Mike Taylor's Reality Check

PLEASE NOTE NEW ADDRESS!

Hi Folks!  Thanks to all who have visited me here at TypePad!  However, please note I will no longer be posting here and this blog is set to self-destruct in 9 days (or less, depending on when you're reading this).  My new address, which will feature the same columns and information, is now up and running at:

http://realitycheck.shoutpost.com/

I hope you'll join me there for weekly updates of Reality Check!  If you have any questions or concerns, please e-mail me at mtaylor@midmich.net.  Thanks again for your readership!

- Mike Taylor, August 1, 2007

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.

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.

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.

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."