Mike Taylor's Reality Check

From now on, when it comes to health, I’ll just take my chances

I look both ways before crossing the street.  I don’t jump off bridges (No mom, not even if my friends do).  I don’t keep a loaded pistol under my pillow.

I’ve never been one of those live-fast-die-young-leave-a-good-looking-corpse types.  When I do go, I want my corpse to look at least 100 years old.  Older, if possible.

But lately, some of my acquaintances have been making me feel as if I’m living on the edge.

It all began when I signed on for some tanning sessions at a local salon.  In my parents’ day, doctors actually used to prescribe sunny climes to ailing patients.  In these more enlightened times, we’ve all heard enough from the surgeon general (the world’s biggest party-pooper) to know that sunshine, whether real or artificial, is bad for you.

When my buddies learned of my efforts to bring my skin-tone in line with my own self-image as a groovy beach-type guy they immediately started in on me.  Some said it was the height of vanity to work that hard at a tan.  Some implied I’d be dead of radiation exposure within a week.

Well, so far it hasn’t been much work.  It’s been over a month now and I’m still not dead.  And for the first time since I moved north from Phoenix I have a decent tan.  I think in this case my various detractors are simply jealous of my pre-melanomic glow.

I intend to sign on for another hitch of artificial sunshine when my current membership runs out.  Is it worth the health risks involved?  Sure, and I’ll tell you why:  Everything - yes - everything is bad for you.  Even things you’ve been led to believe are good for you.  Like sunshine.

An example: Several years ago, I rented a house with a hot tub on the back deck.  Back then, they were all the rage.  All the health and fitness “experts” said they were great for everything from tired blood to manic depression.  I figured this was actually the case.

Then my brother the nurse paid me a visit.  He had helped me move a particularly heavy stove and since neither of us are regular partakers of manual labor we were both a little sore.  I was looking forward to a long soak in the spa and I invited him to join me.

Eyeing the bubbling water dubiously, he said, “I’m not sure.  Is it safe?”

“What do you mean?” I replied.

He dipped one finger into the water, examined it carefully, then wiped it on his T-shirt.  “Well, I’ve heard these things are a breeding ground for dangerous micro-organisms.”

“Oh, not this one,” I said confidently.  “I have enough chemicals in there to kill anything.”

My brother nodded knowingly.  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said.

I ended up soaking alone.  I looked carefully, but didn’t see any micro-organisms.  And the chemicals didn’t even burn off my tan.  I kept using the tub.

There are plenty of other “healthy” things I’ve done that have, in recent years, been declared unsafe:  Jogging.  I used to jog.  Then it turned out jogging is bad for the knees.  At least my knees.  I gave that one up.  I never cared for it much anyway.

Mega doses of vitamins.  Like a lot of people I went through a vitamin phase.  For about a year I took enough B, A, C and D to keep a small Mediterranean country sniffle-free for a decade.  Then someone (probably the surgeon general) discovered all those vitamins were doing weird things to my insides.  I gave the vitamins up, too.  But then, I hadn’t liked the vitamins any better than I had liked jogging.

And what about all the things that used to be bad for us that have turned out to be healthy (or at least non-harmful) after all?  Like beer.  It used to be one of the seven deadly sins.  Now doctors tell us a couple glasses a day help prevent heart disease.  I don’t know which doctor first discovered this fact, but I’d like to shake his hand.

Sitting too close to the television.  My mother always told me I’d shrivel up and die if I sat with my nose pressed against the screen.  She was wrong.  I still watch TV that way.

Reading in dim light.  Mom said it would make me blind.  Current ophthalmologic thinking says this isn’t so.  It might give me a headache, but that’s about it.   

With this kind of dubious track record, how can any of us be expected to trust health “experts”?

I, for one, have had it with trying to keep pace with what is and isn’t bad for me.  From now on I’m going to keep my own counsels.  Good or bad, at least they will be my own.

I’m going to keep eating red meat, salt and fish from Lake Michigan.  I’m going to keep watching TV in the dark.  I’m going to be late to bed and late to rise, and I bet I’ll still live longer than Ben Franklin, although I doubt I’ll be as wealthy or wise.

And of course, living this way, when I finally do die, my corpse will look 100 years old.  Even if I go tomorrow.

When it comes to Taipei cuisine, just gimme a sandwich, please

Taipei is the capital of the Republic of China on Taiwan, and the center of Taiwanese politics, commerce, education and mass media.  This is according to the online (and frequently inaccurate) encyclopedia, Wikipedia.  What Wikipedia fails to mention is, Taipei also is home to many, many crazy people.

This would probably give us Westerners a warm glow of superiority, were it not for the fact that so many crazy people live here, as well.  But are we as crazy as the Taipeinese? … Taipeinians? … people who live in Taipei?

To be honest, even if you factor in the aggregate population of California, folks in Taipei are crazier than we are, or so I believe.

I base this assumption on a recent newspaper article about a new restaurant-bar located there that features – and I’m not making this up – a hospital theme.  That’s right, the whole place is set up with the inviting, take-your-shoes-off ambience of your local burn unit.

Crutches decorate the walls and the parking lot offers wheelchair valet service.

The coup de gras?  A huge vat suspended from the ceiling filled with alcoholic beverages that patrons can enjoy intravenously. Yup.  You read that right.  Who wants to hassle with all that drinking and swallowing, when you can simply hook the Boone’s Farm decanter right up to your radial collateral artery and let nature take its course?

Now, I’ve never been averse to new and better ways of imbibing alcohol, but even I would have to draw the line here.  Or I might, depending on the cuteness of the “nurse” administering the “medicine.” (That’s what they cleverly call the waitresses and the Boone’s Farm.) 

The nurses, by the way, all wear rabbit-ear costumes, which for all I know is what real Taipei nurses wear while making their rounds.  I’m guessing the costumes are revealing, but don’t know for sure as I couldn’t find any photos on the Internet, despite several Google searches key-worded “Naughty Nurses.”  (There is no research too exhaustive or difficult that I will not attempt it for the sake of this column!)

Adding to the whimsy, the restrooms are labeled “Emergency Room.”

But I keep coming back to that intravenous alcohol thing.  That just seems, well, crazy to me.  More so because the restaurant’s owner got the idea for the place while in hospital being treated for liver disorder!  I can’t imagine what caused his liver problems in the first place.  Oh, wait, yes, I can.

At any rate, crazy as the restaurant/hospital is, it is not the strangest eatery in Taipei.  A nearby establishment features a jail theme.  To me, nothing says fine dining like tin cups and electric-chair brownouts.  Gimme some more of that greasy Salisbury steak, will ya warden?  And that shiv in your ribs?  That’s just the waiter’s way of saying the tip was too small.

Still another Taipei restaurant serves full course meals … in toilet bowls.  Kind of cuts out the intermediary process, but I see no other benefit there.

Battling the toilet bowl cuisine for bad taste (in every sense of the word) is the restaurant that features a Holocaust theme.  Yes, really.  I’m guessing this place caters to those who miss the legendary German food so loved by the former residents of places like Dachau and Buchenwald, but again, I don’t know for sure.  Fortunately, I’ll never find out, as the place was (rightly) shut down under pressure from Jewish groups.

It’s hasn’t been my intention here to offend any Taipainese … Taipeinians … Taikwando … people from Taipei, honestly.  I’m not one of those smug Americans who think Manifest Destiny was a great idea and can’t figure out why we don’t yet rule the planet.  I truly cherish the world’s cultural diversity in all its myriad forms and fear for its seemingly inevitable demise.

But really, man, intravenous Boone’s Farm?  That’s just crazy.

When it comes to bull, you’d think I’d be better

I used to consider myself a “manly man.”  No, really.

Not anymore.  Last Friday night, something happened that drastically altered my self-image, possibly forever.

As these things so often do, it happened in a bar. The band I play with on weekends, (shameless plug alert!) The Guinness Brothers, was working in a lakeshore bar, a great place, more of a night club than a bar, really. In the course of any weekend, the bar features live comics, games, prizes, and - this is where my unmanliness comes in - a mechanical bull.

That’s right, just like the one John Travolta rode in “Urban Cowboy.”

The band has been playing there since the club opened over two years ago, and they’ve had that bull there for at least one of those years. I’ve seen guys and gals ride it hundreds of times.

I always thought it looked like a lot of fun, but never really considered trying it myself. Why? I’m too old, for one thing. Also too fat and too chicken. Mostly too chicken.

But last Friday they fired the bull up early, before many customers arrived. Other than the guys in the band, the bartenders and a half-dozen urban cowboys and cowgirls, the club was empty.
The cowboys were ridin’ and whoopin’ while us guys in the band sat at a table near the stage drinking gin and tonics, trying to look cool while surreptitiously ogling the cowgirls.

Now, the funny thing about gin and tonics is this: they sometimes make you think you’re something you’re not. Like a cowboy.

They also make bull-riding look easy.

The cowboys, one after the other, hopped lightly onto the back of the mechanical bovine, gave a nod to Ken, the bull’s operator, and proceeded to whip back and forth at an alarming rate as Ken at the controls did his best to send them flying. Which eventually, of course, they did.

But before being launched into the stratosphere, the cowboys looked like they were having a great time.

So great a time, in fact, that - aided by the aforementioned gin and tonics - I decided to try it myself.

The guys in the band - my dear, dear friends, who never want anything but the best for me - encouraged me with such helpful comments as, “C’mon ya wuss!” and “Does anybody smell poultry, ‘cause I sure do, haw, haw, haw!”

Those guys love me.

By the time I finally worked up the nerve to ride the bull, money was changing hands. The odds being offered against my continued existence were not encouraging.

Trying to appear confident and failing miserably, I announced to Ken that I wanted to ride the bull.

“Really?” he said.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” I said.

Ken eyed me dubiously for a long, slow moment. I knew what he was thinking: Too old, too fat, too chicken. “Well, OK,” he said. “Sign this.” Ken pushed a form across the table.

A release form. Unlike most of the cowboys present - all of whom looked to be about 24 years old and in perfect physical condition - I read the form.

The dismemberment clause gave me a moment’s pause, as did the paragraph absolving the club of any and all responsibility for lacerations, broken bones, contusions and - ahem - “male dysfunction” incurred while riding the bull.

If nothing else, the organ donor card affixed to the bottom of the form should have tipped me off; riding the bull is more difficult than John Travolta made it look in that stupid movie.

But by this time it was too late; cowgirls were watching. And being a manly man (remember, I still thought I was one at this point) I had no choice but to proceed.

One nice thing about a mechanical bull; it won’t stomp you to death when you fall off. That’s about the only nice thing I can think of to say about it.

Other than that, a mechanical bull is a lot like a real bull. It’s big, it’s hairy (though the “hair” might be fake - I couldn’t tell), and it’s hard to hang onto.

I was a little surprised to discover there were no stirrups on the thing; no place to put your feet. Also, it didn’t have one of those saddle horn thingies (I THINK that’s what they’re called).

The only thing to grab hold of was a small, leather strap. Ken instructed me to stick my hand through this at an angle almost guaranteed to break my wrist when I fell off.

“Just lean back when it goes forward and lean forward when it goes back,” Ken said.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it,” he said. “And try to hang on.”

“Uh...” I said.

Ken could see I was nervous. “Do you want me to run it easy?” he said.

“Do you have a setting for toddlers and elderly ladies?” I asked.

“What a kidder,” he said.

I wasn’t.

My buds from the band - great guys who worship the ground I walk on and would be forever saddened should anything bad happen to me - were off to one side casting lots to decide which of them would inherit my stuff and which would be the first to ask my recently widowed wife on a date.

Except for our guitar player, Mark. Mark was standing ready with a camera, a nice Nikon, ready to shoot digital footage of my demise to later post on the band’s Web site.

Anyway, he never got the chance to videotape my ride. No camera, not even a Nikon, can shoot that fast.

The bull leaned slightly forward and I executed a perfect somersault directly off the front of the thing.

Lying there on my back, nose to nose with the bull, I was thinking how glad I was that it was mechanical and would not now commence stomping me to death. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear a smattering of applause coming from the cowboy table, but I’m almost sure it wasn’t being proffered as a sincere appreciation of my rodeo prowess.

And farther in the distance, I thought I could just make out the delicate, tinkling laughter of pretty, young cowgirls.

All of whom were more manly than I felt at that moment.

The walk back to my table was a long one.

Sick of winter, but sicker of ants

OK, it’s official. I’m sick of winter. I didn’t realize it until this afternoon when winter took a brief respite. I stepped out of the house and my nose hairs didn’t immediately freeze solid. That hasn’t happened in a while.

The temperature was 50 degrees. That’s 50 degrees ABOVE zero, man!

But I’m trying not to get too excited. I’ve lived in Michigan most of my life and I know it’s not going to last. By tomorrow, the day after at the latest, it’ll be bone-chill weather again, with spring still at least a couple weeks away - a tiny, tiny light at the end of a very, very long tunnel.

Despite that, and despite the fact I’m sick, sick, sick of winter, I’m still glad to see it arrive every year. Why?

Simply put: winter kills bugs.

See, in addition to living in Michigan, I’ve also lived in Texas and Arizona. They don’t have winter in those places, and lemme tell ya, the bugs get bigger there than house pets get here. It’s worse in Arizona than in Texas, I’m not sure why. Maybe because Texans aren’t afraid to use their shootin’ irons on those pesky cockroaches and June bugs. God knows it would take at least three rounds from a .38 to bring down some of the roaches I’ve seen near San Antonio.

Still, bad as they are in Texas, the bugs are definitely worse in Arizona.

I lived in Glendale, a suburb of Phoenix. I was only 15 at the time and had not yet received that Holy Grail of teenager-dom; my driver’s license. So I still had to walk or ride my bike everywhere I went. That put me right out there in the open, at the mercy of every bug that could survive the trackless miles of unforgiving desert that surround that godforsaken hell hole of a city (I’m not trying to make friends of the Phoenix Chamber of Commerce here).

Those bugs, through the very nature of their environment, have to be tough. And ornery.
Seriously, in the two years my family lived there I saw beetles bigger than hummingbirds and centipedes longer than a garden hose.

Phoenix residents think nothing of the occasional missing dog, cat or small child; just another “bug attack.” Replace the window screen and empty a few cans of Raid, then it’s back to business as usual.

Then of course, there are the scorpions and tarantulas. Folks in Arizona check their shoes carefully before putting them on in the morning. The ones who live into old age, at least.
But even the scorpions, roaches and centipedes pale in comparison to the most adversarial of all God’s creepy-crawlies: the ant.

Now, Michigan ants are bad enough; they get in your cupboards and make a meal of anything they find there. They mess with your picnic and have a way of committing suicide in your lemonade when you’re not looking. They are a nuisance.

Arizona ants are another matter altogether. There’s a reason the desert is filled with the bleached bones of so many different critters. Those bones might have been live, healthy animals (or people) the day before.  All it takes is one mistake, one misstep, and ziiiiiippp, you’re a prop in a cowboy movie.

Arizona ants are the piranha of the desert. Especially the “fire ants.” They’re big and red, but that’s not why they call ‘em fire ants. They’re called fire ants because of the way their bite feels when they latch onto you. In fact, fire might be preferable.

I’m speaking from experience here.

Let me tell you about it: As I mentioned earlier, I was 15, and - because of Debbie and Dianne, the 16-year-old blonde twins who lived next door - I was always trying to appear “cooler” than I actually was (or am, for that matter).

I was no more successful at it then than I am now, but fortunately I was 15 and an idiot (the two are inseparable) and therefore didn’t realize what a dork I was (or am, for that matter).

It was getting on toward evening, the Arizona sun edging toward the mountaintops on the horizon. The sky was burnishing to a deep, bruised ocher, and I was sitting on the back of a pickup truck with Debbie or Dianne, I don’t remember which.

Roy Orbison was oozing softly from the truck’s AM radio and nobody’s parents were watching. Debbie (or Dianne) and I were both wearing T-shirts and cutoffs; about all the clothes you can stand in Phoenix in July.

Slowly screwing up my courage, I edged closer to Dianne (or Debbie), and executing the ever-so-subtle “yawn & stretch” maneuver - the signature smooth move of teenage Romeos from the beginning of time - I slipped one arm around her waist.

Ah-hah! I was there and she (Debbie or Dianne) wasn’t pulling away in disgust and/or revulsion! Amore was within my grasp!

And then the ant ... the Arizona ant ... the Arizona fire ant ... the Arizona fire ant that had crawled up the leg of my cutoffs ... WAY up the leg of my cutoffs ... bit down. Hard.

Decorum and the fact that this is a family newspaper prevent me from saying exactly where.
Let’s just say my thoughts of romance vanished faster than a box of donuts in a police station.
One of the interesting things about fire ants is, once they bite, they don’t let go. Ever.

By the time I managed to extricate the fire ant from my - um - self, any hope I ever had of looking cool in front of Debbie (or Dianne) had vanished forever.

My family moved back to Detroit a few weeks later and I couldn’t have been happier about it.

So, winter, (remember our original topic, way back at the top of this column?) do your worst. Freeze the ground ten feet down.

I may be sick of you, but I won’t complain. Just kill those ants.

On the merits of shame in the age of innocence

Shame builds character. I truly believe this. And not just because I was raised Catholic, back in the days when shame was a primary component of the church’s belief system. At least at my parish.
   
   The nuns who taught me to read and write also taught me to feel shame over - to my admittedly hazy recollection - just about everything. Or at least about everything I really liked.
   
   I felt shame when I cheated on an algebra test. I still cheated, but I DID feel shame. I felt shame when I lied to my parents. This in no way prevented me from sometimes lying like a Republican at a homeless shelter, but again, I DID feel shame about it (unlike the Republican).
   
   And sex; don’t even talk to me about sex. Sister Elizabeth made darn sure every boy in my seventh-grade class knew - KNEW, mind you - that we were going to fry in Hell if we so much as THOUGHT of Mary Beth McNamarah as anything other than a holy vessel of future Catholic motherhood.
   
   Now, telling a seventh-grade boy not to think about sex is like telling a skydiver not to pull the ripcord on his parachute.
   
   Of course, what we boys actually knew about sex could easily have been printed (in very large type) on one side of a playing card. But that didn’t stop us from THINKING about it pretty much all the time.
   
   There were no hell fires hot enough - or nuns strict enough - to keep us from speculating on what Mary Beth would look like in her knickers. This speculation was especially problematic when I was a boy, owing in large part to the fact that our only experience with girls in knickers came from purloined copies of our fathers’ “Playboy” magazines. Back then, all the “good parts” were airbrushed out. It was maddening, not to mention more than a little confusing.
   
   Add to this bewildering mix a heaping helping of red-hot shame and it’s a wonder any of us ever managed to develop anything resembling a successful relationship with a member of the opposite sex.
   
   But shame, for all its faults, did give us some sort of perspective on life. It gave us a sense of right and wrong, of civic responsibility, of good and evil. If you felt ashamed, chances are you were doing something naughty. Of course, SOMETIMES you were just a victim of your programming, but MOST times, you actually WERE doing something bad. Shame helped us identify those moments.
   
   These days shame has gotten a bad rap. Kids today are encouraged to feel good about themselves, to have a “positive self-image,” no matter how rotten they may actually be. And so we’re cranking out a generation of amoral dictators who imagine they can do no wrong.
   
   Thank you Doctor Spock.
   
   Sister Elizabeth may not have been a child psychologist, but she knew enough about kids to know they are not angels by nature. Kids are not born moral. That stuff is learned behavior. Or, as is too often the case these days, NOT learned.
   
    Of course, it’s easy for me to play ethicist from the vantage point of a 51-year-old adult. (I know, I know...I don’t look a day over 24, but there you go.) I’m happily married, have a stable income, a good dog ... there’s not much left in life to tempt me in ways which would encourage me to misbehave.
   
   Even so I still feel shame from time to time. I feel shame when I flip some guy half a peace sign in busy traffic, even if he obviously has it coming. I feel shame when I leave a lousy tip at a restaurant, even when the service stinks. I feel shame when I collect a paycheck after spending half a day writing a lame-o column about shame (I’ll get over that, I guess).
   
   Sure, all that’s just small-time shame stuff. I’m sure if I did anything really rotten I’d feel BIG-time shame. And that, in turn, prevents me - usually - from doing anything really rotten.
   
   So all in all, shame’s a good thing, I think. Turns out Sister Elizabeth was right all along. It kinda makes me feel ashamed of all the stuff I said about her back in seventh grade.
   
   But I refuse to feel guilty about thinking impure thoughts about Mary Beth McNamarah. Sometimes, you just gotta pull that rip cord.
   
   To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or Mary Beth McNamarah’s current address, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

There’ll be no foolin’ this April

April Fool’s Day is coming, but you won’t see me writing about it here.  Huh-uh.  No way.  I did that once and it almost got me: (a) fired, (b) sued, and (c) beat up.
   
   It was many, many years ago, and I was working in another city at a small-town weekly; a “mom and pop” operation that specialized in bake sales, VFW pancake breakfasts and rambling, semi-libelous editorials written by the paper’s owner.  (Since I used the word “rambling” in the previous sentence, the name of that paper will have to remain My Little Secret.)
   
   At any rate, the paper operated sort of “fast and loose,” at least compared with most of the places I’ve worked since.  Our readership knew the score and didn’t expect too much in the way of professionalism and/or accuracy.
   
   Despite this, the paper was relatively popular, owing mostly to the fact that it was the only game in town and people really DO need to know when those VFW pancake breakfasts are scheduled.
   
   It was late March and the entire editorial staff (me and the guy who took the photos) were racking our brains in an effort to come up with an April Fool’s joke that hadn’t been done to death.  In previous Aprils, the publisher had printed the front page upside down, run the sports page backwards, and made up fake names (like “Mia Culpa” and “V. Alli Forge”) for article by-lines.
   
   These were all clever ideas, but we wanted something just a little better, something ... funnier.
To help us think, the aforementioned photographer and I knocked off early, went to the bar next-door and drank several beers.  Sometime during the course of the evening, it came to us: A story about a new - and entirely fictitious - “Bob Tax.”
   
   The Bob Tax, we decided, would be an additional 10-mil city property tax levied against anyone named Bob, Robert, Roberta, Bobby, Bobbie, Bob-o, Rob, Robbie, or any derivation thereof.  We also decided the tax should go into affect April 1 with the full support of the city manager, a mild-mannered little guy whose greatest attribute was his ability to blend in with a crowd.
   
   Moreover, we decided the National Guard would be called in to collect the tax from any city resident named Bob (or any derivation thereof) who hadn’t paid his Bob Tax in full by April 2.
In short, we made the story as ridiculous as possible, just to make absolutely certain no one could possibly mistake it for a “real” news piece.  We even added the disclaimer “April Fool’s” at the end of the article.
   
   Since the city manager was “quoted” extensively in the story, I made sure to run it by him prior to publication.  He thought it was a hoot and gave us the green light.
   
   So, on April 1, on the front page, complete with a great photo of the city manager giving Nixon’s “four more years” sign in front of an American flag, our Bob Tax story ran.  We all had a little chuckle over it, then put the matter behind us as we looked toward the following week’s issue.
   
   When I came to work on April 2 there were 37 messages waiting on my voice mail.  The first 36 were from the city manager, who had already fielded dozens of angry phone calls from area residents named Bob.  These Bobs had threatened the poor guy with everything from lawsuits to public canings.
   
   “Didn’t you explain to them the article was a joke?” I asked.
   
   “Didn’t matter,” he said.
   
   “But how could they stay mad once they found out it was an April Fool’s prank?” I said.
   
   “They just did,” he said in a weary, desperate tone I didn’t care for at all.
   
   He was right.  The calls started coming in to the paper about ten minutes later.  I’d relate some of their content to you here, but this is a family newspaper and there are only so many different ways you can spell “@#$!!.”
   
   I spent most of the day dealing with seriously cheesed-off Bobs.  Subscriptions were canceled, violence was threatened, lawsuits were promised.  It was not a fun day.
   
   As near as I can figure, most of the Bobs were steamed - initially - over the fictitious tax.  But they REALLY got worked up when they discovered they’d been bamboozled by Yours Truly.
   
   Needless to say, my boss was madder than ANY of the Bobs, even though he had personally OK’d the April Fools story prior to its publication.  Blame has a trickle-down effect, apparently, and by the end of the day, it had all trickled down to me.
   
   The whole business eventually blew over; these things usually do.  But I’ll never forget the Bob Tax Incident, as it came to be known around town.
   
   And I’ll never again write another April Fool’s article.
   
   However, next Halloween I just might consider writing a fictitious story about invading Martians landing in a farmer’s field near Grovers Mill, New Jersey.  I mean, NOBODY could be gullible enough to believe something like THAT, right?  Right?
   
   To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or other great April Fool’s Day pranks, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.   

Military spending is the pits, or could be if the Pentagon would just listen to my plan

The United States Military spends billions of dollars each year, much of that on hardware: tanks, rifles, bullets, planes, boats, jeeps, humvees, missiles ... the list goes on and on.

The U.S., in fact, spends more money on military items than any other country in the world. Recent estimates show we fork over $276.7 billion annually (I base this figure on something I once read on the Internet while trying to find a recipe for home-made Silly Putty) to keep our armed services up and running.

Armenia, by contrast, spends a grand total of only $135 million. Of course, I could beat up Armenia single-handedly, armed only with a slingshot and a pocketful of smooth stones.

Folks expect more than that from the U.S.

Anyway, of the country’s $276.7 billion military tab, approximately $1.7 billion (I base this figure on either something I may have seen on an old episode of “MacGyver,” or on an extremely vivid imagination - you decide) is spent on small caliber ammunition.

Now, I know government types might consider $1.7 billion for ammo to be a heckuva good deal, but to those of us struggling to make the car payment every month, $1.7 billion seems like real money.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for a strong U.S. military. You never know when Armenia might decide to invade. But as a taxpayer, I certainly wouldn’t complain if the Pentagon brass found a few ways to save a buck now and then. Ammunition is as good a place to start as any.

To that end, I think I may have stumbled on a brilliant, money-saving alternative to bullets: cherry pits.

That’s right, cherry pits.

They’re cheap, easy to obtain, biodegradable and, equipped with the proper delivery system - the human mouth - they can be quite deadly.

As evidence, I present Brian “Young Gun” Krause, the 25-year-old Dimondale resident who not long ago won the 31st annual International Cherry Pit Spitting Championship in Eau Claire, Michigan.

Krause sent a tart cherry pit flying 88-feet, 2-inches at the Tree-Mendus Fruit Farm to take top honors.

Factoring in the Earth’s gravitational pull, wind shear in effect the day of the competition, and the “D” I received in ninth grade algebra class, I’ve calculated that cherry pit must have been traveling at about 600 feet per second, or about the same speed as a bullet fired from a .38 Special.

Anyone hit by a cherry pit moving at that speed would experience instant death, or at the very least, a sharp stinging sensation similar to the bite of a black fly. Either way, it would be darned uncomfortable for the recipient.

Naturally, U.S. troops would need to be trained in cherry pit delivery techniques - i.e. “spitting.”

Recruits from places like Arkansas and Georgia would have a distinct advantage here, as would any major league baseball players who found themselves serving their country during wartime. But there’s no reason northerners and non-baseball-playing soldiers couldn’t learn to spit with the best of them.

Likewise, women wouldn’t necessarily be excluded from combat missions. Just ask Ann St. Armand of St. Joseph, who won the women’s cherry pit spitting title for the third year in a row with a 46-foot, 1-inch spit.

While perhaps not as lethal as Krause’s expectoration, Ms. St. Armand’s pits could be every bit as dangerous in close quarters combat. Perfect for “clearing out” enemy bunkers!

And the savings to taxpayers! Oy! Consider this: a 1,000-round box of ammo for the kind of rifle used by NATO troops costs about $78.95.

A 1-pound box of cherry pits, meanwhile, goes for $1.25. I estimate, based again on my “D” in algebra, that each box contains 180 pits. Extrapolating outward, that means the Pentagon could purchase 11,368 cherry pits for about the same price as a box of bullets.

Whatta deal!

Add to that the savings the military would glean by not having to buy rifles and you’re talking some serious bucks here, folks.

Finally, the clincher (and I’m not making this up): cherry pits contain Cyanogenic glycoside, a very, very toxic chemical. In short, if an enemy takes a cherry pit to the chest, he is going DOWN, baby!

I’m planning to send my complete proposal to the Pentagon brass later this week. If they’re receptive, I have a lot of other money-saving ideas they may wish to implement, including my rapid-fire rubber-band gun and garlic-scented mouthwash (intended for hand-to-hand combat situations).

I’ll let you know how it works out.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or requests that he run for Congress because we need a man like him in Lansing, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

Hammering the language into rubble, China-style

I’m worried about the future of the English language. It’s not that I’m a member of the Grammar Police or anything. I don’t go off the deep end when somebody spells “light” l-i-t-e. I never cared much for that particular word when followed by the word “beer,” but that’s another story. And it doesn’t bother me when someone begins a sentence with a conjunction (such as “and”).

I’ve got no problem with colloquialisms, double negatives or slang. As far as I’m concerned, slang ain’t gonna hurt nobody. I’m not especially keen on profanity (despite occasional claims to the contrary on the part of my numerous detractors), but when it comes down to it, a few dirty words aren’t going to ruin my day, either.

Dangling participles are supposed to be a literary no-no, but I sometimes use them anyway, as most writers on occasion do. There are a few other odds and ends of the language which I see abused on a regular basis, but none bother me much.

So how did I get the idea the English language is destined for the scrap heap? It began with the purchase of a toy for my grandson, Edison.

The two of us were at a local discount shopping store whose name begins with a large, red K. I was there shopping for a new mechanical pencil. My old one, which I’ve had for years, finally threw a rod, or whatever it is old mechanical pencils do.

Edison, however, had other plans. For reasons I don’t understand, five-year-olds would prefer to shop for toys rather than pencils. Any toys. Or more specifically, all toys. His latest ploy is to reason with me concerning his deep-seated need for every brightly-colored piece of plastic in the store.

At any rate, my willpower in this regard is notoriously lacking and the little beggar came away from the store with a new toy. It was a cheap one, at least, a plastic microphone that adds an echo effect to the voice of the user. Actually, I had as much fun playing with it as Edison did.

But the real fun came when I got home and read the packaging the thing came in. On the back of the microphone’s shrink-wrapped cardboard card were the instructions. The mere notion that a toy that simple to operate came with instructions struck me as humorous, so I went ahead and read them. Or tried to.

It soon became apparent that the instruction writer’s native tongue was “OTE” (Other Than English). I flipped the package over. Sure enough, stamped there in tiny letters was the all-too-common phrase, “Made in China.”

I flipped the card again and continued with the instructions. They went something like this:
“To enjoyment most get from megaphone follow instructions most careful and fun. Hold in hand while voice through the megaphone or shake to get magical voice for occasional need. Need batteries does not will work on voice.

“Many hours of fun will be have. For results. Keep out children age 3. Will be for party and many times to fun.”

The instructions went on this way for another few paragraphs, and by the time I’d finished them, I had no idea how to use the darned microphone. As I understood it, I was supposed to shake my magical voice, but only occasionally. And I would have fun and be invited to parties if only I could keep batteries away from three-year-olds.

These were paragraphs that had been struck with a grammatical sledgehammer and left to sort themselves out. This wasn’t the first time I’ve encountered this sort of convoluted English. It’s everywhere in modern society. Most noticeably, it’s where we need it least, in places such as manuals for assembling complicated machinery. What homeowner hasn’t cursed together a lawn mower or stereo with instructions which read: “Taking most care not to bend the tab red, please insert slot M into place that is provided for and with screwdriver turn but not too tight for good that is of mower engine.”

It’s enough to drive you crazy. But more than that, it represents the first tentative mallet blows which, if left unchecked, will eventually reduce our native tongue to so much verbal rubble.

I can just hear Edison and the rest of his generation by the time they reach their teens, after years of reading material from the Mysterious Orient: “Excuse please,” he will say to his mother while she sits reading the evening paper. “The car, of which I am borrowed has in traffic. To left but not too hard an other direction automobile vehicle was met.”

“That’s nice,” she’ll reply. “But you’ve got homework.”

He will shrug and go upstairs to study. It won’t be till she goes out to the garage the next day that she’ll realize Eddie has totaled the family car.

Or how about this one: “May I to store please with card most plastic with intent of employment keep and years many?” Edison will ask.

“It’s about time,” Edison’s father will answer, thinking the kid intends to get a real job at one of the stores in the Mall. It won’t be until the end of the month, when he gets his Visa bill, that he’ll figure out the employment Eddie was talking about was his father’s and he’ll have to put off retirement for a few years just to pay off the bill his son has run up.

The way I see it, there’s only one way to combat this linguistic menace: Learn to speak the language myself. Starting today, I’m going to covet every Republic of China instruction manual I can lay my hands on. And I’m going to study them till it kills me. I figure by the end of next year I should be reasonably fluent.

In fact, I may as well start practicing as soon as possible. To that end, please to read as well as in seven days will with most notable return again to column make.

Translation: See you next week.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or inquiries into his new Chinese-English translation service, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

Too young to be curmudgeonly? Not at the foot doctor’s office

Is there a reason a doctor’s time is more valuable than my own? I’m not talking about a heart surgeon holding the keys to life or death in his hands as he performs a quadruple bypass. I’m not talking about a neurosurgeon bringing new hope to a tumor victim with a few deft turns of the laser. I’m not even talking about the pediatrician who recognizes that the little red spots covering your toddler are a rare allergy, not mumps.

What I am talking about is my foot doctor.

He’s not actually “my” foot doctor, but he’s the doctor who’s been fixing my foot since it quit working right a couple weeks back. He’s also fixing a lot of other feet, judging by the crowds gathered in his waiting room every time I stop by for an appointment.

Appointment. In the physician’s lexicon, that word is defined thus: “Appointment; the interval of time between when a patient is scheduled for examination and the time the doctor actually sees said patient. Disparity between two times should not exceed 12 hours, unless it is a very good day for golf.”

My appointment was for 2:10 p.m. From previous visits to my foot doctor’s office, I knew this time was mostly hypothetical, like my love life back in high school. So I called ahead, just to make sure the doctor was on schedule.

“Oh certainly,” said the woman who answers the doctor’s phone.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because last time I was there I had to shave twice while waiting for the doctor to arrive.”

“Hee-hee. That’s a good one,” said the woman. “I haven’t heard that one before.” This indicated to me that she had heard plenty of other comments about the long waits experienced by patients there.

“So he definitely is on schedule, right?” I said. “Because I have other stuff I could be doing if he’s not. I could come later.”

“No, no,” she assured me. “He’s right on schedule.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound unconvinced.

I arrived at the doctor’s office at 2:05 p.m., five minutes early, and let the receptionist know I was there.

“I’ll tell the doctor,” she said, and disappeared into the hallway adjoining her cubicle.

My foot doctor has the most boring collection of magazines imaginable, unless you’re an avid skier, bicyclist or housewife. These are the only three magazine types available in his waiting room.
Speaking of which, what other profession even has something called a “waiting” room? Can you picture a waiting room at a grocery store? At a movie theater? A newspaper office?

Anyone else in the world, when they make an appointment for 2:10, actually intends to see you at 2:10. No waiting room is needed. Only a doctor can get away with this sort of baloney.

Sorry, I’m ranting.

The point is, my foot doctor has a waiting room and I was in it.

I was in it at 2:10, at 2:20, at 2:30, and at 2:45. Finally, a nurse stuck her head around the corner and called my name. She escorted me to an examination room, but I was not encouraged. My foot doctor has four examination rooms and a patient was waiting in every one of them. Some of the patients had long, unkempt beards and looked very hungry, the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a medieval dungeon.

Sure enough, I was waiting in the examination room until 3 p.m. Then 3:10, then 3:15, the 3:20.

When I was a teenager in the ‘60s, I was briefly into transcendentalism. Sitting on the examination table, wearing one shoe and one sock, I tried to revisit the meditation techniques of my youth. I closed my eyes, breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth. In. Out. In. Out. I searched for my “center,” for tranquility and inner peace. I glanced at my watch. Another ten minutes had passed. I was feeling neither tranquil nor peaceful.

I found myself longing for the fabulous stimulation of the waiting room, where fascinating articles on skiing and house keeping were to be found in abundance. The only reading material in this room was a chart showing how all the bones are supposed to work and which could be replaced with plastic and steel when they didn’t.

Finally, I decided I’d had enough. I put my high-tech velcro and plastic cast back on and hobbled toward the door, determined to tell the receptionist exactly what I thought of the foot doctor’s scheduling practices.

At that moment, the foot doctor strolled in, smelling of fresh cut grass and nine irons.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said with a smile.

I grunted non-commitally. I’m not really old enough to be overtly cantankerous or curmudgeonly, but I’m not too young to start practicing both.

The “examination” took a grand total of 28 seconds, during which time he asked me if my foot still hurt, (No), whether I was still taking my medication, (Yes), and whether there had been any swelling, (No).

His advice was that I should wear the cast until my foot quit hurting, then take the cast off. For this, he spent six years at med school.

On my way out, the receptionist asked me if I needed to make another appointment. I was glad she asked. It gave me another chance to practice being cantankerous and curmudgeonly.

Another few trips to the foot doctor and I think I’ll have it down pat.

Rubber gloves and cameras

Went in for a physical the other day.  I was about a year overdue.  Like most men, I hate physicals, for one reason: The Rubber Glove.

You guys know what I'm talking about.  At least you guys 50 and older.

The rubber glove, while necessary (so the say), is - for me at least - more dreaded and loathed than Saddam Hussein and re-runs of "The Golden Girls."  The only thing more feared, in fact, is cancer, which is why we put up with the rubber glove.

So you can imagine how pleased I was when the exam ended and I still had both my pants and my dignity.

"What about the rubber glove?" I blurted, instantly wishing I could retract the comment.

"We won't be doing that this time," the doctor said.

"Well, cool!" I said, meaning it.

It was then he told me the reason I wouldn't need the rubber glove: He was scheduling me for a colonoscopy.  For those lucky enough not to know, a colonoscopy is a procedure in which a proctologist runs a camera up your butt on the end of a flexible tube, then sits back with a bowl of Chili Cheese Fritos and a cold beer and enjoys the show.  I wish I were kidding here, but I'm not.

I have a month to think about it before I go in for the procedure, which is not nearly long enough.  I'm hoping an asteroid hits the earth sometime before then, but I doubt I'm that lucky.

And what sort of person becomes a proctologist, anyway?  At what point in a promising med student's career does he or she sit back and think, "You know, I'd really like to spend the next 30 years studying asses!"

No doubt there are hundreds of political analysts who at some point reached that same conclusion, but at least they get to wear suits to work, instead of scrubs.

Anyway, barring an asteroid strike, I've got 32 days, nine hours and 17 minutes before they turn my rear end into "must see TV."

And no, I won't be posting the video on U-Tube.