Can a Kermit boy really make you disappear?

You want proof the world has gone nuts? I got it. 

Recently in the town of Kermit, Texas (named, I assume, after the world's most famous frog) a fourth grade kid was booted out of school for bullying; he threatened to make one of his classmates disappear.

Not "disappear" like some capo in a Godfather movie: "Hey Louie! I needs ya ta make da head of da Gambino family disappear." What he said was, "Hey Joey, I'm wearing the One Ring to Rule Them All and I'm going to use it to turn you invisible" (more or less).

That's right. The kid threatened his buddy with the altogether fictional ring featured in the "Lord of the Rings" books and movies. The fourth grader in question apparently has delusions of Frodo-esque grandeur; this makes him a nerd, not a bully.

Bullies punch you in the face, they don't threaten you with magical powers. At least not the bullies from my old neighborhood.

In fact, too much talk of magical powers was a sure way to get your nose rearranged back when I was in fourth grade. Pixies, leprechauns, wood nymphs and other mythical woodland folk were discouraged.

Yeah, yeah, I know it's a different world now. We live in a "zero tolerance" society in which every word, every action, every whispered utterance, must be carefully scrutinized, analyzed, categorized and sanitized to make sure it could never, ever, under any circumstances, offend the delicate sensibilities of even the most fragile nitwit.

It's enough to make me punch somebody. But I won't. Because I'm not a bully. Also, I hate it when people punch me back, as they have been known to do on occasion. I have a pretty face and I want to keep it that way.

I'm not above being riled by the ridiculousness of it all, however. I mean ... suspended from school for telling a friend you're going to use your magical powers on him?

Gimme a break.

I have to wonder if the school superintendent — Bill Boyd — understands that the Ring of Power is make-believe? Is he worried this fourth grade Hobbit will actually make good on his threat? Does Boyd have religious objections to The Dark Lord Sauron's spirit being paraded through the cafeteria on the ring finger of a nine-year-old? Is he afraid an army of angry orcs will come snarling into his office intent on beheading administrators first and asking questions later?

This superintendent is simply not thinking this thing through. 

Any fourth grade boy with the power of invisibility is going to use it to sneak out of math class, or maybe see what really happens in the girl's bathroom. He's not going to be turning his friends into wraiths. 

Madness! Where will it end? How long before some little girl lands in detention for pointing her glitter-encrusted princess wand at an art teacher in an attempt to transform her into a toad? Sheesh!

Still, it's possible I'm being too hard on Mr. Boyd. When you hail from a town named for a fictional frog, maybe it's best to err on the side of caution.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

C-3PO is gunning for my job

For once, I’m happy to be a geezer. Oh, I miss the smokin’ hot bod of my youth (I’m pretending here that there was a time in which I had one); I’m not thrilled about seeing grey in my beard; I wish I didn’t know what blood pressure medication is.

But still, I’m glad to be old.

Why? Because I’ve spent the last 30 years or so doing a job I love. Writing. I never get tired of putting words on paper. It’s fun and unlike a lot of other things in my life, I don’t stink at it.

In a handful of years (maybe two hands-full) I’ll retire from the newspaper business. But I’ll never stop writing. 

Younger writers probably will. Because robots will be taking their jobs.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.

Nearly ten years ago, some wise-guy techie type came up with a computer program that wrote sports stories. I know this because the program was sometimes used at the newspaper I was working at back then.

All you had to do was plug in scores and a couple quotes from the coach and — shazam! — two seconds later you had a sports story which, though uninspired, was readable.

I was uncomfortable with this in much the same way I might be uncomfortable sharing an office with a dog that sometimes nips. But since I don’t write sports — due to an ignorance of same that is nothing short of legendary — I mostly ignored it.

This, it turns out, was like Poland ignoring Germany just prior to WWII. 

Six months ago, the Associated Press began using a program created by a company called Automated Insights to write many of its financial pieces. I’m not sure how it works, but the system can, theoretically, produce 2,000 articles PER SECOND!

I can’t do half that, and I’m a fairly fast typist. For a human.

The stories, according to the article, are … passable. Not surprisingly, they are less than masterly. But how inspired can a story about stock prices be, anyway?

I know that when I can’t sleep all I have to do is think about the front page of the Wall Street Journal and … zzzzzzzz.

So far, the robots haven’t figured out how to write feature pieces; those “human interest” stories that are my personal bread and butter. But it’s only a matter of time.

One day soon, R2D2 going to be sitting down in front of a laptop and hammering out prose that reads like James Thurber or, at the very least, Mike Taylor.

And that’s the day I’ll be out on my ear, forced at last to get a real job, one in which I’m expected to do real work.

So. I’m hoping that day is at least a handful — or two hands-full — of years away.

After I’ve retired, I won’t care what happens. I’m concerned about the fates of my younger co-workers, sure, but not as concerned as I am about my own skin.

The article I read about this stated emphatically that “no human jobs would be lost” over the deal. 

Then again, I’m pretty sure the article was written by a robot.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

If the clothes make the man, I’m in trouble

I was introduced to gainful employment at age 13 when my dad made me take a job as a paperboy. These days I write for the newspapers (which is a lot easier on the back and also pays slightly better). 

In between, I worked a lot of jobs. I’ve eked out a living as a janitor, substitute teacher, foundry worker, taco maker, babysitter, hi-lo driver, telemarketer, soldier, dishwasher, personnel director, musician, commercial artist, mail sorter, wedding photographer, reporter, editor, burger flipper, and international jewel thief.

OK, I made that last one up.

Point is, I’ve had a diverse work life. Most of the jobs I’ve held over the years I’ve liked. Except for the telemarketer gig; that one is every bit as terrible as you imagine it would be.

I think I’ve had this many jobs for the same reason I’ve had so many wives: I have a tough time taking constructive criticism. Or non-constructive criticism. Or … look, just say only nice things about me and we’ll get along fine.

Some of my jobs required brains, some talent, some a unique skill set. Others required none of these things.

To some jobs I wore a uniform, some a suit, some a paper hat and plastic name tag.

But the easiest job I ever had required no clothing at all. In fact, no clothing was the requirement.

Back when I was still in school I worked as a model for a nude drawing class. Now, if a mental picture is forming and you’re starting to feel mildly nauseous, remember, this was loooong ago. Beer and Mexican food had yet to transform my body into the nightmarish, manatee-esque horror it is today.

Admittedly, even in my prime nobody mistook me for Will Smith in “Independence Day,” but the woman who taught the class assured me she was looking for “real” people with real bodies to model for her students.

I was young, broke and fancied myself to be something of a free-spirited Bohemian. I needed the twenty bucks and wasn’t particularly terrified at the notion of parading my birthday suit into a room full of strangers. All in the name of art, of course.

The reality turned out to be somewhat different. The first thing I learned is they heat the studio (located in the basement of the old Grand Rapids Art Museum) to a temperature comfortable to people wearing clothing. Those of us with none were soon puckered and shivering.

Also, sitting or standing stock still for 25 minutes at a stretch is tougher than you think, particularly when you’re slowly frosting into a 19-year-old nudie-sickle.

The real downer, though, comes when you see the manner in which the students have “interpreted” your beloved physique. Let’s just say not all those interpretations were flattering and few of the students will ever be mistaken for Michelangelo.

To be fair, I wasn’t exactly presenting them with “David” material. (Feel free to Google it if you’re missing some of the artsy-fartsy references here.)

I only modeled nude that one time, but it’s good to know I have something to fall back on should the writing thing not pan out.

Catch Mike Taylor’s Reality Check radio program every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM, m106.3 on your FM dial.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

When it comes to geese, it’s us against them

This is the one, the column certain to bring down the wrath of the PETA people. 

PETA, for those of you just visiting our planet, stands for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. (Which, technically, should be PFTETOA, but that makes for a lousy, difficult to pronounce acronym.)

I’m generally an animal lover myself, by which I mean they taste great! Kidding.

Well, not entirely kidding; some of them really do taste great. Though I have to admit it sounds kind of barbaric when you come right out and say it like that. But I’m a carnivore and that’s not going to change, no matter how many pictures of dewey-eyed piglets the animal rights folks post on Facebook.

Despite my omnivorous tendencies, I do for the most part love animals. Most animals.

Some I don’t like at all.

I think some animals, just like some people, are just plain bad. (Or, in the case of nefarious goats, baaaaaaaaad.)

I don’t know if they’re born bad or if society is responsible for making them that way. The point is, I have little sympathy for bad critters.

I’m thinking specifically of a goose I met over 30 years ago. Geese, as I’ve since learned, are the grumpy old men of the animal kingdom. If they could speak, most of their conversation would consist of yelling at kids to get the heck off their lawn.

They’re cantankerous, ill-tempered fowl and the best thing you can say about them is … they’re delicious.

I knew none of this 30 years ago, however. Having been raised in The Big City, the only avians I had encountered were pigeons. Pigeons are basically rats with wings, but they for the most part mind their own affairs and leave members of the human population to tend to theirs.

My son, Jordan, was only three then. A sweet, trusting kid with even less knowledge of waterfowl than I possessed. 

It was only natural he should be curious about the geese wandering around the small pond at the park where we were picnicking. They are, after all, beautiful animals; graceful (at least in the air or on water — on land they move like badly-made windup toys) and to a small child, they are interesting.

While I lay out our picnic lunch, Jordan approached the largest of the geese. Being an ignorant city boy, I assumed the goose would retreat into the pond and that would be the end of it.

But no. Jordan toddled closer, hoping to make friends; the goose held its ground. It wasn’t until it actually began advancing on my son that I smelled trouble.

A cobra couldn’t have struck as quickly. Before I realized what was happening, Jordan was sitting on the ground holding both hands over his eyes as the towering bird moved in for the kill.

It turned out the goose wasn’t the only one that could move with cobra-like speed. In less time than it takes to read about it, I crossed the 30 feet or so separating us and — here’s the part the PETA people are going to grouse about — punted that goose farther than any NFL placekicker has ever moved a football.

The goose reentered the atmosphere safely and landed in the middle of the pond, where it sat honking accusingly at me. It was smart enough to stay away from shore, however. 

My son’s black eye served as a reminder, for the next couple weeks, that the animal kingdom maintains no organization dedicated to the ethical treatment of humans.

I don’t know if that goose still hangs out at that park. But every year, a week or two before Christmas dinner, I’m tempted to find out.

Emotional problems? Hop in my cab, bub!

If I were smarter I would have come up with this first, but a Swedish taxi company beat me to it: psychotherapy taxis.

You read that right. Shrinks in a cab.

Stockholm — as you may already know — is filled with Swedish people. These Swedish people are quiet, introverted and slow to form meaningful relationships. Because of this, a lot of them are nuts.

Well, not nuts, necessarily, but definitely lonely and in need of social interaction. In short, they need somebody to talk to.

That’s where the psychotherapy cabs come in. For about $165, a therapist-equipped taxi will pick you up and drive you around for an hour while you spill your guts to a real, licensed psychologist. 

While there’s no guarantee you’ll get over your bed wetting problem or the guilt you still feel for making your mother cry that one time back in 1982, the mobile sessions have proven helpful for others. 

Back in college, I drove a (non-therapeutic) cab for a couple summers. It’s mostly a lousy job; the pay stinks, the hours are long, you get no respect from customers or management and if you pick someone up from a bar on a Saturday night, there’s at least a 50 percent chance they will do something terrible to your backseat upholstery, something you’ll be expected to clean up before turning in your cab at the end of your shift.

The only good thing about the job is you get to meet a lot of people, folks from every stratum of society. You pick up wealthy ladies out at the airport. You transport “working girls” home after all their “customers” have slunk home to wives and kiddies. You move van-loads of railway workers back to their homes in Illinois or Indiana.

And to pass the time, you chat. About kids, husbands, wives, parents … basically, you’re talking relationships. I did this for 12 hours a day for two whole summers and not once did it occur to me to charge therapist money for the service.

The last fare I ever picked up — before I retired from the business forever — held a .44 to the back of my head and relieved me of the money I had in my cash box. Like most cabbies, I stashed most of my evening’s take in my sock, so I was only out sixty bucks. But still…

If I had been a psychotherapist cabbie, it could have gone differently:

“Hey man,” says the stinky guy on the other end of the handgun. “Gimme all your money.”

“Now son,” I calmly say (were I a shrink). “I think we need to work on your anger issues.”

“Gimme your money, dude! I ain’t kiddin’.”

“A lot of times,” I suggest, “these issues can be traced back to the mother.”

“My … my mother?” he says. “She … she was a saint! But I made her cry back in 1982. I … I …”

“I know, I know,” I say. “What do you say we talk about it?”

In tears, the robber pockets his Smith & Wesson and we begin our journey to emotional health.

Meanwhile, I get to keep my sixty bucks.

The Swedes are onto something, I think.

Catch Mike Taylor’s Reality Check radio program every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM, m106.3 on your FM dial.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

If only I were artier, maybe I could be the one holding the camera

When I arrived home Thursday afternoon, there was a naked girl in my bathtub.

I’ve always wanted to write that line, but other than a few unpublished letters to certain “gentlemen’s magazines” back in the ‘70s, I’ve never had the chance. Now I do.

Not only was there a naked girl in my bathtub, there were light-boxes, reflective umbrellas, expensive-looking strobes and yards of snaky, black electrical cable running everywhere.

My bathtub (actually, Lori’s bathtub; mine’s at the other end of the house and noticeably lacking in naked girls) was being used for a photo shoot. 

A lot of Lori’s posse are artists, photographers, filmmakers — creative types — and one of them had selected Lori’s tub as being “just right” for some tastefully done nudes. Michael Thayer is a gifted photographer and has appeared in gallery shows, Artprize and so on. 

I had to admit I agreed with him on the choice of location; Lori’s tub is pretty cool. It’s one of those sunken “garden tub” deals. She has it set up with all sorts of strategically-placed wicker, candles, mirrors, ferns and other feminine bric-a-brac. 

I’ve never used it myself. I’d be afraid of breaking something.

My own bathroom, by comparison, looks like something you might find on a nuclear submarine. It’s strictly utilitarian. It gets the job done.

At any rate, I wasn’t allowed to watch the shoot, even though it was going on under my own roof. 

I offered Michael my services … you know, key grip, best boy, reflective umbrella holder. But apparently, he brings along a bag full of apparatus designed to do pretty much every job for which I’m even remotely qualified.

Also, Lori did not seem crazy about the idea of me helping out. For some reason.

Not understanding my deeply artistic nature, she assumed I just wanted to ogle the model. Nothing — nothing! I say — could be further from the truth. I am a paragon of artiness, a shining beacon of aesthetic wonderfulness, a…

Ah, who am I kidding?

Lori didn’t buy it, either, even when I put on a black beret and spoke the few words I know in French. 

Apparently some people can pull off “arty” better than others.

Still, having a naked girl in my tub has given me an idea. No, not that idea. 

The idea of getting seriously into photography myself. I mean, I have a nice digital SLR camera and bunch of equipment I use to shoot news photos.

Why couldn’t I expand on that a little bit? Buy one of those fancy, reflective umbrella thingies, maybe a couple strobes?

Lori’s being supportive. She even said I could shoot photos of the fancy bathtub. Empty. 

Not quite what I had in mind, but it’s a start.

Catch Mike Taylor’s Reality Check radio program every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM, m106.3 on your FM dial.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

It’s scary to live off the grid

Something terrifying happened to me the other day. Something that shook to the foundations my views of myself, the world and life itself.

I — brace yourself, because this is really scary — left home without my cell phone.

No, really. 

I know it’s hard to believe, but I swear it’s true. I walked out the door, hopped in my car, started her up and drove away. All while my phone lay on the bedside stand, quietly sucking juice from its electrical umbilical cord.

I was miles away before I noticed its absence. 

“Hey Siri,” I said. My phone’s name is Siri, because some genius at Apple decided that was somehow cooler than Phil or Edna. Personally, I hate the name Siri, but then, I’ve never been crazy about my own name either. I’ve always thought that, in a fairer world, it would be either Dimitri Papageorgiou or Max Steele.

At any rate, Siri didn’t answer.

“Hey Siri,” I said again, this time with gusto. I wanted to ask her if it was going to rain or snow; my car needed washing and that’s a factor. She still didn’t answer.

That’s when I noticed the magnetic holder in which she usually rests while I’m driving was empty. I nearly lost control of the car while frantically checking my pockets. 

Finally it hit me; my phone was miles away. For the first time in nearly ten years, I was on my own.

If I wanted to know weather conditions, I would have to look out the window. What am I, Amish?! What if I wanted to check on a movie showtime, or find the ten Chinese restaurants closest to my current location? I couldn’t, that’s what if!

I almost never use my phone to make a voice call — that’s too close to actual, human interaction — but it does sometimes happen. What if I needed to do this? Like, if my car broke down? What then?

Driving along the freeway, surrounded by hundreds of other motorists, I suddenly understood, completely, how the pioneers must have felt, navigating their covered wagons into the uncharted West. Like my Little House on the Prairie forebears, I was an island, cut off from the rest of humanity, from civilization.

It was terrifying but exhilarating. For the first time in a decade, if someone wanted to get hold of me, well, too bad. If my boss wanted to remind me of an impending deadline … bummer. If the people at Verizon felt a pressing need to inform me my current month’s bill was 27 seconds overdue, they could just stuff it.

The leash was broken. The collar was home on my nightstand.

I was free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I was free at last!

Of course, when I finally got home the phone went right back in my pocket. Pioneer dreams to the contrary, I’m a creature of my time. And I work for a living; I have to stay in touch.

But someday I’ll retire. On that day, Siri’d better learn to swim, because I’ll be tossing Apple’s premier product into the deep end of my favorite fishing lake.

If you need to get hold of me after that, write a letter.

Catch Mike Taylor’s Reality Check radio program every weekday at 5:30 p.m. on WGLM, m106.3 on your FM dial.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273