We need a little less begatting around the holidays

I need to be rich. Not just a little rich, but a lot; six or seven million in monetary liquidity, at least.

I didn’t used to feel this way. There was a time, and not that long ago, that money was all but meaningless to me. As long as I had food on the table, a roof over my head and reasonably fast internet, I was happy as a well-fed, housed, wi-fi-connected clam.

But no more. Now I need the big bucks and I need ‘em now. Preferably in the next two days.

It’s because of my grandkids. I have too many of them and Christmas is this Saturday. My grandkids – Edison, Rosie, Ari, Kaelyn, Juniper, Junior, Daniel, Abraham, Blake, Valerie and Camdyn – have all happened in the past 16 years. And there’s at least one more we know about on his way.

My children, along with Mrs.Taylor’s (formerly Lori Frankforter’s), are responsible for more “begats” than the books of Genesis and 1 Chronicles combined. Seeing as I am the sole Catholic in this extended family, there’s absolutely no reason for all this widespread begatting. No logical reason, anyway.

Technically speaking, there could be another three grandkids – or even four if my oldest son could find a nice girl and settle down – by next Christmas. That’s 15 grandkids, man! A lot of presents to buy, in anybody’s book!

I mean, there are Arab sheiks with a dozen wives who have fewer grandkids than I do! And unlike me, the sheiks can afford them!

My daughter, Aubreii, assures me that Juniper, who was born just a couple months ago, is the last for her. But she’s said that before. At this point, I’m not sure she can be trusted. Mrs. T’s (fLF’s) daughter, Megan, is currently working on Number Three and is young enough to maintain her present reproductive pace for another decade or two.

As to the boys, Jordan, James and Jason (they should open the Three J’s Ranch or something), who knows how many more kids they could begat in the next 20 years?

Look, I love kids and I especially love my grandkids, every one of them. Even Rosie, who’s now 14 and spends almost all her time sulking and drawing anime figures in a sketch pad.

But I’ve done the math. If my children and Mrs. T’s (fLF’s) keep begatting at their current rate, and if my grandkids begin grand-begatting at the usual age, in 20 years I could easily have 6.2 million grandchildren and great-grandchildren. (I should point out my last math class was ninth grade algebra, and Mr. Paepke only passed me with a D because he felt sorry for me and it was becoming obvious I belonged in a special class.)

At the moment, I have only 11 grandkids with number 12 on the way to round it out to an even dozen. From a present-buying point of view, that about did me in this year. How am I going to handle buying for 6.2 million? I mean, even if I start shopping in June, like I always promise myself I’m going to do, that’s just too many presents.

So. I need to be rich. Not just rich enough to afford all those presents, but (preferably) rich enough to hire someone to do all that shopping for me.

Maybe I could hire one of my grandkids.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

fLF is driving away with my masculinity

I may as well get myself a pink bicycle with glitter handlebar streamers and a Barbie decal on the front fork. I mean, why not? Any latent masculinity I still possess in these, my waning years, is being rapidly scraped away by Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter).

She’s not doing it to be mean or because she wants to emasculate me. At least, I don’t think that’s why she’s doing it. But it’s happening and I feel powerless to stop it.

See, she doesn’t get that a man (I used to consider myself one) defines himself in large part by what he drives. During my 30s, I drove, whenever possible, little red sports cars. I always felt cool, hip and – dare I say it – sexy. I was, in actuality, none of these things, but the car helped me fool myself into thinking I was.

By the time I hit 40 I had moved out into the sticks. I bought a pickup truck to reflect this geographical change. My big, ol’ Ford made me feel like a real man, someone who could maybe rope a cow or brand a chicken or whatever the hell it is cowboys do when they’re not filming cigarette commercials.

Again, I couldn’t actually do any cowboy stuff, but the truck made me feel that, in a pinch, I could at least give it a try.

Then I turned 50 and the midlife crises hit pretty hard, even though my wife at the time was around 20 years my junior. This should have been enough to ease me over the midlife “hump,” but apparently, I needed more. I bought another red sports car. Then a grey sports car. Then a black sports car. Then another red one.

Eventually, I figured out I was gonna be old no matter what (or how many) sports cars I drove. I gave up and bought a van because by this time I was married to a woman closer to my own age and figured I no longer needed to pretend to be cool.

The van felt tragically nerdy, but, being a geezer, I didn’t really care all that much.

If the van made a statement at all, that statement was, “Eh. Could be worse.”

When the van finally died, I got another red “sporty” car, but nothing that could by the furthest reaches of the imagination be mistaken for a “chick magnet.” Just sort of a pathetic old guy’s attempt at maintaining some thin veneer of cool. It was thin indeed, though by this time I was not.

I drove that up until a year ago or so. That’s when Mrs. T (fLF) decided she no longer wanted to drive the white VW Bug she’d purchased just a few months earlier. She wanted me to take it so she could buy something bigger. She has a little shop where she sells art and stuff and she needed something she could use to haul stuff in.

Now, I don’t want to be any more sexist than absolutely necessary here, but a Bug – particularly a white one – is a pretty girly car. But I love Mrs. T (fLF) and want her to be happy. I took the Bug and she bought some SUV-ish monstrosity.

This bloated road-yacht she drove for about two months. Then she decided it was too big. So she traded it in and bought another Bug, this time a convertible. She also bought a little trailer so she could still move stuff to and from her shop.

Last week she mentioned how much she missed her old white Bug, the one I’ve been driving for the past year or so.

“I’ll trade with you, I guess,” I said. “If you want.” I figured one girly car is pretty much like any other.

I was wrong. I hadn’t previously noticed, but Mrs. T (fLF) has for the past year or so been “customizing” her convertible Bug. When we traded, I took possession of a car with a built-in flower vase, floral pattern seat covers, a big flower decal over the gas tank cover, and a window sticker of Tweetie-Pie of Looney Tunes fame delivering the warning, “I’m no angel!” on the rear window.

This car could not be girlier if it were wearing a hula skirt, frosted pink lipstick and had a gas tank filled with estrogen.

Given a few days of warm weather (not likely for another few months) I could probably turn this Fem-mobile into a slightly less girly version of itself. But for now, it’s too cold to do anything about it.

I just hope I have enough manliness left to last me until spring.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

I’m hoping to keep secret my weapon of mass destruction

Every time there’s a knock at the front door, I cower. One of these times, and soon, it’s going to be Homeland Security. I just know it.

I’ve tried to keep my recent activities on the down low. But no matter how careful I am, no matter how secretive, I live in constant fear I will be found out. One of the neighbors will notice. He or she will make a phone call, and that will be that. I’ll disappear.

The worst of it is, it’s not my fault. It’s Mrs. Taylor’s (formerly Lori Frankforter’s) fault. She’s the one who bought me the weapon of mass destruction.

It was a birthday gift.

Oh, sure, some people call it an accordion. But in my hands, believe me, it’s a WMD on a par with anything ever dreamt of by Saddam.

As WMDs go, it’s a beaut. It’s big, red, made in Italy, and it has about 30,000 buttons, keys and switches, of which I have so far mastered two.

As you probably know, the accordion is the third most feared musical instrument ever invented. Bagpipes and banjo are first and second and I already own a banjo. I rarely play the banjo, since the tone messes with the navigational equipment of nearby airplanes and I have already been chastised repeatedly by the Federal Aviation Administration.

But when it comes to the accordion, I just can’t help myself. There’s something about that big, red box, with all those buttons and keys. It’s fairly bursting with potential, even if I am not. It cries out to be played!

I first fell in love with the accordion 40 years ago. It was my first Pulaski Days, in Grand Rapids, not long after my 21^st birthday.

For those not in the know, Pulaski Days is a week-long celebration of all things Polish, celebrated city-wide in G.R. All the Catholic halls are thrown open to the public (even Protestants) and offer traditional Polish food, Polish music and lots and lots of beer.

This last item no doubt helped ease my passage into the world of accordion music. Over the years, I have discovered that accordion music is greatly enhanced by a six-pack of Rolling Rock.

At any rate, 40 years ago, I accompanied my then-wife to Diamond Street Hall. There I heard my first polka band, Bob Brock and the B-Tones, to my way of thinking, the best polka band. Ever. Of all time. The beer may have helped shape that opinion, but not necessarily; they really were (and still are, I believe) a fun band.

I mean, there’s something about a sweaty, middle-aged man leading a large, slightly inebriated crowd in a dance in which a giant, rubber chicken is featured prominently. It’s just … fun. Maybe not fun for the sort of folks who sipped champagne on the deck of the Titanic, but fun for those of us getting by down here in steerage, thank you very much.

I was hooked. It’s been 40 years and in all that time I have missed Pulaski Days exactly zero times.

And each year, I watch those accordion players – who are everywhere on Pulaski Days – hammering out those old, familiar tunes. “The Beer Barrel Polka.” “The Pennsylvania Polka.” “The Tick Tock Polka.”

Every so often, one of them will try to play a pop song, usually “Proud Mary.” But the audience pelts this guy with empty Bud cans and that puts an end to that nonsense.

Those accordion players always look like they’re having a great time. I’ve envied them for years, and now, thanks to Mrs. T’s (fLF’s) gift, I have a chance to join their ranks.

All I have to do it find a quiet, soundproofed room I can practice in for next year or so. Sure, it may land me in Guantanamo if I’m found out. But if I can learn the “She’s Too Fat Polka” it’ll be worth it.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616)  730-1414

In the year 2525, I’ll still be paying off that student loan

Far as I know, history has recorded only one occurrence of someone coming back from the dead and that was over 2,000 years ago. Still, I’m hopeful.

No, I haven’t suddenly gotten more religion than I had yesterday. And I haven’t begun living my life in a manner that would assure I’m assigned to better (and hopefully, cooler) quarters in the afterlife.

I’m talking about living longer in this life. My current body ain’t much, but for the moment, it’s all I’ve got. I’d like to keep it up and running as long as possible. Sadly, present day medical science can only do so much to facilitate that goal.

In short: I’m going to die. Not today. Probably not tomorrow and hopefully not for 30 years or more. I’m actually shooting for 40, but I don’t want to get greedy.

No, wait a minute; yes, I do want to get greedy. I want to get greedy indeedy! I want to live to see that first Martian colony take hold, to see the shocked faces of the staid naysayers when someone finally invents warp drive. I want to see those far-off Utopias dreamt of by H.G. Wells and Thomas More.

I want to live long enough to pay off my student loan.

Until last Friday, I didn’t think I’d have that chance. Now? I’m not so sure.

As with so many pivotal moments in my life, this one occurred at a party. My daughter’s house in Detroit. Bonfire. No shortage of wine, Aubreii’s excellent homemade chili, pizza, and conversation with some of that city’s finest intellects. (At least they seemed that way after a few glasses of Pinot Noir.)

I was introduced to Joseph Kowalsky, director of the Cryonics Institute, in Clinton Township. The mission of the Cryonic Institute – cribbed from their website – is this: “To extend human lifespans by preserving the body using existing cryogenic technologies.”

This isn’t science fiction, folks. This is happening today.

Despite having limited brainpower myself, I do subscribe to a couple science journals, so I was already somewhat familiar with cryogenics. It works like this: when you die, your body is preserved through cryogenic techniques and flash frozen like a TV dinner. I’m guessing it’s slightly more technical in practice.

Point is, you are then stored cryogenically until such time as medical science comes up with a way to revive your corpse-sickle and bring you back to full health.

The cost for this procedure, I learned from Joe, is surprisingly affordable, especially if you plan ahead and pay for it with a life insurance policy. (Which, I’ll admit, appears to have some legal ramifications. I mean, if you’re brought back to life, are you required to repay the life insurance? It could get confusing, but at least you’d be alive to deal with it.)

I really want to do this. But I’ll admit I have a few concerns:

·         First off, I don’t want anyone putting funny hats on my frozen body and snapping selfies with me at Cryonics Institute Christmas parties.

·         What if I’m brought back 1,000 years from now only to serve as a wriggling entrée for humanity’s new, insectoid overlords?

·         I can barely figure out how to program my present-day Tivo system. I can’t imagine how convoluted that task will be in the year 2525.

·         If I don’t pay off that student loan before I go into frozen storage, the late charges accumulated over a few centuries are gonna kill me all over again!

·         What guarantee do I have that someone won’t trip over the plug to the freezer? I don’t want to wake up, still dead, in a puddle of lukewarm water.

But like I said, despite these concerns I’m going to take the plunge. I figure, what have I got to lose? A few bucks spread out over however many years I have left? The chance of winding up as an alien overlord’s menu option?

It’s worth the risk.

So, adieu, suckers! I’ll say hello to your great-grandkids on Mars.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

Can we really afford to lose our Bovinians?

California’s thinking of leaving. So is Oregon and Washington.

They’re calling it the #calexit movement. (On a personal note, I’m old and have no idea what all this “hashtag” baloney is about, nor do I care, but I hate it.)

According to an article I recently read in the Seattle Times, Californians, Oregonians and Washingtonites (or whatever you call ‘em) have decided they want to secede from the Union, learn to speak Canadian and throw in their allegiance with our neighbors to the north.

It has something to do with a recent election. You may have read about it in the papers or seen a comment or two on Facebook. Apparently, there was a last-minute surprise in the vote, one with which not every American is entirely happy.

I’m not sure which states would have wanted to secede had the other candidate won; Mississippi, maybe? But what I don’t know about politics is a lot; maybe I’m being unfair to Mississippians.

Regardless, California, Oregon and Washington all want to boogie out of the U.S. of A.

Nobody’s asked for my opinion on this. To be honest, I’m rarely consulted on these matters. This is probably a good thing, since I have no more idea how government works than does our president-to-be. But I’m wondering if those three westernmost states have considered whether this is something they truly want to do.

Sure, residents in those states voted overwhelmingly for Hillary and – let’s be real – Trump doesn’t exactly exemplify the laid-back West Coast mindset. But c’mon, you guys want to pull up stakes and ditch the United States, after all we’ve meant to each other? After all we’ve been through?

Yeah, I know Canada has great universal health care and they’re moving toward legalizing pot, something California, Oregon and Washington have done already. Also, Canadians are big into combating climate change, just like C., O. and W. (Which, I just realized, spells “COW.” If those three states do actually become a Canadian province, they could call themselves “Bovinites” or “Bovinians,” something cattle-related like that. Just a thought.)

The real question, though, and the one nobody seems to be asking, is this: does Canada really want these states?

I’ve spent a lot of time in Canada, beginning one summer when I was just 16; I rode my bicycle from Windsor to Quebec. On that trip alone I met a lot of Canadians and lemme tell ya, their reputation for being nicer than us is earned. They really are nicer.

They’re polite, helpful, kind. And unlike most of the rest of the world, they don’t hate Americans. Or if they do, they hide it better, which is just as good.

But does that mean Canadians want a bunch of rowdy Americans roaming willy-nilly over their borders, maybe doing to their electoral process what we’ve done to our own?

 And as to those (former) Americans, are they going to blithely relinquish their God-given right to pack heat? There is no Second Amendment in Canada and if there is, I think it has something to do with granting Pentecostal Church members educational rights in Newfoundland – I dunno, the website was confusing and I’m lazy when it comes to research.

Point is, the handgun laws are strict in Canada, at least when compared to our own. How would Bovinians (I’ve decided to go ahead and name the new province now; they can change it later if they like) defend themselves against a rampaging Moose?

But the thing I think most Bovinians would have a hard time adjusting to is this: Canadians must buy their beer in special stores that sell nothing else.

It’s probably just me, but I consider the beer store thing a deal-breaker.

Anyway, I’m hoping the Bovinians decide to stick with us. I’d miss them. I don’t want to have to live without Disneyland or great coffee and grunge music. And whatever it is they make in Oregon.

So my advice to the potential secessionists? Just hang in there for now. I know we’re likely in for a rough go of it for a while, but at least we can buy beer at the grocery. Good thing, too, things being what they are. We’re gonna need ready access to beer.

Maybe this hashtag will help put things in perspective: #nobeerstores!

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

When it comes to domestic disputes, 1-million volts can be a life-saver

Should I suddenly turn up missing, I’m hoping the police will consider my wife the prime suspect. Mrs.Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) hasn’t actually made any threats against my life. But I’m worried just the same. Because of a catalog that arrived in yesterday’s mail.

It’s from a company I’ve never heard of, because I’ve never been a Navy Seal wannabe. The catalog is filled with stuff – mostly knives of one sort or another – designed to kill someone quickly and quietly.

The remainder of the proffered merchandise includes military-style shovels (to help hide the body, I’m guessing), battery powered short wave radios (to determine when the heat is off and it’s safe to leave your Unabomber cabin in the woods, throwing stars (in case you’re attacked by ninjas) and Coleman lanterns (to light your workspace while making plans to overthrow the government).

There’s also a large assortment of rapiers, cutlasses, sabers, foils, bokkens, hook swords and various other lethal-looking, but cheaply-made blades that look good over the fireplace but are only going to get you shot if you ever try to use one to avoid being mugged.

The catalog even offers “elven blades,” similar to those used in “The Lord of the Rings” movies. I assume these are sold mostly to folks worried about the influx of trolls and orcs sure to swarm over our borders if we don’t get that wall built between here and the Land of Make Believe.

Mrs. T (fLF) has assured me repeatedly she does not intend to murder me, even if I leave my shoes in the middle of the living room floor again. But I’m guessing she said the same thing to her ex-husbands. I’ve never met them. They don’t call, they don’t write. In fact, nobody mentions them at all.

I’m not saying those bumpy spots in the back yard are of anything other than natural origin, but at this point I can hardly be blamed for wondering.

At any rate, I haven’t lived this long by taking a laissez-faire approach when it comes to my own self-preservation. I’m proactive, baby! For better or worse, I value my wide butt and will do whatever it takes to continue my mostly pointless existence.

This includes self-defense, if necessary.

Fortunately, I have a catalog for that. Mrs. T (fLF) isn’t the only one who can arm herself to the teeth one credit card order at a time.

I think my best bet lies in the “1-Million-Volt Stun Gun Cane.” Regular readers of this column (Hi, Dave!) already know I broke my leg about a year ago and the doctor botched the surgery; since then, I walk with a cane.

I was down on the whole cane idea at first. I mean, I’m relatively young (compared to some giant sea turtles). I wasn’t keen on being spotted around town hobbling over a walking stick like some minor character from a Dicken’s novel. However, Mrs. T (fLF) assured me I could “own it” and make the cane seem cool.

She was lying, of course, but for all the right reasons. Point is, I got used to using a cane. I quickly realized that – rather than making me feel frail and old – holding a hefty piece of wood in my hand (no puns, please!) gave me a feeling of invincibility. I have no doubt I could get a lot of self-defense mileage out of even a regular cane if it came down to it.

But armed with the “1-Million-Volt Stun Gun Cane” offered in the catalog? Well, hell, my enemies would be dropping like flies! And probably a few friends, too. The temptation would just be too great.

At $92.99, the “1-Million-Volt Stun Gun Cane” costs double what I’ve paid for any of my other canes (I already have a collection: tres chic). I’m getting it anyway.

Oh, Mrs. T (fLF) is probably telling the truth when she says she won’t kill me if I leave my shoes in the living room. Then again, I’ve seen the look in her eyes. And there’s that catalog. And the lumps in the yard.

What can I say? Better safe than sorry.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414

We can learn what not to do by watching the birds

There’s a bird feeder just outside the dining room window. Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) put it up there at the start of summer. Since then, it’s proved immensely popular with the local avian population. If that feeder were a nightclub and birds could afford a cover charge, I’d be a rich man by now.

The feeder is actually four feeders in one, set up on a shepherd’s hook, with each feeder appealing to a different subset of birds. The sunflower seeds seem to attract the widest variety; the smaller seeds draw only a couple different types. The hummingbird feeder and live flowers are intended to bring in, not surprisingly, hummingbirds.

All summer long the birds fly in and the birds fly out, an unending rivulet of beaks and feathers that drive our five cats out of their fuzzy, carnivorous little gourds. And now, as summer wanes, the traffic has only increased; it’s a rare moment that doesn’t see at least five birds out there jockeying for position.

The hummingbirds are long gone, wimpy deserters that they are. Off to warmer climes where they can continue their endless cycle of being beautiful and yet somehow, kinda creepy. (They’re too much like overgrown bumblebees.)

Because I have no life to speak of, I’ve spent a lot of time this summer sitting on the patio watching those birds and wondering if it’s too early in the day for a Bloody Mary. In that time, I’ve noticed one thing about birds. One important thing.

They’re jerks.

I know, I know, they look beautiful. When folks picture an idyllic, sylvan scene, it’s always populated with winged creatures fluttering between autumn leaves or along misty, rain-swept beaches.

But if you watch them, I mean really pay attention and observe their habits, it doesn’t take long before you realize birds are the high-school-mean-girl clique of the animal world.

As I mentioned earlier, our backyard feeder is capable of servicing five or six birds at a time, maybe more. Mrs. T (fLF) refills the seed as fast as it’s depleted, so the feeder is never even close to empty. It is, for birds, a bottomless pit of avian treats, an endless, self-refilling (to their way of thinking) Holy Grail of birdy goodness.

One might think the birds would want to share this good fortune with others of their kind. One would be wrong.

See, every bird, large or small, who visits that feeder immediately tries to take full possession of its rich bounty. There is no sharing in the bird world, no concept of spreading the wealth to the less fortunate. There are no socialist birds.

To the casual observer, that bird feeder is a social hub for the avian community, a place where they meet, feed and discuss the bird-related issues of the day. Closer observation, however, tells a different story.

That feeder is a war zone.

With the notable exception of crows, most bird calls are pleasant to the human ear. But I’ve been listening to them all summer (sometimes with the translation abilities afforded me by my second Bloody Mary) and I can tell you, what those birds are saying ain’t good.

CHICKADEE: At last! At last! The feeder is mine! I claim this feeder in the name of … ME! Everybody else get off’n my property!

BARN SWALLOW (swooping in): Your mother! This is MY feeder! MINE, I tell ya!

HUMMINGBIRD (zipping in at Mach 7 and scaring all the other birds away): Ha! Come back when you can imitate a giant bumblebee, suckers! Until then, this is MY feeder!

Between all this chasing each other back and forth, all this trash talk and dive bombing raids, almost no seed gets eaten. If these feathered idiots would cooperate and learn to coexist, there would be plenty for all and birdkind as a whole would be better off for it.

But nope. They’re all too busy trying to stake a claim on their little patch of feeder (which isn’t really their feeder at all; it’s MY feeder). They’re too busy trying to make sure nobody else gets any. And so, they all wind up going just a little bit hungry. Makes you wonder how the whole species has managed to survive, doesn’t it?

So. Is there a moral here? Some cautionary memorandum we can take away from these observations? Do I look like Aesop to you? Or maybe Thomas Aquinas?

See? We're twins!

No, I do not. (Well, maybe a little like Aquinas; the resemblance is quite striking, actually.) But I’m not him. And if there’s a moral implied in this column, it’s coincidental.

Besides, surely people are a helluva lot smarter than a bunch of moronic birds, right? Now, if you’ll excuse me, the neighbor kids are playing on my lawn again.

Gotta go chase ‘em off.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414