Mike Taylor's Reality Check

At this rate, will I see another Christmas?

It’ll be a miracle if I live through this summer.

Regular readers of this column (both of you) may remember I was hit by a car a while back while riding my bicycle to pick up the mail.  I survived that with a broken toe, some minor contusions, and a nearly fatal case of wounded ego.

In another fate-tempter this summer, I took my life in my hands and rode my youngest son’s quad, a small vehicle that goes from zero to warp 6 in about three seconds.  I actually jumped the thing over a ramped-up hill, designed by the kid for just such a purpose, before bringing it slowly down below the speed of sound, parking it, and shakily crawling off to kiss the ground and thank my maker.

The boy rides it all the time.  I’m hoping for grandchildren from him someday, but at this rate the odds don’t look good.

Anyway, in the past couple months I’ve also nearly electrocuted myself while attempting to fix the front porch light, driven off the road and into a corn field during a foggy, 3 a.m. ride home from work, and capsized my row boat while trying to retrieve a dropped fishing rod.

It’s been a busy summer, even for me.

But last Saturday night … well … all I can say is either the gods are trying to kill me and failing miserably, or my guardian angel is working overtime.  Given my history, I’d say the former is more likely, but I’m willing to entertain other, more benign, theories.

I was playing a gig with my little, weekend band, The Guinness Brothers, at Keenan Marina in Ferrysburg.  The folks there are great, and the marina owner hosts a big party every year with awesome food, rum-based drinks, music and dancing.  It’s a fun event for all the “boat people,” as well as for those of us in the band.  Even the caterer has a good time.

Most of party guests have boats parked in the marina, some of them of the ostentatious, “eat this, Donald Trump!” variety.  But despite the fact they have too much money, they seem to be for the most part friendly, down-to-earth folks who know how to enjoy and appreciate the things life has given them.  I enjoy their company immensely and wish I had enough cash of my own to hang with them more often.

The band had just about made it to the end of our second set, around 10 p.m., when the Ferrysburg Police arrived on the scene.  Apparently, an elderly lady living on the other side of the lake was having a hard time hearing the dialogue of a “Matlock” rerun over the noise of the party and had phoned in a complaint.  The Ferrysburg Police take this sort of heinous crime very seriously.  They ordered the marina management to shut things down for the night.

Now ordinarily, management obtains a noise permit, or whatever it is that keeps the cops off your back at a time like this, but this year they neglected to do so.  So that was pretty much it for the party.

The guests were surprisingly vocal in registering their opinions of the Ferrysburg Police – who were, after all, only doing what they’re paid to do, and at any rate seemed far too young to have ever served in the SS during WWII – but these are wealthy boat owners, not dirty, filthy hippies, so there were no rubber bullets fired or tear gas canisters lobbed.

As part of the hired help, I was perfectly content with the prospect of calling it a night, packing up, and getting home before 4 a.m. for a change.  Still, it was only 10 p.m., so when I was invited to grab a quick drink at the outdoor “tiki lounge” on the other side of the marina’s parking lot, I figured what the heck.  There were a couple musicians over there with acoustic guitars playing Jimmy Buffet music; it sounded like fun.

My band-mates and I finished packing up the trailer, did one last “idiot check” of the stage area to make sure we hadn’t left anything behind, then headed across the lot.

About halfway there, I decided I’d better leave my wallet, iPod and cell phone locked in my truck.  I was wearing the black suit I usually wear to gigs and all that stuff jammed into the pockets makes me look like a Bolivian drug mule trying to sneak past immigration.

The guys went on ahead of me.

After locking up the truck, I headed back across the pitch-black parking lot and toward the inviting amber glow of the tiki bar.

Now, I don’t know why there are not more (or any) lights in this parking lot, but there aren’t.  Not a one.  It’s a murky expanse of asphalt the size of a football field and once the sun sets, the darkness becomes absolute, especially on a moonless night, as this one was.

Starlight glimmered faintly off the orderly rows of BMW, Mercedes and Lexus sedans parked there, giving me just enough light to see by, barely.  In my lightless surroundings, the stars shined brightly overhead.  Gazing up, I could make out the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the elliptical curve of the Milky Way.

The gentle breeze blowing in off the lake felt fine.  The heels of my best cowboy boots tapped out their rhythmic tattoo as I strolled across the macadam. God was in his Heaven and all was right with the world.

You’d think by now I would know a “gotcha” moment when I was walking into one, but apparently not.

I put my left foot down.  Click.  I put my right foot down.  Click.  I put my left foot down.  Nothing.  No click.  No tap.  No ground.

There are people familiar with the setup of a marina, I’m sure, but I’m not one of them.  Or rather, I wasn’t before now.

Every marina has a slip cut into it, one designed to take the “eat this Donald Trump” boats out of the water at the end of the season.  It’s a BIG slip, to accommodate the BIG boats.  Vertical steel walls reaching 10 or 15 feet out of the lake, as long as the biggest boat and as wide.  And for some reason, completely unmarked, unlighted and unattended.

I dropped like a stone into this one.

If time had permitted, I’m sure I would have panicked, cried like a baby, made deals with God and the devil, and seen my life pass before my eyes.  But before I could do any of that, I was inhaling copious portions of Lake Michigan and trying to figure out which way “up” was.

Due in no small part to my striking resemblance to a manatee, I’m an excellent swimmer, even while wearing a black suit and cowboy boots.  My only light was a small rectangle of stars directly overhead, but it didn’t take me long to figure out what had happened and where I was.

I managed to swim out into the marina, where I was spotted by a group of party guests on their way to the tiki bar.  Suddenly, the water was alive with flashlight beams and the voices of people instructing me to not panic.

For some reason (probably the same reason the damn thing isn’t lighted!) there are no ladders leading from the water to the top of the slip.  The nearest one, I was told, was about a half-mile down the marina.  Between my current position and there, nothing but sheer, steel walls.

One of the more clear-thinking guests suggested I swim out to her boat, which was moored only 20 or 30 yards from shore.  I got there no problem and she pulled me aboard, gave me a towel and even let me borrow one of her husband’s shirts (a very nice silk Hawaiian job with a floral print).

She also offered me dry pants, but I just cannot bring myself to wear another man’s trousers.  So, with soaked slacks and cowboy boots containing about two gallons of water each – but sporting a dry shirt – I made my way to the tiki bar, shared a drink and a few good-natured jibes over my choice of swimming attire, then headed on home.

I did remember to return the shirt first.

In the morning, I related the story of my adventure to The Lovely Mrs. Taylor.

“Why does this sort of thing always seem to happen to you?” she asked.

That’s easy.  It’s not because I’m careless, or because I’m a klutz (as Mrs. T suggested, rather cruelly, I thought).  It’s because the gods are out to get me.

Do you have a comment, question or black suit and cowboy boots (size 11) you’d like to donate to Mike Taylor? Send it to: mtaylor@midmich.net, or via snail mail to Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

It’s true, imitation is the sincerest form of plagiarism

The single best thing about writing this column is this; hearing from readers, especially those with stories of their own to tell.  The worst thing about reader mail is this; a lot times, readers’ stories are better than mine are.  That’s hard on the ego, folks.

I’m thinking right now of Jim H. of Kentwood, who wrote in regard to a column entitled “Of Boxcars and Summer Vacations.”  That column was pure reminiscence, detailing my pre-teen adventures in “train-hopping.”

Jim (whose last name I’m not using because he confessed to a Class B felony in his letter and I don’t want him arrested at this late date) not only hopped trains in my old neighborhood, but actually derailed one.

This was in the late 1940s, and Jim was technically a juvenile, so it’s likely the statute of limitations has run out on this particular crime.  But I’m not taking any chances with Jim’s freedom; he sounds like a nice guy.

Back then, lumberyard workers would move the empty boxcars around with long poles with big levers wedged between the track and the wheels.  On this particular Saturday, the workers forgot to hide the poles at quitting time and a group of kids – of which Jim was a member – decided to release the brakes on a few cars and nudge them a few feet along with the poles.

Thanks to a small downhill grade, the cars moved easily.  And kept moving.  All three boxcars.  Rolling helter-skelter across Eastern Avenue, the cars finally derailed at the switch block a little farther along the line.

The road was blocked for hours while the Grand Trunk people hunted down an engine crew, fired up the steam engines (these were pre-diesel days) and moved the cars out of the road.

The entire neighborhood turned out to watch the show and marvel at the fact that a “wind storm” had blown all those boxcars across the road.

As Jim H. said in his letter, “It took 60 or more years but the truth is now known.”

Jim tells the story better than I’ve told it here, but he’s had 60 years to get it right.  And if I were to relate it verbatim, it would constitute plagiarism, rather than merely “passing the story along.”  I’m pretty sure I can’t be sued for “passing the story along.”

So I’ll pass along another, this one from Michele W., who wrote to tell me of the time – not long ago – she was changing the diaper of her sixth-month-old son, Nick.  Michele’s daughter, five, was playing nearby with a neighbor girl who came from a family with no sons.

Oh, hell, I’ll let Michele tell it:

“(She) only had a sister, so she was very curious when I was changing Nick’s diaper,” Michele writes.  “She hung around and hung around.  When I had the diaper off, she looked at Nick and said, ‘Boy, wait till you grow up.  You ought to see how big that thing’s gonna get!’”

Michele managed to maintain her composure and respond, “Yes, it grows just like the rest of you.”

Michele told me she was relieved when that was the extent of her “Kindergarten sex ed class.”

Another letter that stands out in my mind is one I received from Thomas S. of Taipei, after I wrote a column about some odd restaurants there.  In that column I poked fun of Taipei’s restaurants, some of which feature themes that – to Westerners, at least – seem downright bizarre.

Thomas, a Grand Rapids native who moved to Taipei to work as a translator, took me to task for giving people the wrong impression of his adopted country.  He pointed out that Ding Tai Feng – a Taipei restaurant (with a name that sounds like silverware falling on a tile floor) – was voted by the New York Times as one of the ten best restaurants in the world.  More importantly, a full spread for four might set you back as little as $30, American.

Add to that the fact that Taipei is generally a “no-tipping” district, and, well, you have my attention, to say the least.

By the time Thomas was finished extolling the virtues of Taipei, I was ready to move there myself.  Granted, Thomas’ letter wasn’t particularly hilarious, but it was very informative.  By the time I’d finished reading it, I felt I knew enough about Taipei to serve on the city council there, though no offers in that regard have been forthcoming.

Some of my favorite letters have been the shortest.  One particularly succinct missive came from a “Mr. Cheng,” following the publication of my column on bad Chinese-English translations found in assembly manuals.  Mr. Cheng writes:

“Much big time fun I am finding in your last reading.  We too helping you are keeping up the work.  Good.  The story of which I am speaking is fine success here.  In the home.  Sign, Mr. Cheng.”  (The e-mail return address on this one listed the sender as a Greg H., so “Mr. Cheng” might be a pseudonym.)

In the past year or so, I’ve also received:

- Helpful hints (the perfect sore throat cure from Patricia M.);

- Good suggestions (New Year’s Eve resolutions I should definitely consider, from “Squeaky”);

- Historical perspectives (tales of picking up dirty, filthy, hippie hitchhikers back in the ‘60s, from Diane R.);

- Compliments galore (many from Dorothy S., who says more nice things about me than I’ll ever hear from the Lovely Mrs. Taylor);

- Complaints and criticism (from Scott W., stationed in Iraq, who thinks I should stop being a such a wuss when it comes to doing things Mrs. T’s way);

- Concerns (from Mick and Arlynn, who were worried I’d stop writing my column to take a job at the American Tasting Institute);

- Offers to buy Avon (from Antoinette Q. who can tell from my column mug shot that I desperately need anti-wrinkle eye cream);

- Lovely Biblical quotes (from John H., who really knows his scripture);

- Admonitions (from Peter V., who talked me into giving up tanning – he presented a very convincing case); and

- Comparisons (to Miami Herald columnist Dave Barry, who I love, so this is a Big Compliment, from Sharon Z.).

I usually tackle reader mail Monday mornings.  It’s a great way to start my work week.  And it’s one of the things that make this the best job in the world.  (With the possible exception of that gig at the American Tasting Institute – I’m still waiting to hear back from them.)

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or stories that are better by far than the junk he writes, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

As they say in the military: Check your targets!

I have an unfortunate tendency to get myself into uncomfortable situations on a more or less regular basis. This is generally caused by my positively negligent inattention to detail, childishly trusting nature, and inability to pay attention to anything (other than the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue) for any length of time.

This theory was proved over the recent holiday weekend.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I went to visit the kids and grand kids, who were camping near Silver Lake dunes. They had set up camp in a campground (I use the term “campground” only because it costs money to enter. If it were free, the media would refer to it as a “refugee center” and the Peace Corps would send in volunteers) near the lakeshore.

Tents, campers, cars, trucks, recreational vehicles, barking dogs, screaming children, adults and teenagers were “camped” together like eight ounces of sardines in a six-ounce tin. In order to inhale, you first had to wait for the guy next to you to exhale. I would say the overcrowding was the worst of it, but then I’d be ignoring the, ahem, facilities, the use of which required special breathing apparatus generally employed only by fire-fighters entering a burning building.

At least there was a fire pit, which supplied us with that thing most valued by men since primitive times: A place to drink beer. I’ve heard you can also use a fire pit to build a fire, but this is strictly a secondary function of the thing.

Now, I would have been happy to spend the entire weekend using the fire pit for its primary purpose, but on the way in, The Lovely Mrs. T noticed a great many tourist shops along the main drag leading to the campsite. For Mrs. T, a vacation without shopping is like a day without shopping, which, according to her, is a bad thing.

So off to the shops we went.

The sunglasses in the first shop we went to were reasonably priced and I found a pair that made me look exactly like Keanu Reeves in “The Matrix.” Except older, fatter, uglier and with a beard. This was still close enough for me. I took ‘em up to the counter and dropped them next to the stuff Mrs. T had there.

There were more sunglasses displayed in a rack on the counter and I checked these out while Mrs. T paid for her purchases. None of them made me look like anybody famous or attractive, so I held on to the pair I’d picked out earlier.

“Is that all, sir?” asked the girl at the counter.

I realized she’d finished with Mrs. T and was ready to ring up my sunglasses.

“Oh, yup, that’s it,” I said, digging for my wallet.

As the girl rang up my purchase and made change, I put one arm around Mrs. Taylor, resting my hand lightly on her hip. Actually, my hand was resting somewhat south of her hip, but what the heck, we were on vacation! Propriety be damned! I added an affectionate pat, and turned to give her a peck on the cheek.

The cheek presented to me, however, belonged to someone other than Mrs. Taylor. A cute young blonde girl, who was no doubt wondering why a middle-aged (assuming I live to be at least 100) man had his hand on her fanny.

I was wondering the same thing.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” I mumbled. “Thought you were my wife.”

The girl said nothing, but continued to stare at me. It took me a second to realize I had yet to remove my hand from her backside. I did so now.

“Um, really,” I said. “You look kind of like her, and...”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

I scanned the store quickly, spotted Mrs. Taylor standing by the door examining touristy post-cards. “There she is now!” I exclaimed.

I trotted across the store and put my arm around Mrs. T - the real one this time - in an effort to prove I wasn’t a long-lost relative of Jack the Ripper.

The impostor turned back to her shopping with a silent glare.

As dumb as grabbing the wrong tush was, I managed a follow-up trick that was even dumber: I told Mrs. Taylor about it. She’s not the jealous type, and was more amused than annoyed. So amused, in fact, that a week later she’s still asking at the end of every work day: “So, Perv-o, who’s booty did you grab today?”

Mrs. Taylor’s comedy routine needs some fine-tuning.

When heavy equipment is just a bit TOO heavy

I’ve been painting the exterior of my house. It’s not an especially big house and I’ve been promising The Lovely Mrs. Taylor I’d paint it for years. It was time.

I knew it was time because Mrs. Taylor went to the hardware store, purchased all the paint, brushes and rollers and stacked them up in a pile in front of my fishing boat.

She’s subtle, but I can take a hint.

At any rate, I started painting early in June and have been at it ever since. The job has taken most of my weekends and free time, but as of last weekend, it’s almost done. There’s just a little piece of trim near the roof in back that still needs doing.

Now if I can only get rid of the 75-foot sculpture in my back yard I’ll be all set.

What 75-foot sculpture? Maybe I’d better back up a bit and start at the beginning:

It’s early June, and the pile of paint, brushes and rollers sits in front of my boat, reminding me every time I walk past that the house needs painting. I look at the paint, the brushes, the rollers. I look at the house. The tall peaks, the overhanging eaves, the little curly-cue fiddley bits that so enchanted me the first time I saw the place; none of these features look all that enchanting from a house-painter’s point of view.

What they DO look like is hard to paint.

I borrow my neighbor’s aluminum extension ladder. It’s much better than mine, but even so it wobbles like Queen Latifa’s backside, especially when I’m standing near the top rung. This is especially bothersome for someone like me, who is extremely agoraphobic, which is, as you no doubt know, a fear of agora. Or I might be acrophobic, or ablutophobic, aerophobic, ambulophobic or even anablephobic.

Let me level with you, I don’t know from phobias. But I do know that when I stand on top of that ladder my knees start shaking like an epileptic ferret on crack.

So I stand at the top, wobbling, shaking, trying to paint. Trying not to think about the ground w-a-a-a-y down below somewhere. In the end I give up and crawl shamefacedly back down the ladder.

“I can’t do it,” I tell Mrs. Taylor.

“You can do it,” she tells me.

“It’s too high,” I say.

“You will do it,” she says.

“I will do it,” I say. Mrs. Taylor would have made a great Marine drill sergeant.

But I won’t go back up that ladder. Uh-uh, no way. Call me chicken if you must, but I’m not putting my life on the line for a little fresh paint.

Fortunately, my father-in-law is part owner of a construction company and has an armory of special equipment at his disposal, including a “sky crane,” a gas powered crane with a passenger box on one end.

I ask to borrow the sky crane, picturing the device as a relatively small unit that nestles nicely into the back of a pickup truck. What my father-in-law drops off the next day is a house-sized behemoth capable of lifting girders to the tops of skyscrapers or moving a space shuttle onto the launch pad.

It weighs nine tons.

NINE TONS.

I’m not exaggerating here.

After unloading the sky crane and giving me a brief primer in its operation, my father-in-law leaves. Considering what happened to his chainsaw when I borrowed that a few years ago, I can’t quite believe he’s trusting me with the sky crane.

But there it is. Sitting in my front yard. Completely covering my front yard, in fact.

I gather up the paint, brushes and rollers and load them into the sky crane’s box. I fire her up, move the box s-l-o-w-l-y up, then down, then back, then forth. Then into the roof of the porch, where it tears out a hole about a foot across. I patch the hole with some spare roofing tiles and decide not to mention it to Mrs. T.

As the days go by, my skill level with the sky crane improves, until finally I can move it around like a pro. I can squeeze the box into the tightest corners and navigate the heavily weighted base without bringing down nearby trees or crushing any parked cars.

I paint the front of the house, then the sides. The sky crane is, as far as I’m concerned, the greatest labor saving device since the wheel.

Best of all, my neighbors Dave and Jerry are both jealous as hell. I can tell. After years of feeling inferior in the lawn tractor/snow blower department, finally and at last ... I, Mike Taylor … have the biggest piece of equipment on the block.

Riding around in my diesel-belching, lawn shredding yellow monster, I’ve never felt more manly. I find myself taking my time with the painting, just to hold on to the sky crane a few days longer.

But finally the day comes when the whole house is done, except for the back.

Now, the sky crane is exactly 9-feet 2-inches from side to side. The gate leading to my back yard is 9-feet 4-inches wide. However, by this time I’m a sky crane expert. I manage deftly to negotiate the space without turning the fence into sawdust.

I park the sky crane in the middle of the yard, then - just for the heck of it - elevate the box (with me in it) to its highest level. I rise above the roofline, then above the treetops. When I come to a stop 75 feet later, I can see the next town over. I can see the rings around Saturn. I can see the storm blowing in from the west that causes the sky crane to sway violently from side to side. Lightning flashes nearby and the sound of thunder rips across the sky. I nearly faint.

I manage to get back to the ground before the rains starts. It rains for three straight days, which makes the ground soft, softer, softest.

Nine tons of sky crane slowly sinks into my back yard.

That was two weeks ago and the sky crane is still there, waiting for a miracle.

I’ve considered several possibilities: I could paint it a rust-colored orange and tell people it’s a sculpture by Alexander Calder. I could install a ticket booth at the gate and charge neighborhood kids 50-cents each to ride in the basket. Or, I could just wait for the next rain, when what’s left above ground will likely sink below the surface like a woolly mammoth into the La Brea Tar Pits.

Or - and this is my last choice - I could call my father-in-law and admit that what happened to his chainsaw a few years back was nothing compared to what I’ve done with his sky crane.

When the house paint starts flaking next time, I’m having siding installed.

‘Fame’ isn’t easy when you’re a jerk with confidence issues

I want people to like me. There, I said it. If that makes me a terrible person, or weak in some way, too bad.

I think most folks, if they’re honest with themselves, would admit to wanting the same thing. Nobody wants people to not like them. I’ll bet even Hitler and Saddam, in the quiet hours before dawn, sat on the edges of their beds and wondered why they didn’t have more friends, wondered how many folks they’d have to kill to make people like them.

I’m more likable than Hitler or Saddam, at least most of the time. But I ain’t exactly Mother Theresa, either. I have my bad days; I’m guessing you do, too. And on my bad days, I can be a difficult person to like. Ask any of my friends, they’ll tell you.  In fact, they’d love to tell you.  In detail.  The Lovely Mrs. Taylor is actually writing a tell-all book about it, I think.

My “grumpy days” were never a real problem until last year, when this column began appearing in various editions of the Advance. Now, I’ve been writing this column for nearly 20 years, but mostly for small papers in Northern Michigan, where nobody knows me and I know nobody.

In Central Lake, for example, I was just a mug shot sandwiched between three columns of 10-point type. The only time I got recognized was when I was up north vacationing. While on vacation, I’m in the best of moods, a jolly fellow anxious to engage in idle pleasantries, so it’s the perfect time to meet a reader.

My grouchy days I spend for the most part within 100 miles of home, where previously, nobody was likely to I.D. me.

The Advance has put a big dent in that comfortable anonymity. See, the Advance, in its various area-specific incarnations, goes out to too many homes, too many communities.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m a long way from famous. Leonardo DiCaprio’s not staying up nights wondering why Mike Taylor’s getting all the attention. The paparazzi do not chase me through the streets of Paris. But I do get recognized on a fairly regular basis.

At the grocery or in a restaurant, someone will walk up and say, “Hey, you’re that guy who writes that column. I read that every week!”

I always answer, “So you’re the one!” I say this because I think it’s a moderately funny comment, and because I never really know what else to say. (I’m a lot cleverer in print than in person.)

Then we’ll talk for a couple minutes about a particular column or writing in general, or about bass fishing when I can nudge the conversation in that direction.

It makes me feel good that people read what I write, and I generally enjoy these encounters. The ones I don’t enjoy are those I call the “gotcha” recognitions, the “R” bombs. I had one of these this morning, which is why I’m thinking about it at the moment.

I had just spent an hour in voice mail hell with the company from whom I purchased my cell phone. Well, OK, not an hour, but at least ten minutes. OK, five. But I really hate voice mail.

My new phone wasn’t working right and after navigating through several audio robots, I landed a real, live person in tech support. Together, we pushed a lot of buttons, reprogrammed the phone twice, reinitiated the startup sequence, sacrificed a goat and applied leeches to the Bluetooth headset. The usual stuff didn’t work.

Then the tech person informed me that my phone has a “known software issue.” I don’t know who the issue is “known” by, but it wasn’t me, otherwise I wouldn’t have purchased the damn thing in the first place.

But the phone company rep said I could simply return the phone to the place I bought it, and they would exchange it for an identical phone, sans the software glitch.

“Are you sure they won’t give me any grief?” I asked.

“No, not at all,” said the tech person. “They’ll be happy to do it.”

I said OK, thanked the nice lady, and hung up.

Because I live a good 20-minute drive from the cell phone store, I called first, just to make absolutely sure they wouldn’t give me any grief about the exchange.

I got a real person on the third ring. We’ll call her Cindy, just in case she doesn’t want to see her real name (Patty) in print here and has an uncle that’s an attorney.

Cindy tried to help me out, but it turns out Cindy’s store is not an “official” dealership, but rather an independent something-or-other. Only the official stores can perform the exchange I needed.

“Well you looked like an official store when I was in there a couple months ago buying this phone,” I said, in as sarcastic a tone as I can muster, which is pretty sarcastic, lemme tell ya.

Cindy was undaunted by my crabbiness and remained positive and helpful.

“You can take the phone to a dealership in Big Rapids or Grand Rapids,” she said. “They’ll be happy to do an exchange for you there.”

Cindy also offered to order a new phone for me directly from the company and have it sent to my home. I whined, groaned and complained bitterly, but Cindy refused to sink down to my level and call me the names I know she must have been thinking of.

My belligerent grumbling was rapidly reaching an apex, when Cindy dropped the “R” bomb.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know how you hate dealing with cell phone companies. I read about it in one of your columns. I thought it was really funny.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” I said. Cindy knew me. And now she knew that – in addition to being a funny guy – I am also a jerk.

To make matters worse, at that exact moment – and I’m not making this up – my phone suddenly started working again. Apparently, the leeches had taken a while to kick in.

I told Cindy I would appreciate it if she could have the company send me the new phone just the same. The software glitch is bound to return eventually. I thanked Cindy repeatedly for her help, hoping this might cause her to forget some of my earlier comments.

But now she knows the real me.  And I don’t think she likes me anymore.

I either have to start being nicer, or go back to writing for smaller newspapers.

Addendum: Cindy called back an hour after I wrote this with the news that the company won’t be sending me another phone after all.  Apparently, they don’t have any.  A phone company without phones.  Go figure.  Still, Cindy assures me I’ll be able to exchange it at the G.R. store, but I no longer believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny. Looks like I’d better keep a supply of leeches handy.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or anger management seminar dates, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

When it comes to reading this column, it’s all about location

Quick. Look around you. What do you see?

If you answered, “A sofa, my television, a houseplant and the cat,” chances are you’re a woman.

If you said, “The bathroom sink,” you’re a man.

Men read in the john. I know this because I’m a man and I do it.

This is not something I usually consider one way or the other, but I recently spoke with a reader (let’s call him Al, since that’s his name) and our conversation got me thinking about it. Last week Al gave me the disturbing news that we spend a lot of time together in his bathroom. We meet there at least once a week, sometimes twice, if I’ve written a column he finds particularly amusing.

Before hearing from Al, I never really thought about this aspect of my column. What happens to my little essays after I shoot them off to my editor has never really concerned me, as long as the paper keeps sending the checks. (Suckers!)

But now, thanks to Al, I find I’m a little freaked out by the idea of spending so much time in the bathrooms of strange men. Especially considering the fact that my mug shot runs with the column. I mean, my photo is, in all probability, lying on the backs of thousands of toilets, right now! Maybe face up!

I’m not sure why this bothers me. After all, I have a small, wicker basket in my own bathroom, placed there by The Lovely Mrs. Taylor specifically for the purpose of holding my “library” (as she puts it). Over the years, the photos of authors as diverse as Dave Barry, Stephen King, Charles Shultz, Kurt Vonnegut, Hemmingway and even Shakespeare have gazed out from that basket as I performed my necessaries.

None of them complained.

Presidents, scientists, rock stars … they’ve all had their time in the basket. If it bothered any of them, they never mentioned it to me.

Granted, the bathroom isn’t the most elegant of reading rooms. When tackling a serious novel or biography, I prefer to sit in my easy chair with a nice glass of Chardonnay and a good cigar, golden light from a small reading lamp bathing the book’s pages in its temperate glow.

But that’s not always convenient. Like most folks, I just don’t always have the time to devote to a reading experience. Sometimes, you gotta take the words where you find them and in the time available.

And bathroom time is – for the most part – wasted time. Unless you read there.

That’s the way men look at it, at least. Mrs. T claims she does not read in the john and I believe her. For women, bathroom “down time” is strictly business. It’s in and out, then back to whatever they were doing earlier.

For a man, the bathroom represents the one place in the house where he can get a little privacy, a little peace and quiet. It’s a sanctuary. While there, nobody asks him to take out the trash, put a new battery in the television remote, or dry the dishes. Nobody interrupts.

So it’s the perfect place to catch up on important (and not so important) reading. Columns, like this one, make especially good bathroom fodder, in large part because you can read one start-to-finish in about the time it takes to … well … you know.

But it is possible to read larger works there as well, in installments, of course. Unless you want your legs to fall asleep. That’s the one downside of bathroom reading; toilets aren’t built for long-term sitting. Considering men designed them, you’d think toilets would incorporate at least some La-Z-Boy qualities; maybe a drink holder or reclining back-rest. I know I would pay extra for that!

But I digress. The point is (I’m sure there was one when I started this) men read in the bathroom. So it stands to reason that some men read this column in the bathroom.

I guess I’ll have to get used to the idea. All I’m asking is that, when you’re finished, please, leave the paper with my photo facing down.

To reach Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the address of a store that really does sell reclining toilets with cup holders, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Want more? Archived “Reality Check” columns, as well as photos, links and previously unpublished “mini-columns” are online at http://mtrealitycheck.typepad.com.

This column’s gonna kill me, eventually

In the years since this column first appeared in print, I’ve related innumerable tales of mishaps, near misses, brushes with death and temptings of fate, most culled from personal experience.  From the morning my son’s skateboard landed me in the emergency room to the afternoon I nearly lost a thumb cutting two-by-fours on my “modified” table saw, few embarrassing disasters have gone unreported.

Though accident prone, I consider myself imminently likeable, if not downright cuddly.  Despite this – and based on reader mail – folks just seem to love columns dealing with situations in which I am nearly killed.  Especially those situations brought on by my own alleged lack of common sense.

It has reached the point, in fact, that every time I put hammer to thumb instead of nail, someone will chime in (as I hop around in circles muttering every filthy word I know), “Oh well, maybe you’ll get a good column out of it.”

I was in the hospital a while back, with “mysterious” pains in one leg.  According to the doctor, it could have been nothing more serious than muscle strain.  Or it could have been a blood clot, which might at any moment break free, work its way to my heart, and kill me.

The doctor’s primary concern?  That I spell his name right should I live long enough to write a column about it.  Don’t get me wrong; he’s a good doctor and also a personal friend, but at that moment the letters I would have used to spell his name can’t be printed in a family newspaper.  At least not in the order I was considering.

At any rate, he saved my life like he always does; by applying leeches, burning some incense and waving a rattle around, so I owe him for that.  (Did I mention we’re friends?)

The reason I’m thinking about this (some might say obsessing) is because I had yet another “column-worthy” calamity last week: A car squished me.

Well, it didn’t actually squish me, but it did catapult me briefly into a near-Earth orbit, broke at least two of the toes on my left foot (including the big one, which, it turns out, I use a lot), and scraped most of the skin off my left hip.  It also ruined a perfectly good pair of bicycling shorts, which were seriously abraded at the same time as the hip skin.

To make matters worse, the accident was nobody’s fault but my own.

I was riding my bicycle – in 1976, a state-of-the-art Fuji touring bike, now an antique – to pick up the mail.  The sun was shining, the sparrows were singing, my front tire was headed toward a small patch of gravel, and I was only taking note of the sun and birds.  I may have been humming the old Disney tune, “Zippity Doo Dah,” but I don’t remember for sure.

Short story shorter: The tire hit the gravel, the bike hit the curb, I spilled left, the car hit my hip, I flew, the bike flew, we both landed, hard, and the car screeched to a halt, stopping inches from the point where my head rested on the pavement.  I said some very unflattering things about God, the universe and the sons of fatherless mothers, none of which I meant or would repeat in front of my own mother.

The driver of the car, an elderly gent with a very surprised expression on his face, jumped out of his Buick and asked if I was OK.

“I’ll know in a minute,” I said, struggling to my feet.  Then, “Yeah, I guess I’m alright.”

“You sure?” he asked, sounding doubtful.

Several streams of blood had begun to run down my left leg with alarming copiousness, I had enough gravel embedded in my hip to install a rock garden somewhere, and my big toe was pointed in a direction it has never pointed before.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said.

After more assurances, the driver took off, happy, I am sure, that he would not be involved in a vehicular manslaughter investigation.

The rear tire of my beloved Fuji was bent into a shape I can only describe as “taco-esque,” but I managed to half-push, half-carry it the few blocks home.

The attending physician (who, mercifully, had never read my column) patched me up, wrapped my broken toes and applied antiseptic solution to my various boo-boos.

When I got back to the house, I called The Lovely Mrs. Taylor at the office to let her know why I would not be picking up the mail.

“Well, keep your feet up until I get home,” she said, adding, by way of sympathetic gesture, “Maybe you’ll get a good column out of it at least.”

My editor, Erin – an otherwise wonderful person – said the same thing when I called her a few minutes later.  In fact, everyone who’s heard the story in the past week has said the same thing, verbatim.  Good column, good column, good column.

Well, friends, listen up: I don’t want a good column!  I don’t want a funny story to tell my grandchildren.  What I want is an unbroken toe, a gravel-free butt, and a bike tire shaped like a donut instead of a taco.  What I want is to experience fewer close encounters with the Grim Reaper.

Still, I know folks are only trying to be supportive, helpful.  And I probably will continue to write columns about my minor disasters.  (Like this one, for instance.)

In truth, it’s only Mrs. T’s “it’ll make a good column” comment that really has me concerned.  See, she’s hoping against hope that someday I’ll be “discovered” by some big shot New York editor, who will offer me loads of money to move to Manhattan and write for a publication there.  From there, I’ll make the leap to books, and the Big Novel will get published.  Then the screenplay.  The money will roll in.  Mrs. T will spend her days shopping for shoes instead of working in an office.

But all this can only happen if people read what I write.  And like I said earlier, folks really seem to enjoy the “disaster” stories.  So is it possible, I wonder, that Mrs. T is “arranging” accidents so I’ll have something to write about?

It seems unlikely, but not altogether impossible.

I wish I’d gotten the name of that driver.  Or thought to ask him who he was working for.

To reach Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the number of a good personal injury attorney, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

War? Heck yes! Let’s just find a better enemy

I don’t know how I feel about the war in Iraq. Most people I’ve listened to (even when I was trying really hard not to) seem to have very strong feelings about it one way or the other. They think either Bush is a genius and support the war effort wholeheartedly, or they consider him a nitwit and think we should get out of the Middle East yesterday, if not sooner.

I know I would dearly love to see our men and women back home where they belong, but at the same time, maybe there really IS a reason for us to be there. I don’t think it’s the same reason George “Show Me the Weapons of Mass Destruction” Bush says it is, but then I’ve thought from day one that he was a Big Fibber.

If you’re a Bush supporter, I apologize for that Big Fibber remark. He’s probably a great guy if you get to know him personally (and if you own an oil company).

Oops, there I go again, making snippy comments about our Commander in Chief.  And you don’t need that from me; not so long as the rest of my liberal, bleeding heart, half-wit, anti-American, wooly-headed columnist brethren continue to crank out Bush-bashing opinion pieces.

Anyway, back to the war: There were no WMD’s, of course. And we didn’t find Osama (remember him?) hiding out in any of Saddam’s spider holes.  And there are A LOT of countries in the world with oppressive, non-democratic governments. So why are we in Iraq? Hah! I’ll bet many of you answered, “That’s easy! It’s all about the OIL, stupid.”

To that I say, “Oh, yeah?!”

Whew! This heady, intellectual repartee just wears me out.

Anyway, the REAL reason we’re in “the sandbox” is: Americans like to fight. Not all Americans, certainly; just the sort who tend to run for President. I’m not picking on Bush here, at least not exclusively. Kennedy, Lincoln, Nixon, Johnson, and many more ... they all presided over a country at war, or at least a Cold War.

Why so presidents want to fight? Because wartime Presidents get a “legacy” that looks good in history books. Consider Clinton; he wasn’t a bad guy, didn’t cause too much trouble. But ... no war. And so he will always be remembered primarily as a mediocre sax player who got down and dirty with Monica.

Kennedy – a wartime President – was (allegedly) doing the Funky Chicken with Marilyn Monroe in the Oval Office every chance he got, but that’s not the first thing people think of when his name’s mentioned.

So it’s hard to blame Dubya for doing his darndest to find a battle to tether his legacy to.

Still, if he had thought things through a little more ... or better yet, consulted with ME first, I think the country would be in a better place right now.

I have – in the best Presidential tradition – A Plan. It’s a little complicated, so stay with me here. I’ve broken the plan down into five distinct phases, which I will now make up as I go along:

PHASE ONE: It’s a given that Presidents are gonna fight. Whether they do this because it’s in their blood, or because they’re chowder-heads, or because they really think they have a legitimate reason for sending American men and women into harm’s way on foreign soil doesn’t matter. What matters is: they’re going to do it.  The sooner we accept that fact, the happier we’ll all be.  OK, let’s move on to…

PHASE TWO: Since Presidents just can’t resist a good war, let’s at least pick one that’s A) easy to win, B) inexpensive, and C) convenient for most parties concerned.

Iraq – let’s be real – is a crappy place to fight a war. I have a couple friends who recently returned from tours of duty there and they say it’s dusty, inhospitable, hot, and frankly, just too damn far from home.  In addition, it costs a lot of money to move soldiers and equipment to and from Iraq.

To make matters worse, the locals there just LOVE to fight. They’ve been fighting for centuries. If they didn’t have us to fight with, they’d be fighting with each other. It’s like a WHOLE COUNTRY full of presidents! To them, we’re nothing but the enemy du jour.

PHASE THREE: So then, we can agree Iraq is a lousy place to visit, it costs too much to get there, and the locals love to fight. That being the case, the best course of action is to: Pick Another Country!

That’s right. It’s unreasonable to ask a President to NOT fight a war, so we need to ask him to fight one someplace most Americans actually WANT to visit.

France is an obvious choice. The country itself is beautiful, the residents have a long tradition of surrendering at the first sign of trouble, and the French – I think we can all agree – really need a good booty-whuppin’ from time to time.

We could march in the troops, drink all the good wine, take a few prisoners just to show we mean business, then force all the Frenchmen under age 60 to visit Euro Disney and eat at McDonald’s.

That’ll teach ‘em.

Problem is, France, like Iraq, is too far away. There’s this whole ocean in the way. Also, it’s surrounded by other countries like England, Italy and Germany, and we don’t want to make them nervous. Especially not Germany. Remember what happened last time.

Anyway, distance and other geographical considerations force us to move on to...

PHASE FOUR: Canada! That’s right; our neighbors to the north. They’d be the perfect enemy.
Okay, okay, I know ... I like Canadians too. I like their beautiful, well-maintained cities, I like their beer, I like hockey; I even like the way they talk, eh.

But, c’mon! They’re just SITTING there between us and Alaska (which is also us, by the way, so we’ve already got them surrounded). Let’s drive a few tanks over the border and show them who’s boss.

It’ll keep George Bush busy, and nobody will have to get hurt, not even Canadians. We could use rubber bullets, the soft, squishy kind. Maybe the Defense Department could get together with the Nerf people to develop some new weapon for use on the Canadian battlefield. Like a paintball gun, maybe, only not so messy; those Canadians are serious about preventing litter.

Also, Canada’s close to home; our soldiers could visit their families on weekends, weather permitting. Once we’d “conquered” Canada, we could do what we always do after a major war – move on to...

PHASE FIVE: Post-war “rebuilding.” This is the part where we try to make it up to the Canadians for having left tank tracks all over their highways and nature preserves.

It would be a great photo-op (VERY presidential) for Uncle George; he could hand Stephen Harper (the Canadian Prime Minister – I looked it up) one of those oversized checks while flashing a “thumbs up” to the cameras.

I figure we could make the check out for about $430,193,485,000. Now, I know that – at first glance – that seems like a big chunk of change, and God only knows what the Canadians would do with all the money (probably something dumb, like bolstering their national health care program) but really (REALLY!) that’s about what the war in Iraq has cost us to date.

So we’d be none the broker, George would have won his war and would therefore be able to feel good about himself when daddy visits the White House, and no American men or women would have to spend what should be the best years of their lives mucking about in some godforsaken desert thousands of miles from home.

I’ll admit there are probably flaws to my plan, little details I – in my haste to get this column done so I can put my feet up and watch “Law & Order” reruns – haven’t thought of.

But guess what, folks? There are also flaws in the plan the President is using NOW. And THAT plan was thought out carefully by the country’s best minds; every aspect was considered in excruciating detail and nothing was left to chance, right?

Right? Hello?

Uh-oh.

‘Mad Mike: Beyond the Filling Station’ – coming soon to a theater near you

The world is changing, and I’m being forced to change with it.  I first noticed this yesterday, when I stopped at the gas station for a fill-up.*

The posted gas price was “only” $3.49 – every place else in the area was closer to $3.60 and rumors of $4-per-gallon prices by sundown were flying.

I wanted to fill up, but so did about 30 other people. These potential customers had circled the station with their SUVs and mini-vans. They’d even elected a spokesperson, a huge, muscular fellow wearing a hockey mask who – as I pulled up – was speaking into a microphone.

“Just walk away,” he said to the gas station employees, all of whom huddled together behind the cash register. At least two of them appeared to be armed with homemade flame-throwers. “Just walk away. No one has to die. We just want the gas. Just walk away.”

Suddenly one of the employees jumped up from behind the counter with a rusty Kalashnikov and lay down a barrage of suppressing fire while the others jumped in a tanker truck a tore off down the street. The customers started their engines and began driving in wild circles around the station, whooping and hollering.

I decided I’d try my luck at another station in a nearby town. But when I got there I discovered the town was now surrounded by armed guards and a barbed-wire barrier. Fortunately, I had two cans of lima beans in the truck with me. I removed the labels, told the guards the cans were filled with peaches, and traded them for entrance into the city.

Inside, I drove around looking for an open gas station. Unfortunately, the town’s only source of fuel was an underground methane factory populated by a big, scary guy, a little guy who rode around in the big guy’s backpack, and about 500 pigs (who were directly responsible for producing the – ahem – methane). The town did not smell good.

I mentioned this to one of the guards, who took it as an insult. Next thing I knew, I was tossed unceremoniously into a cage where I was forced to fight the big, scary pig farmer using nothing but my wits and a chain saw. About a hundred spectators gathered ‘round the cage to bet on the fight and eat corn dogs and elephant ears. Things were going badly for me until, for no particular reason, I started whistling the theme song to the television show “Three’s Company.”

The giant covered his ears and fell to the floor whimpering. I seized the opportunity to clout him behind the ear with the handle of the chain saw; this seemed to quiet him down some.
While everyone was watching the big guy to see if he’d get up and moidalize me, I snuck out the back way, hopped in my truck and beat cheeks out of there. I didn’t even ask for a refund for the two cans of “peaches.”

My gas gauge was slipping steadily toward “E.” I was running out of time. I was running out of gas.

I decided to try to make it home on the few paltry gallons remaining to me. But hordes of motorcycle-riding, Mohawk-wearing, Australian-sounding hippies kept trying to cut me off and force my truck off the road.

I rolled down my window and shouted: “Give it a rest! I’ve only got a quarter tank!”

“Aww,” they all moaned. Then they were off in a cloud of dust and exhaust smoke, searching for more fertile hunting grounds.

Back home, I learned that The Lovely Mrs. Taylor had experienced similar troubles on her way home from the office. “Tina Turner wanted me to fight some pig farmer to the death,” she said. “Can you believe it?”

I could.
She continued: “Then, there were these guys who looked like refugees from a Men at Work video who chased me on motorcycles.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “They were after me, too.”

Nobody can say Mrs. T and I can’t tell which direction the wind’s blowing. We brought the lawn mower (with its full tank of unleaded) into the living room, locked the doors, and turned out the lights.

We’re hoping to make it through this gas-gouging emergency without losing our innate civility. But just in case, I’ve downloaded plans for building my own flame-thrower. G’day mate.

* I should point out up front that, unless you’ve seen the “Road Warrior/Mad Max” movies, starring Mel Gibson in the days before he was directing Aramaic snuff films, this column probably won’t make much sense. The same could be said even if you HAVE seen those flicks, but that’s my fault.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or observations about how much he looks like a young Mel Gibson, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

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.