discovered what I’d been doing. Though the punishment was less stringent, the trip to see Father Mike was just as mortifying.

I’ve somehow managed to walk the straight and narrow since the TV escapade; over 20 years now. But it’s only a matter of time before I slip. After all, nobody’s watching those grapes.


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

The mailman is making me feel older than I want to be

Were it not for the U.S. Postal Service, I wouldn’t mind getting old.

I was never a great beauty and I’m happily married, so I’m not overly concerned about losing my rugged good looks. I’m not thrilled with the prospect of eventually dying, but it doesn’t keep me up nights either. I’m not even resentful that my body no longer performs as it did when I was in my 20’s. In fact, considering the lousy maintenance I’ve put into it, my body’s doing better than it has any right to do.

Like I said, aging wouldn’t bother me, were it not for that blasted mail.

It started a few years ago, just before my 50th birthday. The envelope looked ordinary enough, but contained what was to be the harbinger of all the bad mail to come; an invitation to join the AARP.

AARP, for you kiddies, is the acronym for the American Association of Retired Persons. When I got the invitation, I still considered myself relatively young.

The AARP disagreed with this assessment; according to their experts, I was not even close to young. According to the AARP, I was old. (They used fluffy euphemisms like “golden years” and whatnot, but it all comes down to the same number of facial wrinkles.)

The AARP wanted me to join with millions of other geezers (by paying monthly dues) and reap the wondrous benefits of cheap prescription drugs and discounts on time shares in Florida.

I made up my mind to send an angry letter to the AARP telling them what they could do with their offer, but being old and confused, I never got around to it. I didn’t send them any dues, either, but that hasn’t stopped them from renewing their invitation every couple weeks. They know it’s only a matter of time.

A short while later, the coupons started showing up. Suddenly, inserted amongst the offers for 10 percent off razor blades and feminine hygiene products were coupons for things like hair dye. Hair dye for men.

My hair (miraculously) does not need dye. Not yet. I’m getting a little grey at the temples, but that’s about it. My hair works just fine, thanks.

And of course, there have been numerous offers for free samples of Viagra.

See above response to hair dye offer.

And Rogaine.

I have hair, it’s not too gray. Let the hair thing rest, already! You’re making me paranoid.

Then last week it happened. I knew it would. I got my first offer for a great deal on a “mobility scooter.”

How old do these people think I am? I’m 53, man! I still listen to Korn cranked to the max on the car stereo. I play tennis five days a week and ride a bicycle every day there’s not snow on the ground.

A scooter-mobile may be in my future, but not my immediate future. When (and if) I need one, I will call you. Meanwhile, leave me alone and let me enjoy what few (relatively) young years I have left!

On the other hand, I have noticed my hair seems just a little thinner, right in front there. It could be my imagination, but maybe I should hang on to those Rogaine coupons.

Just in case.


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

I may not look great now, but just wait until I die!

It was bound to happen; inevitable, really. In our appearance-obsessed culture, where it really is considered better to “look good than feel good,” how could it not?

I’m talking about – brace yourself – plastic surgery for the dead. Yup. You read that right.

I suppose in some ways this is just a natural extension of the mortician’s art. For years, undertakers have done their best to make old Aunt Hattie look “lifelike” for the wake. Makeup, hairdos and toxic chemicals have all been employed to give the dearly departed a healthy glow he or she probably never had in life.

We’ve come a long way from the days of putting a couple pennies over the eyes and calling it good. Today’s funerals are a multi-million dollar business. Not since the ancient Egyptians has a culture been so obsessed with putting a pretty face on that final ferry ride with Charon down the river Styx. (Which is actually a Greek reference, not Egyptian, I know. Just roll with me here, professor.)

Anyway, while we haven’t yet revived mummification, we are following a similar, though more modern route to the same end; namely, trying to look our best while moving from this world to the next.

Two of the services being offered by post-mortem plastic surgeons are lip plumping and breast augmentation. I know, I know, I couldn’t believe it either.

Plain Janes who somehow managed to get through decades of life looking the way God and nature intended can now enter the afterlife with Calista Flockhart lips and Dolly Parton ta-tas.

And it’s not just for the ladies. Guys, too, are opting for afterlife wrinkle reduction surgery, hair coloring and pec implants.

With regard to those implants it’s important to note – if you’re planning on cremation – they have a tendency to explode when heated. You may want to arrange to have them removed first, unless of course you want to go out with a bang.

Naturally, all this stuff costs a whole lot more than a couple pennies on the eyes, but just think how jealous all those wrinkly, thin-lipped, small-ta-ta’ed living people left behind will be!

OK, does anyone besides me think this is nuts?

When I kick the bucket, I don’t care if the Lovely Mrs. Taylor stacks me in a corner, puts a rubber cigar in my mouth, a pinwheel beanie on my head and lets the cats use me as a jungle gym. (There’s actually a chance she will do just that.)

I won’t care. For once, it won’t matter how I look. In fact, I’m rewriting my will this afternoon. I’m leaving specific instructions for the undertaker to leave my shirt untucked, my hair uncombed, and my face unshaven.

I want to spend eternity in comfort. I’m hoping Heaven has no dress code. And if Heaven’s not to be my final destination, well, how I look will be the least of my worries.


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

Gauging the end of winter by the retail outlet displays

It’s official – winter is over. This may come as a shock to those of you with a foot of dirty snow still lurking in your driveway like a rotten tooth in need of pulling. But it’s true. Winter is over.

How do I know this? I can read the signs.

Remember back in early July, when the stores put out their Back to School displays? Then came August, when the Halloween and Thanksgiving stuff went up. And who can forget September; the official start of the retail “Christmas Season?”

Well, it’s happening again, but unlike all the aforementioned rushed seasons, this time around I don’t mind.

I went grocery shopping last Sunday with The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, and – according to the store shelves – summer is not only “just around the corner,” it has arrived.

Gone are the gloves, mittens, hats, coats, sidewalk salt, shovels, windshield brushes, woolen socks and portable heaters.

In their place are tiki torches, cans of bug repellent, backyard water slides, pink plastic flamingoes, patio furniture, big yellow boxes of sidewalk chalk, and – the Holy Grail of summertime purchases – barbecue grills.

Oh lordy, I do love barbecue grills.

I hate shopping more than the president of Marilyn Manson’s Fan Club hates polka music, but I could spend all day checking out barbecue grills and never get bored.

In fact, that’s exactly what I tried to do this past Sunday, before Mrs. Taylor’s incessant sleeve pulling and pitiable whining parted me from my beloved outdoor department.

Oh, I don’t need a new grill. I bought a new one last summer and I’ve taken very good care of it. It’s a humble little thing, ideally suited for Mrs. T and me. There’s no reason to even think about replacing it.

Still, it’s hard not to dream, especially this time of year. There are just so many grilling options out there; it’s mind boggling.

When I was a kid (back before electricity, running water or parenthetical asides) backyard grills came in two varieties – cheap metal saucers that gave about two years service before rusting away to nothing, and beautiful, brick monstrosities built by homeowners who had no intention of moving again, ever. Both types were powered by charcoal or wood and could either cook to perfection, or incinerate, depending on who was sitting in the driver’s seat.

The grills I saw Sunday were astounding extrapolations on those antediluvian devices, monuments to the masculine yearning to scorch meat over an open fire, as did our Neolithic forebears. Charcoal, wood, propane, natural gas; all were viable and available fuel options. I didn’t see any units powered by nuclear fuel cells, but it’s only a matter of time.

One grill in particular caught my eye; a colossal, stainless steel monolith with four side burners, a detachable counter top, and a small vegetable sink built in. The available cooking space was listed in square feet instead of inches. I almost wept. Mrs. Taylor kept pointing to the price tag, but I was having none of that.

Summer, after all, is here. And a man must dream.


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

Just once, I’d like to wind up with the Creature instead of Frankenstein

I love to wheel and deal. Unfortunately, I stink at it. My first bartering experience came at age eight, when I traded my Creature of the Black Lagoon model for a model of Frankenstein’s monster with a missing left foot. The foot had been replaced with a Popsicle stick wrapped in electrical tape.

My Creature was practically new; I’d only put it together a week earlier. The Frankenstein was old and had been repainted about 30 times. That’s why I made the trade; I liked the way it smelled. (I have no idea how many brain cells I killed in those days sniffing model paint, but I’m guessing it was a lot, judging by my current mental faculties.)

It wasn’t until a day later that I realized I’d made a bad trade. The first of many.

Since then, I’ve traded good cars for bad trucks, nice American-made guitars for cheap Korean instruments that happened to have a cool blue sparkle finish, and once I even swapped an expensive pair of cowboy boots for a pair of faux alligator loafers. That one seemed pretty brainless even at the time, but I was burning with “barter fever.”

In the long, long ago, before the Internet, making a bad trade was something that happened only occasionally, at a car dealership, maybe, or a flea market. With the advent of sites like Craig’s List, the chance to make a bad trade is omnipresent.

Last week I noticed an online posting for an oak dining room set, exactly like the one The Lovely Mrs. Taylor has been wanting for the past ten years. Better still; the seller was willing to swap the set for a used laptop computer, like the one gathering dust in my closet.

I emailed the seller with details and she accepted the offer; the following Sunday, I would deliver the computer to her house and we would trade even up. She assured me the table and chairs were in “near perfect” condition.

That settled, I posted our old dining room set on Craig’s List, asking what I thought to be a fair price. Within ten minutes, I had five offers, a sure sign I had – as usual – lowballed the deal. Mrs. T had instructed me to charge more, but I wanted to make sure the old set sold before the new one arrived.

Come Sunday, I delivered our old table and chairs to the buyer. He paid full price without complaint or haggle, another sure sign I had undercharged.

Mrs. Taylor pointed out that, should we not like the new set for some reason, we would now be forced to eat dinner sitting on the floor.

“Have I ever steered us wrong?” I asked. Mrs. T remained silent, undoubtedly trying to tally the number of times I have done just that.

Her fears were put to rest when we arrived at the seller’s house. The chairs were in excellent shape, as was the table’s base. The table top itself had been carefully wrapped in plastic and foam padding, to prevent scratches. The seller offered to remove the plastic so we could inspect the table top, but since we were transporting the thing home in the back of a pickup, it seemed best to leave the padding in place.

Back home (after a 90-minute drive) I reattached the base to the table top with the bolts provided, then turned it upright. Carefully, we peeled back the plastic and foam covering, revealing a surface utterly ruined by what appears to be spilled fingernail polish remover.

This was almost a relief to me, as things had been going far too smoothly until this point and my making a good trade is one of the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse. With the tabletop’s finish thus battle scarred, the trade now fell comfortably into the category of “bad.”

Oh, it’s still a nice piece of furniture and I can refinish it to make it look new again. But still, for just a minute there, I thought I might be the one to wind up with a Creature of the Black Lagoon instead of a one-footed Frankenstein.


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