Mike Taylor's Reality Check

There's a siding salesman born every minute

  P.T. Barnum once said there’s a sucker born every minute. I know for a fact that this is true.
  I’m the sucker he was talking about.
  Just ask the aluminum siding salesman who visited my house a couple weeks ago and walked away with enough money to retire to Florida for the next five winters.
  It all started with a phone call. At 9:30 Saturday morning. I knew before I picked up the receiver that there would be a salesman on the other end of the line. Anyone who knows me at all knows better than to call before noon on a Saturday.
  “Hello,” I grumbled, not trying to keep the sleep out of my voice.
  “Good morning, Mr. Taylor,” said a male voice that sounded pleased as punch to be awake on a sunny Saturday morning. “I’m Vince Congrove of Wonderwood Siding Company (the names have been changed because I’m afraid Vince will sue me otherwise), and we’re calling people in your area with a special, limited-time offer on our special, lifetime guaranteed, plexi-metal siding!”
  “Uh-huh,” I mumbled. “Well, I was—”
  “Can I ask you, sir,” enthused Vince, “are you a homeowner?”
  “Me and the bank, yeah, but, see, the thing is, I was out late last night and—”
  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Vince. “Did I wake you?”
  “Yeah, you did,” I said, not trying to sound pleased about it.
  “Would another time be better?” Vince asked.
  “Any time would be better.”
  Two weeks and 26 phone calls later, most of which came at inconvenient times, Vince had finally talked me into allowing him to drop by to give me a “free estimate.”
  The lovely Mrs. Taylor and I sat on the sofa while Vince went through his spiel, explaining the virtues of his special, lifetime guaranteed, plexi-metal siding, and how installing some on our home would save us money, make our home more energy-efficient, and allow the both of us to live well past the age of 102. After a half-hour of smooth patter, a dozen “siding samples” and approximately 6,000 catalog photos of smiling homeowners standing beside their recently-sided homes, Vince sat back and gave me the “Whaddya think?” look.
  I did what any right-thinking, red-blooded American male would do. “It’s up to the wife,” I said.
  Vince nodded knowingly. He had swum these waters before.
  In an eye blink he switched tactics completely. Where he had been giving me the “Won’t your neighbors be jealous” shtick, he now came on to Mrs. Taylor like an accountant who really loves his work. My ears more or less shut down when Vince started talking financing, annual percentage points, depreciation, tax incentive and God knows what else. If I wanted to deal with that sort of stuff, I would have never gotten married in the first place.
  While I gazed on, slack-jawed, Mrs. Taylor dickered pricing, financing and monthly payments until she had worn the poor siding salesman down to a shell of his former enthusiastic self. I imagine his “There goes my commission” look was about as genuine as a three-dollar bill, but I did get the impression Mrs. Taylor really had negotiated his rock-bottom price. She must have thought so too, since it was at this point she told me where to sign.
  That was the last we saw of Vince. A few days ago, Larry, Moe and Curly showed up in a van and began hammering the special, lifetime guaranteed, plexi-metal siding into place. It looks nice, just as Vince said it would. And it does seem to be made of some sort of special, plexi-metal material. I just hope the “lifetime guaranteed” part is true.
  It’s going to take me that long to pay it off.

Lifting weights, monkey style

I knew this would happen.  Today was the first day of my "get the geezer back in shape" program at the gym near my house.  I've been an unmitigated sofa spud all winter and figured it was time to get my girlish figure back before beach season gets here.

I purchased a gym membership, some new sneakers, some sweats (in black, to hide the flubber) and finally, downloaded a bunch of Springsteen to my iPod.  I was ready, baby!  The only thing I lacked was Burgess Meredith hollering, "Whatsa matta wit' ya Rock?!  Get your left up!  Move your feet, will ya!" while chewing a half-smoked stogie.

I figured I could hit the gym after lunch and get in a good 40-minute workout without disrupting my workday or cutting into my "Law & Order" viewing, which starts most weeknights promptly at 7 p.m.

The first 30 minutes went great; I warmed up, hit the treadmill at a reasonable pace (for someone who hasn't moved from the couch since September of last year) and put in some time on the stationary bike.

My downfall came in the weight room.  There were a bunch of young guys about my son's age in there; I'm guessing from the high school weightlifting team, which trains afternoons at the gym.  Now, I'd been sensible up to this point, not wanting to overdo my first day, as I have been known to in the past.

But - how do I put this? - have you ever seen one of those National Geographic specials on "The Lions of Africa" or "The Great Apes of Borneo?"  There's always one lion or monkey, usually older than the rest of the animals, who - owing to his physical prowess or generally bad-ass attitude, leads the pack.  That old monkey, for whatever primal reason, feels he simply must assert himself and establish dominance.

Today, I was that monkey.

I usually lift pretty regularly, and as recently as last summer I could bench nearly 300 pounds without my eyeballs popping out of my head.  I figured, how far downhill could I have gone in just nine short months?

Far, as it turns out.

I loaded up the bar with about 240 pounds, reclined on the bench and - without a spotter - hefted it off the supports.  It seemed far heavier than I remembered from last summer, but still, getting it down to my chest was a piece of cake.

The upward journey was considerably more troublesome.  I grunted, I strained, I quite possibly wet myself slightly.  But eventually the bar made the long trip from my chest back to its point of origin.

I made some lame-o comment about, "Oh, geeze, I guess I should warm up a little first," to the young bucks who had gathered 'round to set odds on when the old guy's heart would give out.  Then I did a few sets with some barbells, not too heavy, just to keep up appearances.

I managed to get my coat on and get out the door without weeping openly, but it was a close thing.

My arms hurt for awhile, but now I can hardly feel them at all.  In fact, to type this, I've been forced to duct tape my wrists to the base of my keyboard; without the tape my hands keep slipping off the desk to hang limply by my sides.

It may take a couple days before I'm ready for the gym again.  But at least all those guys in the weight room know who the head monkey is!  I may not be as strong as a great ape, but I'm almost certainly as smart as one.

Maybe you can go home again, for a while

  According to author Thomas Wolfe, you can’t go home again.  What he meant (if I remember my Lit. 101 class) is that home changes while we’re away.  Our past is a moving target; one not necessarily moving in the same direction we are.
   In short, things change.
   I’ve always more or less accepted this as a truism, until recently.  When I attempted, for the first time ever, to “go home.”
   But maybe I’d better back up a ways, to 1973, when this tale really begins.
   I was in high school, a sophomore, maybe, or a junior; I don’t really remember and I’m too lazy to do the math.  High school was, for me, mostly an annoyance that took up time I would rather have spent on … well, almost anything.  I skipped a lot, and on those rare occasions I was in class, I paid little attention to what was going on there.
   I was not a model student.
   My parents were worried about my future (mostly, that my future would involve me living with them well into my thirties).  For my part, I was not worried in the least.  I had a goal.  I had ambition.  I had my life planned out, baby!  With nothing left to chance.
   I was going to be a rock star.
   Yup.  A rock star.  I knew three chords, had a red electric guitar and long hair, and I was in a band.  I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but I was in a terrible band.  Even our name was terrible: Batwipe and the Dead Fish (don’t ask).  None of the other guys in the band knew we were terrible, either.  Amazingly, nobody had the heart to tell us!  Not our folks, not our friends … nobody.  Where’s that jerky guy from “American Idol” when you really need him?
   So, not knowing we stank like week-old road kill, we got together every day after school and rehearsed.  And rehearsed some more.  Then some more.  The same 13 songs, over and over and over, up in my bedroom or out in the garage, weather permitting, for over two years!
   And I wondered why my parents sometimes acted crazy.
   We did manage to land a few gigs during the years we were together.  All but one of these were “non-paying” jobs, but we didn’t mind; every public appearance brought us one step closer to rock stardom.
   Eventually, the band dissolved and we all went our separate ways.  The years passed, as they have a way of doing, and I came to realize that I was not going to be a rock star after all.
   The decades slipped by and those years of practice, of scrounging for gigs, arguing with band-mates about girls, lyrics and chord changes … all those things shuffled like grains of sand through time’s great sifter, burnishing to a golden-hued patina as they fell.
   Until at last what once were experiences became nothing more than memories, images of another life captured in time’s immutable amber. The middle-aged man who looks back at me each morning from the bathroom mirror and the 16-year-old hippie he once was could no longer talk to each other, not really.  The two were as disparate as Baby New Year and Father Time.
   Then I got an e-mail from Dale, who in the long, long ago, had been the band’s bass player.  I hadn’t seen or talked with Dale in about 30 years, so there was plenty to catch up on.  Who got married, divorced, had kids, grandkids … we got all that out of the way in the first three e-mails.  Then, we started talking about the “glory days,” when the future still glimmered and glowed with promise and our lives were laid out in front of us like a virgin field before the plow.
   About 50 e-mails later, we decided to track down Terry and Bob, the other two guys from the band.  A week after that, we’d made plans to meet up for the 34th reunion of the band’s first rehearsal (Jan. 9).
   I was a little nervous, mostly because of Thomas Wolfe’s admonition (Can’t go home, remember?).   I mean, 30-odd years is a lot of blacktop under the tires.  I knew I wasn’t the same goofy kid who had dreamed of opening for The Edgar Winter Group all those years ago; surely the other guys had changed at least as much as me.
   I realized I had planned dinner with a bunch of strangers.
   To make matters worse, we had agreed to bring our wives and/or significant others.  I had doomed not only myself to an uncomfortable evening with a bunch of strangers, but The Lovely Mrs. Taylor as well.
   The date finally arrived and with some palpable trepidation on my part, Mrs. T and I drove to Applebee’s, as planned.  She did her best to assure me it would be a fun evening, but I had my doubts.
   The hostess showed us to our table, where Terry and Dale were already seated.  Or rather, two old guys who looked vaguely like Terry and Dale.  I’m guessing they were thinking the same thing about me.  Bob arrived a few minutes later, bereft of hair!
   It was uncomfortable for about two minutes as we floundered around, trying to figure out whom these people – once upon a time our best friends – were now.  Then slowly, like a morning mist burning off the surface of a quiet lake, we began to realize, all of us, that we hadn’t really changed so much after all.
   We were older, fatter, wrinklier, balder … sure … but all that was the outside.  Inside, we weren’t really much different from the four scruffy kids who had spent endless hours annoying the neighbors from the confines of my parents’ garage.
   Together, at least for that one evening, we occupied a space out of time, where summers don’t end, hair never goes gray and good friends refuse to drop out of each others’ lives.
   We stayed at the restaurant much later than I had planned.  None of us wanted to see the evening end.  Nevertheless, it did.
   Reluctantly, we shook hands, made promises to get together again soon, and drove our separate cars away from 1973 and back into the present, where waited mortgages, parent-teacher conferences, jobs, responsibilities, and the cold, hard truth that we are not, and never will be, rock stars.
   But for that one night, at least, we did get to go home again.
   Take that, Thomas Wolfe.
   
   Addendum: In the weeks since our dinner, we’ve made good on our promise to get together again.  We’re meeting for lunch in February and – may the gods have mercy on our listeners’ ears – we’re even playing one last, final gig together; not surprisingly a “non-paid” gig, late this month, for the guys at the Veteran’s Facility in Grand Rapids.  Still, who knows, if it goes well we may yet wind up being rock stars!  We even have a Web site (www.gbrothers.com/bw_homepage.html) so we’re halfway there.
   
   You can e-mail Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or reasons why old guys shouldn’t be playing rock and roll, to: mtaylor@midmich.net.  Or you can reach him via snail mail at Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429
   

Darn it feels lame to be a honky

It's tough being a rap-loving honky.  I'm not a huge fan or anything, but there's a lot of rap and hip-hop I enjoy, just like I enjoy blues, rock & roll, funk, soul, opera, country & western and yes - if there's a beer in front of me - even a polka now and then.

I've been a more or less professional musician for over 30 years (and by professional, I mean people give me money to make music, even when it's not especially good - suckers!).  In that time, I've played pretty much every genre known to western man.  Well, not opera or anything else that requires more than three chords, but you get the idea.

The band I work with these days, The Guinness Brothers, is certainly capable of doing some rap, but there's no way we'd be able to get away with it.  Why?  Lyrics, mostly, coupled with my skin color.  The two don't go well together.

Take one of my favorite rap tunes, "Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta," by the Geto Boys.  It's got a smooth, tight groove I really like, some cool sampled sounds ... it's good music.

I'd love to do that one with the band, but it's never going to happen.  I was raised by very white, very liberal parents, who also happened to be very Catholic, and there were certain words that never got said around my house.  Most of them are included in the lyrics of "Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta."

There's the "D" word, the "A" word, the "C" word, the "P" word, the almighty "F" word ... and the word no right-minded, over-40 honky is supposed to say, ever, ever, ever: the "N" word.  The "N" word figures very prominently in the song, and to be honest with you, I'm a little uncomfortable with it even when sung by the Geto Boys.

I could "clean up" the song for the mostly middle-class, college-graduate, gin-and-tonic-drinking audiences we usually play for, but I think it would lose a lot of it's impact.  Check it out:

"Golly it feels good to be a gangsta; A real gangsta-fannied African American plays his cards right; A real gangsta-bootied person of color never runs his silly mouth; 'Cause real gangsta-tushed African Americans don't start fights..."

Nope, it just don't work, folks.  And any "gangsta" - especially a white wannabe - who rapped those lyrics in public would no doubt soon find himself with a cap in his patootie.

So it looks like I'm going to be sticking with James Brown and B.B. King if I decide I simply must channel my inner urbanite of color.  That's okay, I guess.  Just don't ask me to play a polka.  Not without a beer nearby, at least.

The coffee's better at the home office

Most days of the week - all but Friday, in fact - I work from my home office; what was once my oldest son's bedroom, until he grew up and moved out, thereby freeing up the space.  It's early Monday morning as I begin this post.  I'm drinking strong, black coffee and waiting for my eyes to focus so I can begin my workday.

Those who have never worked from home probably think it's a lot like not working at all, but - in my case at least - nothing could be further from the truth.  I still have the same deadlines to meet, commitments to fulfill, interviews to give, e-mails to answer ... all the same stuff I would have to deal with if I went into an office every day.

I won't lie to you, though; there are some things about working from home that are really great.  The coffee, for one; it's better here than the stuff they serve at most offices.  Also, I can mow my lawn in the middle of the day if I want to.  Or, more likely this time of year, shovel the walk.

I can work in my boxers until noon, if I don't have any appointments.  I know this is probably not an image you want stuck in your mind, so forget I said it, OK?

On the downside, I really like the people from my "real" office in Jenison.  They're the nicest group of co-workers I've ever had; smart, witty, supportive.  And I don't get to see them nearly as often as I'd like.  As a reporter, I get to talk with interesting people all day, but most of them aren't quite as interesting as my co-workers.  Or as funny.

If I lived closer, I'd go into the office every day, even if I weren't required to.  I like it there that much.

Also on the downside, when you work from home, you're always working.  My office equipment consists primarily of my cell phone and laptop.  So where I go, my office goes, at least the cell phone portion of it.  It's not uncommon for me to get calls at 9, 10 or even 11 p.m. from people who just can't wait till morning to share some bit of news about their dishonest city manager, insensitive school superintendent or crooked chief of police.

As a reporter, you're not supposed to mind these late night intrusions, and to be honest, I usually don't.  More often than not, they're return calls from someone I was trying to contact earlier in the day.  But I have to admit, it's not always easy to leave my little nest of blankets and pillows on the sofa, pause whatever episode of "Law & Order" I happen to be watching, and trudge upstairs to type out my notes from the call.

Still, that's a small price to pay for the privilege of missing out on rush hour traffic, trying to get the pickup to turn over at 7 a.m. on cold winter mornings, and drinking bad office coffee.

At any rate, my eyes seem to be focusing.  I guess I should get some work done.

Gigging with Marshall Law

I did a gig last night with another band; not the usual guys I work with every week.  I was filling in for the band's ailing lead vocalist/guitar player.  Actually, Jerry (the lead player from my band - The Guinness Brothers) filled in on guitar.  I mostly sang.

The rest of the band were all seasoned musicians who had no trouble at all following my set list.  In fact, I suspect the bass player may have been a bit bored; I think he's used to more challenging material.  But what are you gonna do?  I only know the three chords and I use 'em at every opportunity.

At any rate, the gig went well, though I kept announcing the band's name wrong.  They go by the moniker "Marshall Law," and I kept referring to them as "Marshall Tucker."  I'm pretty sure the audience could tell the difference, at least until later in the evening, after "martini madness" had time to set in.  For all I know, by closing time most of the patrons were actually thinking we were Marshall Tucker.  Ah, the power of Jack Daniels.

Embarrassing the kids

Here's an old one I dug out of the archives the other day, written over a decade ago, but still filled with good advice.  No, really...

My kids tell me I should write a book.  They say that as the world’s leading authority on embarrassing children, I owe it to my fellow adults to share my considerable knowledge with others.

The topic came up the other day while passing the Easter Bunny display at the Mall.  I suggested to my 12-year-old son that a picture of him on the bunny’s lap would make a nice addition to my photo album.  He glanced around the Mall, making sure no one he knew had heard my ridiculous proposition.  He then shot me his best “withering pre-teen eye-roll.”  The one designed to make any parent feel as if he’s terminally out of it.

I never even had a chance to ask my 14-year-old daughter if she would accommodate my aspirations regarding a bunny picture.  She had crossed over to the other side of the Mall as soon as we got near the Easter Bunny’s little house/photo booth.  She knows me too well.  I get the same reaction from the kids at Christmas time when we pass Santa’s Mall workshop.

It didn’t used to be that way.  When they were small I was forced to wait in line for hours till they had a chance to share with Santa the desires of their acquisitive little hearts.  I haven’t forgotten those long waits, my arms full of packages, the sweat running down my sides beneath my wool coat, the sound of crying babies filling my head in much the same way the Atlantic Ocean might fill a teacup.

So why would I want to re-live those experiences now, when my kids have finally outgrown them?  Simple.  Revenge.

That’s right.  Revenge, pure and simple.  Every time I embarrass one of my children with a reminder of the likes of their past, I feel a tiny weight lift from my shoulders.  Most parents won’t admit they carry around the emotional baggage of their children’s younger years, but they do.  Why else do mothers feel the need to live their married daughter’s lives for them?  Revenge.  Why do fathers force their teenage sons to play sports they were never any good at back in their own youth?  Revenge.  And why do I embarrass my kids at every opportunity?  I guess you know.

The reason I prefer the embarrassment technique over, say, the sports thing or the kibitzing is that it takes less time to accomplish.  Opportunities arise dozens of times on any given day.  Let me give you some examples:

•  You’re passing the Mall record store with your daughter and a couple of her friends.  You say, “Hey, remember that time you made me take you to see the New Kids on the Block concert?”  Her cohorts, who probably still have New Kids posters rolled up in the back of their own closets, look at your daughter like she’s nuts.

•  You and your son are at a restaurant.  The waitress comes up to take your order, and while your son’s deciding between the chicken strips or the cheeseburger, you say in a matter-of-fact manner, “So, have you kissed your girl friend yet?”  Your son decides to order from under the table.

•  Your daughter brings home her new boyfriend.  (This is a major embarrassment opportunity, so don’t blow it.)  The whole time the kid is in your house, you sit in the kitchen cleaning your shotgun while putting on your best “Bruce Dern psycho” face.  Don’t forget to ask the boy if he knew your daughter’s last boyfriend, and does he know whatever became of him.

•  Buy your daughter or son a new birthday outfit.  Make sure it’s really horrific.  If it’s for your daughter, it should be pink and covered with lace and bows.  The kind of thing she would have liked when she was seven.  If you’re buying for your son, a powder blue suit with a clip-on bow tie is good.  Then when you present the new outfit to your child, make a big deal out of it.  Let them know how much thought went into the gift.  Let them know how heartbroken you’ll be if they don’t wear it to grandma’s Saturday.

The clincher comes when you get to grandma’s house and all your child’s friends are there for a surprise party.

There are a million more good embarrassment techniques available to the parent.  Especially to the parent of a teenager.  But it would take a book to mention them all.  Hmm.  Maybe my kids are right.

Attention, literary agents:  I’ll consider all offers from major publishing houses able to pay significant advances.

Chili or the gym ... hmm ...

It turns out yesterday wasn't the day I started getting in shape after all.  I forgot it was Valentine's Day.  Fortunately, I remembered in time to make a flower store/card shop run and pick something up for The Lovely Mrs. Taylor before she got home from the office, discovered I'd missed another "gift-giving" opportunity, and decided I was a schmuck!

The point is, she got me something, too.  A big, chocolate something.  Which I ate.  After that, I didn't see the point in working out.  I mean, who am I kidding?  Chocolate - as well as some of Mrs. T's annual Valentine's Cake (she really bakes one every year) - and then a little weight lifting?

Nah...

Instead we watched a Tivo'd episode of "Law & Order" and went to bed to read for an hour or so before dropping off to dreamland.  I'm pretty sure there are no exercise programs where this would qualify as a "work-out regimen."

So, today can be my first Get in Shape day instead.  As soon as I get my work done for the day, I'm going to hit the gym.  Or make some chili.  I still haven't decided.

Today's the day ... again

Today's the day I start getting into shape.  Again.  But this time I really, really mean it.

Whipping myself into a Swarzeneggarian frenzy wouldn't really be that hard if it weren't for one thing: television.  Well, television in general and "Law & Order," specifically.  I really love that show and it is now officially on one channel or another, in one of its many incarnations, 24 hours a day, seven days a week! 

Marx (not Groucho) once said, "Religion is the opiate of the masses."  He  said this only because he hadn't seen "Law & Order."

Once my ever-expanding can hits the sofa after dinner every evening, it's stuck there like the frozen body of a dead jogger in Central Park in February, just waiting to be discovered by some passerby, who will then notify the Special Victim's Unit, who will somehow manage to find my killer in under 60 minutes.  And they will solve the case while drinking coffee and sleeping at the station, while still looking really fashionable and sexy in the way so many New York cops do in real life.

In my "real life," as a reporter, I've covered dozens - maybe hundreds - of criminal cases; everything from gruesome homicides to jaywalking.  And I have never, ever, EVER seen a fashionable, sexy detective, let alone one who could solve a case in 60 minutes.

Once in a while you'll run into a district attorney who dresses nice, keeps in shape at the racquetball club and even sports a good haircut.  But the cops?  Nah.  They're out there on the streets, solving crimes, eating donuts ... they got better things to do than play racquetball and drink mineral water.

I think I'd make a better cop than I would a district attorney.  If nothing else, it would take my mind off from "Law & Order."

Squirrel Wars II: The Rodents Strike Back

A few weeks ago, I told you about the problem I’ve been having with squirrels.  Not all squirrels; just the squirrels that have decided to winter in my attic.

I was, if you will remember, feeling a little guilty about trying to capture them in a live trap for release in a nearby meadow.  I was afraid they wouldn’t have time to build a nest or find a hollowed-out tree in which to live before the snow flew.

I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes to animal welfare, I’ll be the first to admit.  Don’t get me wrong; I’ve hunted, I eat meat, I have no compunctions about shooting Bambi.  I’m at the top of the food chain and I’m not going to apologize for that.

But I really hate to see any of nature’s creatures inconvenienced, or heaven forbid, killed, for no reason.

In the past few weeks, those squirrels have given me a reason.

Now, don’t flip out and call your maiden aunt who also happens to be the local PETA president; I’m not going to kill any squirrels.  Even squirrels that may at this point richly deserve it.

But I have to do something.

My little live trap trick worked once and once only.  I caught one of the little, attic-dwelling rodents in the middle of the night, took it out to the woods the next morning and introduced it to a life devoid of human-provided lodgings.  When I opened the trap, the squirrel shot away like … well … like the bats that used to live in my attic before the squirrels chased them out.

I stood watching from the roadside for a minute, just to make sure the little guy found his way safely into the trees.  Then I drove home.

Somehow, the squirrel got there before me.  Or one just like him.  He was sitting on the roof, gazing down at me disdainfully as I wheeled my pickup into the driveway.

That was two weeks ago and no squirrels have gone near my live trap since.  Apparently, they’ve all received the memo.

I could poison them.  I don’t think there’s a law against that, but maybe there is.  Even if there’s not, I’m waaaayyyy to much of a softie to intentionally poison anything.  I even refuse to kill mice that way.

I have cats for that job.  The Lovely Mrs. Taylor’s two Siamese mousers do not share my soft spot for all creatures great and small.  If they can kill it, they will kill it.  And they’ll do it in as slow and heartless a manner as possible.

The cats enjoy killing things.  For those two, a little rodent torture followed by a decapitation is the recipe for a pleasant Sunday afternoon.

Suffice it to say we do not have a mouse problem at the Taylor home.  The neighborhood mice got that memo years ago.

Which is why I thought my squirrel problems might be drawing to a close last week, when one of the varmints decided the attic was too confining and made his way downstairs.

I was in my office upstairs when I heard the sound of things flying off the kitchen counter.  Usually, this indicates the cats are bored for lack of something to torture and kill, and have decided to chase each other around the house, just to keep in practice.

I went downstairs to pick up the mess and throw ineffectual curses at the cats, as I always do.

But they were both stretched out on the La-Z-Boy, looking like they’d been there a while.  Kipper, my beagle-mix mutt, was ensconced in his usual quarters on the sofa.  All three were gazing into the kitchen with polite interest at whatever might be making all the racket.

All three were too lazy to get off their furred butts and actually go into the kitchen to investigate further.

“Let the hairless monkey do it,” their eyes seemed to say.  So I did.

Or started to, rather.  I’d taken only two steps toward the kitchen when a small, rust-colored blur shot past my feet.  It slid behind the sofa, and then barreled across the living room and into the fireplace, then out again and back toward the kitchen.

The second time it passed, I saw it was a squirrel.  The cats and my dog (supposedly of a mighty hunting lineage) lifted their heads to watch the squirrel’s progress, but that was it.  This was my fight, apparently.

Now, I hate to brag, but I am an expert bat catcher.  Every year, we get at least a half-dozen or so who find their way into the house, usually at night when we’re watching television.  I have a big fishing net hanging in the garage specifically for dealing with this situation.

I can catch a bat, give it a good talking to, put it back outside and still have time to fix myself a sandwich before the commercial break ends.  I’m the Arnold Schwarzenegger of bat hunting.  The Batinator.

Anyway, I figured that if the net worked on winged rodents, it would probably serve to snag this wingless interloper as well.

Well, it turns out that squirrels are way faster than bats.  They can fit into spaces that at first glance appear much too small to permit rodent access.  They can climb walls, and no, I am not kidding.  They can leap 30 feet through the air.  And they can do more damage in five minutes than a bat could do in a lifetime.

It took about half-an-hour, but eventually – and with no help from the Taylor family’s four-legged members – I managed to snag the squirrel.  By this time, he and I were both exhausted.  Even so, he fought heroically to wriggle his way out of the tangle of netting.

Fortunately, I was able to get him out the door before he did.  He ran off toward one of my backyard maples and I haven’t seen him since.

But I’ve heard him.  Oh, yes, there in the attic, partying with all his buds, telling the story of how much fun he had while the “lumbering idiot” (as I suspect the squirrels call me when I’m out of earshot) chased him around the house.

I can swear I hear them in there laughing.  And I have a bad, bad feeling this isn’t over yet.  As long as that squirrel is making a home in my attic, I won’t stop trying to evict him.

So listen up, acorn breath, and heed the warning the bats know all too well: I’ll be back.