There’s something about a free T-shirt that makes people crazy

It has been years since my last monster truck rally; a dozen, maybe. I care about monster trucks almost as much as I care about who wins this season’s American Idol, which is to say, not at all. But my sons Jordan and James both loved ‘em, James especially. So once or twice a year we’d go.

Monster truck rallies, for those of you unfamiliar with pork rinds or chewing tobacco, feature large, heavily modified pickup trucks rumbling over smaller, less testosterone-infused vehicles. They’re loud, smelly, crowded affairs, and a lot more fun than I’m making them sound here.

Monster truck rallies are, for the most part, a “guy thing.” There’s a lot of shouting, jostling and other rude behavior that most guys keep under wraps when their wives are watching. Occasionally, there’s even a fight or two. Just guys—drunk, redneck guys for the most part—doing what guys do.

Now, I consider myself to be an urbane, sophisticated man about town, so I try to avoid inebriated hand-to-hand combat with guys named Bubba as often as possible. But sometimes, a situation arises that so threatens the very fabric of civilization that I just have to make a stand.

Such was the case when I fought over the T-shirt.

The T-shirt was shot in my general direction from a T-shirt-shooting cannon while crews were busy dragging a recently-capsized Ford F250 out of the arena. They do stuff like that at monster truck rallies to fill in the few quiet moments between Yugo crushings.

The T-shirt tried to sail over my head and into the bleachers behind me, but at the last second I leapt up and snagged it. No right fielder making the winning World Series catch ever felt more satisfaction than I did as I pulled that shirt out of the air.

But as I did, the guy sitting directly behind me tried to grab it out of my hand! I turned around, thinking he might be kidding. I had caught the shirt, fair and square, after all.

He was a big guy, hairy beer belly protruding impressively over his belt and from under his wife-beater T-shirt. And he wasn’t kidding; he intended to steal my T-shirt with a stadium full of monster truck fans watching the misdemeanor unfold in real time on the Jumbo-tron screen.

Now, I cared no more about that T-shirt than I did about monster trucks or American Idol, but there was a principle at stake here! I refused to let go. I pulled. He pulled. We pulled.

It soon became apparent he wasn’t strong enough to pull the shirt out of my vise-like grip. Sadly, I wasn’t able to pull it out of his. So we sat there, the two of us, hanging onto our corners of the T-shirt. For 90 minutes. Every so often, one of us would give the thing a half-hearted tug, like a dog wrestling for a rope he’s grown tired of.

Neither of us said a word, we just hung onto the shirt as monster trucks continued to do their thing in the arena below.

Eventually, the last truck rumbled out the door. The guys hawking cotton candy and $4 bottles of water called it a day. And still the big guy and I maintained our stubborn grips.

I realized one of us was going to have to give it up. Either that or we’d wind up spending eternity together, joined at the shirt. I decided I could probably do better by way of a life partner, so I let go my end. Bubba shambled away in triumph, the horribly mangled T-shirt dangling from his fur-knuckled hand.

There’s a moral here somewhere, but being the kind of guy who enjoys monster truck rallies, I have no idea what it is.

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

There’s actually some comfort in hearing that final coffin nail hammered home

Earlier this year my wife left me. Then I lost my house. Last week, I finally hit the Trifecta of bad luck – I was fired from my job.

It wasn’t my fault, or the fault of the newspaper I was working for. The economy stinks, and they simply couldn’t afford me anymore.

Management was exceedingly nice about it; I should point out, and did everything they could to make the whole affair a little less devastating. It’s a great company; the best I’ve worked for, and I have nothing but good things to say about the folks there.

I’ll miss ‘em.

But I’m still unemployed. And, as many of you already know from sad experience, this is not a good time to find oneself without gainful employment.

So, the wife, the house, the job … if I knew three chords I’d write a country-western song. Seriously, I’m starting to feel like a character from a Steinbeck novel here!

If it weren’t for the fact I now have nothing left to lose, I’d be bummed out. But, other than my health (knock on wood) everything I thought important a year ago is long gone.

It may be that I’m still in a state of shock, but the whole thing is actually a little liberating. I have nothing left that can be taken from me. I can’t help but wonder; at some point did Job finally throw up his hands and laugh at his situation? The Bible doesn’t report this event, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he did.

I mean, there’s only so much that can happen to one person in a short amount of time before it becomes impossible to miss the flat-out irony of it all.

So I’m not going to panic or pout. I’m going to file my unemployment claim, dust off the resume, get a good haircut, polish my shoes, pray, and start looking for work. Eventually (the unemployed bum says with crossed fingers) I’ll find something.

And when I’m not hunting for a new gig, I’ll do what everybody I know has been telling me to do for years: work on The Book. “Starving artist” sounds so much better than “unemployed bum,” don’t you think?

I’m not sure yet what the book is going to be about, but trust me, it will be fabulous! So much so, in fact, that you’re not only going to want to buy a copy for yourself, but several additional copies for friends and relatives.

Why? Because “successful author” sounds even better than “starving artist,” that’s why.

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

Scorpions, tarantulas and beer – they go together better than you may think

I had my first beer the summer I turned 15. I had my second beer 57 seconds later. My third beer I didn’t have until I was in my late 20s and even then I wasn’t sure I liked it.

But that first beer was wonderful.

It was late August and I was living in Phoenix. My mother had decided a few months earlier that we should move there for the clean, dry air. The Arizona Tourism Council brochures neglected to mention the dust storms that blow through that godforsaken city every few weeks, turning the air into the breathable equivalent of a kitty litter box.

It was sweltering that summer. My Michigan physiology was not adapting well and I spent most days trying to find shady spots near the apartment complex’s swimming pool.

I had made one friend, Morgan, an Apache that had been adopted off the reservation by a white family. I thought he was cool because he looked like a character out of a John Wayne movie, he thought I was cool because I thought he was cool.

We spent most of that summer hanging together; with Morgan teaching me about life lived on the edge of the desert. We caught lizards, climbed trees, built forts, and did the stuff boys did before the advent of Play Station III.

So I was a little surprised by Morgan’s reaction when I told him I was going into the desert to find insects for a science class project.

“You’ll get lost out there,” he said, “or stung by a scorpion.”

“It’s right across the road,” I said, pointing to the miles of empty saguaro-studded sand only four lanes of blacktop away. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance. If I walked toward them I was going away from home. If I walked away from them I was headed back. I figured.

Morgan was worried for my safety, but he didn’t offer to serve as my faithful Indian guide. Fifteen-year-old boys have a strong survival instinct and, unlike me, Morgan wasn’t an idiot.

Butterfly net in one hand and canteen in the other, I crossed the road and stumped boldly into the trackless wasteland.

Seven hours later, my canteen long empty, I stumbled onto a dirt road, the first sign of civilization I had seen since wandering too far west of the four-lane blacktop.

My throat was an arid tube with a dry sweat sock stuffed in it. My sunburn had gone from bright pink to an alarming shade of red. I had been seeing honest-to-goodness mirages for hours, shimmers on the desert floor that looked for all the world like cool ponds. They remained elusively out of reach.

I sat by the side of the road for a good hour, falling slowly in and out of consciousness, before the battered pickup truck rumbled to a halt beside me. Through the cloud of dust it kicked up I saw an old fellow – what down there they call “desert rats” – stick his head out the window.

“Need a lift, son?” he said.

I did. More than that, I needed a drink. All the desert rat had was beer, a warm six-pack nestled on his front seat.

I drank one beer, opened the passenger door and was sick by the side of the road. I drank another and kept it down.

Morgan was waiting for me back at the house, sipping a cold Coke and talking with my sister. He gazed placidly as I stumbled from the pickup and dragged myself inside for a shower and sleep.

The next time Morgan gave me advice about the desert, I listened.

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’d like to know who put the cat in charge

I've never been fond of cats. Oh, there have always been a couple around the house, owned either by the kids or the former Lovely Mrs. Taylor, but we never had much to say to each other (the cats and me, I mean).

The cats did what cats do: eat, sleep, and slink around like they’ve been up to no good and are worried their probation officers might find out. Cats are the nickel and dime criminals of the animal world. If animals used money, cats would be in charge of under-the-counter, high interest loans and the occasional arson job.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t actively dislike cats; I just don’t have much use for ‘em. It’s always been an uneasy truce between me and the house’s feline populace; they use the litter box, I try not to step on anyone’s tail.

So when the Siamese left last spring with the former Mrs. T, I didn’t miss him. I missed the dog, but he was my friend. The cat was just, well, a cat. I missed him no more than I would one of the squirrels that take up residence in the attic every winter.

Which is why my answer was “Not interested” when, a few weeks ago, Rose called to say she’d found a kitten in the woods behind her home.

“She’s so cute,” Rose said.

“Not interested,” I said.

“She needs a home,” Rose said. “She’s so tiny, just a few weeks old.”

“Not interested,” I said.

“I can’t keep her,” Rose said. “The dogs would eat her.”

“That’s what dogs do,” I said.

“Listen,” Rose said. “Can you hear her meow?”

I could. It was annoying, even over the phone.

“She’s so cute,” Rose said again. “You’re all alone there at your house.”

“I like being all alone.” This is a lie, but Rose doesn’t know that. “I do not want a cat. I won’t take it, Sam I Am.”

I have a will of granite in such matters and made up my mind then and there that there was no way I was getting suckered into taking that kitten.

Rose delivered the singularly unattractive ball of fuzz the next day, along with a litter box, several cans of food, and an eye dropper. She was too young to be without a mama cat, so I was forced to feed her “kitty formula” by hand, using the eye dropper – six times a day, or she would meow her fool head off and make me crazy.

I kept her warm. I kept her fed. By way of thanks, she clawed my legs, my arms, my face; she peed on my hardwood floors.

The vet said she was only about four weeks old. That was three weeks ago. She’s now eating canned food and using the litter box in the manner for which it was intended. But she’s still a cat, and takes even greater delight – if that is possible – in clawing me up every chance she gets.

It’s all in fun, the vet says. It’s what kitties do. It’s the way they play.

Meanwhile, I look like a cube steak that’s been run through the tenderizer one time too many.

But somehow, Sofa King (my grandson suggested the name) has won my heart, the little rat. She sits on my lap while I’m reading at night, content to purr and snuggle, occasionally taking a swipe at my wrist, just to remind me who’s in charge.

I never thought I could care for a cat – as anything other than a possible emergency food source – but look at me now; whipped into submission by a 13-ounce fuzz ball. It’s unmanly.

But like most kinds of love, when it happens, it happens. We all need to be needed, I guess, and some things we just don’t control.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, somebody’s out of kibble.

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 predict this column will anger a lot of ‘God-gifted’ psychics

I’ve mentioned here before that I love The Old Farmer’s Almanac. Not those lame-o rip-offs that some unscrupulous supermarkets have been pushing in recent years, but the real Almanac, the one featuring Benjamin Franklin and Almanac founder Robert B. Thomas on its cover. The one that – as of last year – was on issue number CCXVII (which is Roman for “older than Clint Eastwood”).

Growing up in big cities (Detroit, Grand Rapids, Phoenix, Indianapolis, etc.) I had little contact with the world depicted in the Almanac. I was in my teens before I realized carrots weren’t manufactured from long chain polymers in a factory in Queens.

But once I moved to my current home in the bucolic Michigan countryside, I moved with all my heart, might, mind and soul. I planted a garden. I walked and rode my bike alongside miles of corn, beans and ‘taters. I did everything but buy an Amish hat and plow my back forty (feet, that is) with a horse.

I learned a lot, and one of the first things I learned is that folks around here read the Almanac, even those who don’t farm. So I did, too. Sure, there’s plenty of advice for farmers in there; planting tables, frost predictions and so on. But there’s also stuff for reformed city slickers like me.

But the best part, in my opinion, is the advertising section in the back. One thing you can say about the Almanac – they will accept anyone’s advertising dollar. In this economy, you can’t blame ‘em.

The best ads are from psychics. The word “psychic,” as you may be aware, is derived from the Latin “psychulorum,” which loosely interpreted, means “fraud.”*

There are pages of ads from psychics anxious to help with everything from your love life to your problems with the IRS.

“Sister Chloe” is one of my faves this year. Not only is she – according to her ad – “God-gifted,” she can predict the past, present and future. Now, I’m no psychic, but even I can predict the past and present!

It’s getting clearer … clearer … yes! I predict that this morning I had Corn Chex for breakfast! I’m now eating a baloney sandwich for lunch!

Amazing, eh? Predicting the future is a little tougher, but Sister Chloe can do it, for a price. Same goes for Rev. Dr. Black. Not only a reverend, but a doctor as well. If you can’t trust a reverend doctor, whom can you trust?

In fact, about half the psychics listed in the Almanac classifieds are doctors, reverends or “sisters.” Most of the rest are “God-gifted.” (God, apparently, hands out psychic talent like Halloween candy.) That makes it tough for Martha. Martha boasts no medical or religious credentials, she’s just plain Martha. But she does guarantee immediate results! (She does not specify what those results may be, however. The psychic world is a mysterious thing.)

They all claim to be able to remove spells, hexes, voodoo, hoodoo, bad luck, sickness and even lawsuits! That’s cool, but personally, I’d like to get in touch with the folks who cast those hexes and spells in the first place.

Halloween’s coming, and I have enemies.

* OK, I made that up. The only Latin I remember is from morning mass in fourth grade. Dominoes and biscuits, I think it was. Something like that.

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’ve finally found my target audience: second graders

The second grade classroom wasn’t nearly as terrifying as I had imagined.

As regular readers of this column (both of you) may recall, I was invited a few weeks back to speak at Collins Elementary School. They are, apparently, hard up for speakers there.

I hemmed and hawed and tried vigorously to get out of it, even though the teacher who did the inviting promised me free chocolate and introductions to some of the school’s attractive, single teachers. She came through with the chocolate, but I’m still waiting for those introductions.

At any rate, the kids were wonderful. The teacher, principal and other staffers all made me feel very welcome; so much so, in fact, that they eventually had to ask me to leave so they could work on math.

But the best part came a few days later, when the envelope containing the kids’ thank you notes arrived in the mail. I’ve never had such uniformly positive reviews. If their parents would give ‘em up, I’d personally adopt the entire class, assuming the parents would take them back when they hit their teens. Once was enough for that.

“Dear Mike Taylor,” wrote Alise. “No newspaper writer is better than you! I really like your articles. Sometimes, I wish they would never end.” (I’m going to get Alise to accompany me to the boss’ office next time I go begging for a raise. Unlike Alise, my boss seems to think there are better writers than me and that if he threw a stone into a crowd of chimpanzees, he’d probably hit one of them. Alise, bless her, knows better. It would take at least two stones.)

“Thanks for coming to our classroom!” wrote Gabriela. “You are awesome!” Maybe I should take both Alise and Gabriela when I talk with the boss.

Then there’s Gavan. Gavan is a really cool kid, but for some reason, he can’t stop talking about spinach. He even gave me a lecture about the dangers of eating all the chocolate the teacher gave me. Someday, Gavan will own a gym, I’m sure of it. Gavan says I’m a “nice author, for a grownup.” He’s not as big a fan as is Alise. Maybe if I ate more spinach.

Willis, on the other hand, hinted in his letter that if I didn’t like chocolate, he would be happy to take some of it off my hands. Sorry Willis; that chocolate was gone twenty minutes after I got back to the car! (Yes, even the big box of fancy chocolates that I was supposed to give to a girlfriend.)

Sam’s letter I’m not so sure about: “Thank you for visiting our class,” Sam writes. “I really wanted to meet a real author … before you came.” I guess meeting me cured him of that desire.

Bill and Gracie were concerned about my kid-o-phobia. “Are you really afraid of second graders?” they wrote. Well, Bill, Gracie, I was, but not so much any more, thanks to you guys.

Some of the other kids sent pictures; Marisa, for one, is as brilliant with a crayon as she is with a pencil. I’m sure she’s going to have my job someday, but that’s cool; I’ll be done with it by then. Regan also sent me a lovely drawing. And Brody sent a portrait (of me) that looks far better than I do in real life. I’m thinking of swapping Brody’s drawing with the mug shot that usually runs with this column.

At any rate, I’d like to publicly thank the kids for helping me get over my fear of second graders. Also, I should mention their teacher, Ms. TenCate. She is one of those rare educators that seems born to the job. She deserves a raise and I’m not just saying that because she gave me chocolate.

I’m saying it because I’m still hoping she’ll introduce me to those cute, single teachers.

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

It isn’t easy being green, even on Halloween

As I write this, Halloween is still a couple weeks away. I don’t know where you stand on the whole Halloween issue; it seems these days there’s almost nothing you can say about anything that won’t offend somebody. I could write that I like blue skies and some nitwit would claim I’m promoting melanoma and that statistics show gray skies are “safer.”

The same holds true for Halloween. Yes, I know there are folks who consider it an open gateway to Satanism, Paganism, Diabolism and probably a couple other isms I haven’t even heard of. I like to think it’s a chance for kids to have fun and eat too much chocolate.

If you think otherwise, feel free to move on to the sports section now. Larry, our sports editor, is good at his job and there’s a lot of great local coverage there. Read how lousy your local team did Friday night and get mad at Larry instead of me. He’s a sports guy. He can take it. I’m a writer/artist type and therefore too sissified and delicate for that sort of conflict.

Don’t make me hit you to prove it.

At any rate, I’m not trying to promote the Trick or Treat ethos. In fact, this week’s column is a cautionary tale, a warning to youngsters who may become too intensely focused on developing the perfect costume.

My experience in this arena reached its zenith in October of 1964. It was a time when the United States was working overtime to get somebody—anybody—into space, into orbit, and on the moon before the Ruskies did. I was too young to know just why this was important, but I was definitely caught up in the excitement of it all.

Every week I thrilled to the campy thrills of The Outer Limits. My long term goal in life was to be abducted by space aliens. It still is. That may explain the current state of my 401k.

Anyway, I was a space geek. It’s only natural my Halloween costume would reflect this fact.

Now, you have to remember, this was a far-off, primitive age, when kids (at least in my neighborhood) still had to make their own costumes! Kids from good families got their mothers to make ‘em; kids from bad families cut two holes in a pillow case and called it good.

I came from a good family, so mom pitched in.

When I told her I wanted to trick or treat as a Martian, she immediately set about designing a costume that would make Rod Serling proud. She sewed shiny, silver fabric into a Martian-esque tunic, located some pre-cursor to “moon boots,” and even fashioned a pair of antennae from coat hangers and aluminum foil. (Everyone knows Martians have antennae, right?)

I slicked my hair back in a menacing fashion and voila, a Martian was born.

Only problem? Martians, as everyone also knows, are green. I was not, at least by nature.

I lobbied for green spray paint, preferably with metal flake, like I used on my model cars. My mother, no doubt picturing long afternoons removing it with a bucket of turpentine soaked rags, vetoed that idea.

In the end we opted for food coloring. Several bottles of it turned the water in the bathtub the appropriate shade of green. I soaked my skinny body—making sure to submerge my head until my lungs gave out—for about a half-hour. When I finally climbed, dripping wet and pruny, from that tub, I could have passed as a Martian in any club the Jetsons frequented.

At school, my costume won first prize. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

Less proud was the day after Halloween, when I tried to wash off the green. I tried soap. I tried cold cream. My mother tried kerosene, baby oil and several products designed, I think, for removing rust from mailbox posts.

Nothing worked. I was still a little green on Thanksgiving. By Christmas, I was an Earthling again.

I was glad to be pink, I guess. But a part of me, to this day, still misses being a Martian.

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