Our hairy new reality

We’re living in strange times.

During the past few weeks, I’ve found myself doing things I never thought I would need to do. I’ve embarked on a couple (unsuccessful) toilet paper safaris. I’ve eaten a dusty can of lobster bisque that’s been hiding in a corner of my cupboard since Reagan was president. I’ve explained to my pre-school aged grandchildren that no, they can’t come for a visit, but I’ll be sure to attend their college graduations assuming it’s safe by then.

I’ve had lovely chats with most of my creditors, few of whom seem to believe a man who eats lobster bisque needs more lenient payment arrangements.

My little bar band, which has provided a sizeable chunk of my annual income for the past 45 years, now has no place to perform and no audience to perform for should a venue suddenly materialize.

Despite all this, I’m still better off than a lot of folks. Overnight it seems, we’re all living on Walton’s Mountain with John-Boy, Mary Ellen and everybody else who used to say “g’night” at the end of every episode. It’s only a matter of time before we’re eating possum stew and buying eggs from the mercantile one egg at a time. On credit.

I dunno. Maybe it won’t come to that. But along with all the other unusual coronavirus activities I’ve been taking part in lately, yesterday I cut my own hair. That can’t be a good sign.

I didn’t want to cut my own hair. I never have before; never even considered it.

When I was a kid, my mom (a former beautician) cut it for me. Even after I’d grown, gotten married and had kids of my own, I’d sometimes be able to talk her into breaking out the scissors on a Sunday afternoon to give me a free trim.

But she’s been gone a while now and even were she still here, I wouldn’t want to risk exposing her to any potential cooties just to ensure my coiffure looked pretty.

So there I was, scissors in my right hand, clippers in my left, staring at my big, dumb face in the mirror and wondering whether I dared go through with it.

On the one hand, I’m married, so it doesn’t matter whether I look good. On that same hand, nobody’s likely to see me in person for a while other than the checkout person at the grocery and even that’s not a sure bet, long-term. Also, I’m old and really, when did it become a thing that a guy my age had to look anything other than surly?

Grandpa Walton wasn’t cute. Neither was Woody Guthrie, Herbert Hoover, Huey Long or most other old dudes from the Depression era. John Steinbeck and Hemmingway were ruggedly handsome, but if you look carefully at those old photos it’s obvious neither of them had a clue as to where to find a talented barber.

So why should I have to look good? Answer: I don’t.

So I started in on my hair, trying to emulate the moves I’ve seen stylists perform in the mirror for decades. They make it look so easy, right? Lift a little hair, snip, snip, comb, clip, snip, lift a little more, snip a little more. Ask if you have any “big plans” for the weekend. Pretend to listen to your answer. Snip some more.

Next thing you know, you’re leaving the styling salon twenty bucks lighter with your ears lowered and the tan line on the back of your neck on full display.

It’s such an integral part of American life that you don’t even think about it. Until it’s gone and you’re standing there with scissors in your hand while muttering a prayer to Furfullson, the Norse god of ponytails and braided beards.

The humorous ending to this column would be to report I now look like an extra in a “Mad Max” movie. But I don’t. It turns out some of my mother’s skill with the scissors made its way into my DNA after all.

My first attempt at self-trimming was a rousing success. I look the same as always. Not great, but at least as good as John-Boy.

G’night, Mary Ellen.

Call me Bill Gates

I have bleach.

A few weeks ago, that wouldn’t have been a big deal. But now? Oh, baby, now it definitely is. I also have toilet paper, hand sanitizer and flour. Thanks to a tiny little virus, I’ve gone from being a man of modest means to a post-apocalyptic millionaire.

Like most turns of fate in my life, this one wasn’t planned. I bought all that stuff back in early February, just before the world went nuts and the nitwits among us decided they need 2,000 rolls of TP in order to feel “safe.” (If you currently have a garage stuffed to the rafters with Charmin, then yes, I’m talking about you, you hoarding jerk.)

I didn’t buy my bleach to ward off the Andromeda Strain or even sanitize the house after a visit from the cootie factories that are my grandchildren. I bought it because I wear white socks, often without shoes when I’m walking around the house in the evening. They get dirty. Bleach mitigates that.

The toilet paper and hand sanitizer I purchased for the same reason all non-hoarders purchase this stuff; I needed them for their intended purposes.

Thanks to blind luck, when the stores emptied out, I was already stocked up on these few essentials. Enough to last me for the next couple months, if I’m careful, which I intend to be, things being what they are.

I used most of the flour to make Irish soda bread for my St. Patrick’s Day repast. The corned beef and cabbage somehow escaped the attention of the hoarders and I was able to purchase that at the grocery without using my Kung-fu moves on any little old ladies attempting to balance the last brisket atop their TP-stuffed carts.

That made me happy. Not only did I not have to hurt any little old ladies, but I avoided the very real possibility that a little old lady might wind up hurting me. Win-win.

The only actual hoarding I’ve done myself was tins of Tuna. I’m addicted to the kind in sweet chili sauce and nobody else seems to buy it anyway. Plus, they were half-off last week, only 50-cents per can. I bought 30. Whatever I don’t eat myself I can trade for toilet paper once the hoarders realize paper isn’t edible, no matter how soft or strong it might be.

So, between my three packs of TP, two bottles of Purell, big bag of flour and cupboard full of Tuna, I’m set to enter our new Mad Max reality. Or as set as I’ll ever be.

Problem is, over the years I’ve grown accustomed to being a man of modest means. My poverty means I’ve rarely had anything anyone else wants to steal. Now? Well, like I said, I’m a coronavirus Bill Gates. And I’m ill-prepared to protect my new-found wealth.

Will barbarian hordes (of hoarders) storm my little house on the hill carrying pitchforks and torches? If they do, should I dump pots of boiling oil on them or just soak them down with the garden hose? I really don’t know the protocol.

I don’t want my response to seem unneighborly, but I also want to hang onto my three packs of toilet paper, which, just for the record, is only the cheap stuff from the dollar store. I actually prefer that to the “good” kind, though The Lovely Mrs. Taylor mocks my plebeian tastes at every opportunity. She uses Charmin at her house and isn’t she just ever so la-de-da!

I digress. My point is I now have the not insubstantial task of protecting my vast fortune. I’d buy a gun and some ammo, but I’m guessing if the panic-stricken masses are hoarding toilet paper then the firearms are also flying off the shelves and will soon be in short supply. Also, I don’t think I’m ready to cap someone over a roll of dollar store TP or a couple tins of tuna in sweet chili sauce.

I suppose if it comes down to it, anyone who breaks into my house can just go ahead and steal my TP, my flour, my tuna. I live on a lake that’s full of fish, so I won’t starve. And I suppose I could fashion some sort of crude bidet out of my garden hose (the one I was going to use to disband the rampaging horde of hoarders). So even the toilet paper is optional.

In truth, I’ll sleep better at night once I’m poor again. This wealth thing is just too stressful.

Coronavirus, the musical

The world is about to get a whole lot more musical, thanks to the only thing most people are talking about these days: the coronavirus.

In last week’s column, I wrote about an unfortunate bit of knowledge I possess: that singing the first verse of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” exactly corresponds to the 20 seconds it takes to wash your hands well enough to avoid contracting the disease du jour.

That’s a fact I’ve known for years, long before the latest outbreak sent the world’s population into a mad rush to acquire bulk packs of toilet paper. And as I mentioned last week, the song is contributing to my slow decline into madness. One can sing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” only so many times before one snaps one’s cap.

What with the current CDC advice that I wash my hands about a million times a day … well, let’s just say “Yankee Doodle Dandy” is wearing really thin.

Fortunately, Daily News readers came to my rescue big time! That column struck a chord with readers, many of whom have been having their own musical meltdowns over this recent hand-washing fanaticism.

Elaine P., for instance, has her own musical cross to bear, thanks to her grandchildren. They informed her that “Happy Birthday” (twice) also is the perfect hand-washing tune; just about 20 seconds if sung the way most people sing it at Chuck E. Cheese.

“I go crazy every time singing that tune,” Elaine wrote. Who can blame her? “Happy Birthday” is the only song in the world more annoying than “Yankee Doodle.”

Fellow Daily News columnist and researcher extraordinaire Sandy Main sent me a link to a list of 10 songs (or parts of them) that also work. The chorus to Prince’s “Raspberry Beret,” for instance: “She wore a raspberry beret / The kind you find in a secondhand store / Raspberry beret / And if it was warm she wouldn’t wear much more / Raspberry beret / I think I love her.”

I’m a Prince fan, but not where that song’s concerned. Just never liked it. So I won’t be picking that one; it would make me just as crazy as you-know-what-song is making me now.

Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” also fits. However, were I to get caught singing the chorus in some biker bar somewhere, the results might be worse than the virus: “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene / I’m begging of you please don’t take my man / Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene / Please don’t take him just because you can.” Hard for a straight guy to feel manly when he’s begging someone not to take his man. Just sayin’.

Then there’s Stevie Nick’s “Landslide”: “Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’ / ‘Cause I’ve built my life around you / But time makes you bolder / Even children get older / And I’m gettin’ older too.”

The problem with that one is it reminds me I’m not only getting older, I have arrived at that particular station and am therefore more susceptible to the coronavirus’ more deleterious effects. Who needs to thump that point home? Not me.

One I really DO like is from Natasha Bedingfield, called “Unwritten.” It goes: “Feel the rain on your skin / No one else can feel it for you / Only you can let it in / No one else, no one else / Can speak the words on your lips / Drench yourself in words unspoken / Live your life with arms wide open / Today is where your book begins / The rest is still unwritten.”

I like that one for several reasons. It seems hopeful and implies I’m probably going to live through this virus thing. Also, it has the words “rain” and “drench” in it, which fits with the hand-washing theme.

Unfortunately, I have no idea who Natasha Bedingfield is or what the tune to her song might be. One of the curses of getting old is you no longer give a rat’s patootie about “current” music. (If Bedingfield isn’t considered current, please don’t tell me; it’ll only make me feel older still.)

Other readers sent in their own ideas: “Karma Chameleon” by Boy George (another one to avoid singing in biker bars, along with “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me.”) The chorus to “Old Time Rock & Roll” also works, but I’ve been playing that song for 40 years in my own bar band and would rather inhale the virus through a used plastic straw than sing that turkey for free.

At any rate, I’m thinking of combining all these great hand-washing tunes into a Broadway Musical. Look for the film version, “Keepin’ Kleen,” coming to a theater near you this October. Assuming civilization hasn’t crumbled by then.

Can coronavirus drive you mad?

This coronavirus thing is making me crazy.

In the 24/7 news cycle in which we now live, the coverage is abundant, but not always accurate. On one hand you’ve got fringe news outlets screaming about the end of the world; on the other end of the spectrum are politicians assuring us the whole thing might “miraculously go away” on its own just as soon as the tulips begin to bloom in April.

And of course, the first coronavirus victim hadn’t so much as sneezed before the conspiracy theorists trotted out their fractured fairy tales. Everything from secret government laboratories manufacturing germ warfare to politicians (again) using the crises for political gain, nothing is too crazy to believe, particularly for those willing – and in many cases anxious – to ignore anything remotely resembling a fact.

We have sooooo much information and so little truth.

I’ve been trying to get my news directly from the W.H.O. (World Health Organization) and the C.D.C. (Centers for Disease Control) whenever possible. My thinking is that neither of these organizations has a political ax to grind, at least not when it comes to something like the coronavirus. All they want to do is get the information out there and convince people to start washing their hands, already.

That’s the part that’s making me crazy. Not the terrible cable news coverage or the political twit-storm; the hand washing. That’s what’s bugging me most. The damn hand washing.

Look, I’m not a complete slob. I wash my hands a dozen times each day anyway. I’ve always been a bit germ-o-phobic. It’s one of the reasons I’m always nervous prior to a visit from my younger grandchildren, whom I think of as Pool of Contagion #1 and Pool of Contagion #2. Most kids that age are.

One of them always seems to have a cold, the sniffles, a mild fever, leprosy, or some other easily-transmitted disease. As soon as they arrive, they immediately begin doing things like licking the TV remote or sneezing into the potato salad when nobody’s looking.

They are cootie central.

But I digress. My point is, I wash my hands a lot already. Since the coronavirus hit the news, I’ve become borderline obsessive about it. I’ve even begun using those germ-killing wipes the grocery stores provide to disinfect your shopping cart. In the past, I always considered these silly and paranoid. Lately, not so much.

But I digress again. Hand washing; that’s what this column is about. Not politics, fringe media screamers or cootie-infested grandchildren. Hand washing.

Why should hand washing make me crazy? Because of a song written prior to the Revolutionary War. “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” You’ve probably heard of it.

It was originally sung by British military officers (thank you Wikipedia) who sang it to make fun of the rustic colonial “Yankees” who fought by their side in the French and Indian War. It wasn’t until five years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence that the song became one of natural pride.

Hang with me here; this will all come together soon. I promise.

The reason my hand washing habit is tied inexorably to a song older than our country may be traced to an article I read over 30 years ago, one probably published by the C.D.C. or W.H.O. That article suggested washing your hands for at least 20 seconds, the amount of time, as it turns out, required to sing the first verse of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

For reasons I will never understand, that tidbit of random information stuck with me.

So for the past 30 years, whenever I wash my hands I find myself humming that stupid song. Every. Single. Time. I’ve tried to stop, but can’t.

In the pre-coronavirus days, I only had to hear that tune rattling around my head a dozen or so times a day. Now? Forty, maybe 50 times. Every. Single. Day. So, yes, it’s slowly driving me nuts.

And now that that tidbit of random information is also in your head? What can I say; sorry, and welcome to the party.

The day the Earth stands still could be coming soon

Maybe you’ve already read the recent New York Times report, the one concerning all the UFO sightings that allegedly took place between 2004 and 2005. Most were made by Navy pilots flying training maneuvers at around 30,000 feet.

These glimpses of Little Green Men (or their spacecraft) became so frequent the Navy recently issued guidelines for reporting the phenomena. Likewise, the Department of Defense has been investigating E.T. since 2007, though so far, nobody’s asked to phone home.

I myself once saw what can only be categorized as a UFO. It was unidentified, it was flying and it was definitely an object. I stood less than 20 yards from the thing as it silently lifted off from a moonlit, 2 a.m. cornfield. Yes, really. Scared the bejeebers outta me, lemme tell ya.

But that’s a story for another time. Today I want to talk about the more recent events in the world of tinfoil hats, mysterious abductions and – ahem – probes.

Despite having seen one myself (or having seen something inexplicable), I remain skeptical regarding the impending invasion. I mean, I suppose an alien apocalypse is possible, and heaven knows it would be fun to watch from a distance, but I’m guessing the reality behind most of these sightings is far more mundane.

Then again, I could be wrong. It’s happened before. Occasionally. Frequently. OK, it happens all the time. My point is, it’s at least possible big-eyed, grey spacemen from the planet B6-12 do exist and they regularly drop by Earth just to mess with farmers and the kind of guys who carry a half-drunk six pack of PBR nestled in the passenger seat of their F-150.

Even if that is the case, I’m not worried. Not about the aliens, anyway. No, I’m concerned about that all-important “first contact.” It’s important we humans put our best foot forward. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I believe Earth’s official foot should be … well … mine.

I’m uniquely qualified for the job. Not only have I seen every episode of Star Trek, but I’ve watched all the Alien movies at least three times, even the really lousy ones. I know how these interstellar types think.

And I’m far mellower than anyone who might be appointed to the task by some stuffed shirt in Washington. Given the current regime, I can barely imagine who might be chosen for the gig. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want some former fashion model or the CEO of Enron talking to the visiting alien ambassador before I have a chance to explain to him (or her, or it) how things really work around here.

Finally, I know how to show an out-of-town visitor a good time. After travelling 6 million light years to get here, Klaatu and his big robot are going to want to unwind a bit, not jump right into their mission to enslave humanity while pointing the Death Star at Earth in order to make way for a hyperspace bypass.

He (or she, or it) will be looking for a chance to unwind, maybe down a couple cocktails while sampling Earth cuisine at a downtown pub. He (or she, or it) might even be interested in hooking up with a nice girl (or guy, or creature to be determined later).

I know a lot of girls and guys and even a few creatures. I think I could make that happen.

Once I’ve shown our visiting Outer Limits expatriate some of the nice things Earth has to offer, maybe he (or she, etc.) will be less likely to order our annihilation.

Naturally, I’ll expect to be fairly compensated for my efforts. I don’t want to seem greedy, but I’m thinking Oregon. I’ve always wanted to be emperor of something and Oregon would be a nice start.

Whatever; we can work that out later. The key thing is to get me and the alien ambassador together as soon as possible, before some amateur who hasn’t seen every episode of Star Trek gets in there and starts messing things up.

I’m the guy for the job, believe me (which is exactly the sort of thing a guy who is absolutely not the guy for the job would say, but ignore that fact).

With me at the helm, humanity can rest easy, secure in the knowledge that the fate of the world is in good hands. As good as any it’s in at the moment, at least.

And if something should go wrong, just tell the big robot, “Klaatu barada nikto.” Trust me, human.

Getting to know all about you

I like women. A lot. I’ve conducted a lifetime’s study of them, in fact. I’ve observed how they move, speak, smell, work, listen, love.

It’s a fascination begun when I was only six, when Mary Marie Wisniewski kissed me on the cheek in one of those cement barrels you used to see on elementary school playgrounds. The ringing of the recess bell cut short that particular study session, but I’ve been going at it full tilt ever since.

So far, the study – conducted over 57 years (and counting) – has included five wives and a large assortment of girlfriends, “just friends,” relationships, ships-which-passed-in-the-night, co-habitations and associations which are either undefinable or unfit for inclusion in a family newspaper.

Like any reputable study, mine also has had a control group: women who didn’t want anything to do with me. This latter group was larger by far, which becomes easier to believe once you get to know me. I studied the control group women, too, in hopes of learning the secrets of what Betty Friedan referred to as “The Feminine Mystique.” And yes, I read Friedan’s book of the same name, which only goes to show how serious my study has been.

Just lately I’ve been going over all my years of careful research, tallying the data, correlating the positives and negatives, the plusses and minuses. And it turns out what I’ve learned about women is this: zilch. Nada. Nothin’.

I still have no idea what makes women tick, why they do what they do, why they say what they say.

Some researchers would say mine has been a wasted life. I’m not so sure. The study, after all, was … well … fun. And continues to be so. Even if I never see any tangible results, I’ll consider it time well spent.

Still, there are some things I would really like to know before I’m too old to care anymore. I’m being serious here, or as serious as I get.

These aren’t “big questions,” just little things that have haunted my mind since that first ephemeral kiss in the cement barrel.

If any female readers care to help me out with this, I would be forever appreciative. The newspaper usually sticks my contact info at the bottom or top of this column, but just in case, you can email me at MTaylor325@gmail.com. That goes straight to me and nobody else will see it, so please, be honest.

Question 1: How the hell do women fold fitted sheets? You know, the ones with the elastic in them that go underneath the person sleeping? The Lovely Mrs. Taylor can fold one of these turkeys in six seconds flat. She’s tried to show me how to do it a dozen times, but it just doesn’t happen. It’s like some inexplicable laundry origami that only women can master.

Question 2: Why must sheets be folded in the first place? Now that I’m living on my own, I just stuff all the sheets of a set into one of the pillowcases and toss ‘em on a shelf until needed. Yes, they are a bit wrinkly when I put them on my bed again, but who’s gonna see them? Hiding the wrinkled sheets is what the comforter is for.

Question 3: And while we’re on the topic of bedding, what’s with all those extra pillows? Mrs. Taylor made sure I had a dozen decorative pillows when I moved into the little lake house. I have to throw them on the floor when I go to bed at night just to return them to the bed the next morning. Why? Another mystery.

Question 4: Why do women so often think they’re fat? I know many attractive women and they all think this. Well, there are a few who think they’re perfect, but frankly, I usually find the personalities of these to be intolerable. At any rate, whatever societal pressures are causing this delusion need to be changed, like yesterday. Mrs. T weighs about 19 pounds and she thinks she’s ready for sumo wrestling classes.

Question 5: Do women understand men any better than we understand you? Do you know what we think? (Actually, if true, this might explain a lot about the problems I’ve had with past relationships.)

Question 6: Does the perfect Valentine’s Day gift exist? I bomb at this every year and I would, just once before I die, like to get it right.

Question 7: Do women really like the movies they show on the Lifetime and Hallmark channels? Or is this just something you make us sit through when you’re angry over a forgotten anniversary?

And I guess that’s it. If I had the answers to even these few questions, I might consider my life’s work worthwhile.

C’mon, help a fella out.

Barbie’s resume is one big, fat lie

I’ve written about Barbie before. Once when my daughter was 10 years old and again when my oldest granddaughter was the same age. They both went through their “Barbie years,” and both times it nearly landed me in the poor house.

Barbie’s companionship is not for the faint of heart or the light of wallet. Everything about her screams “future trophy wife who’s definitely comfortable living in a style to which guys like me can afford only on a doll-sized scale.”

She drives a “dream car.” She lives in a “dream house.” She hangs out with Ken, the “dream date,” who not only does not speak, but lacks the anatomical equipment which might, on occasion, prompt Barbie to lie about having a headache. He’s the perfect match for that narcissistic little minx.

I’m probably skirting the edges of misogyny here and for that I apologize. But I just don’t like Barbie. I never have. I resent her. She gets all the breaks and never seems to work for any of them.

Despite the fact there is absolutely no record of Barbie’s school years – no diploma, no transcripts, no paperwork showing she was ever a member of the National Honor Society – she has had over 200 careers since 1959. That’s right, 200 different jobs, most of them either fun or glamorous in some way.

I know this because of an article I clicked on while wasting my morning on Facebook instead of writing this column, which is what I should have been doing.

In the past 60 years and with no special training, Barbie has been employed as an astronaut, news anchor, firefighter, pilot and soccer star. She’s even worked as a politician, the only job for which she may actually be qualified. Possibly even over-qualified.

Now somehow – though she does nothing but shop and lounge around her “dream pool” with Ken and Skipper – Barbie has developed a partnership with the real-life National Geographic Society. This has opened up to her jobs such as wildlife photojournalist, polar marine biologist, conservationist and even entomologist.

I subscribed to the National Geographic magazine for 20 years and they never offered me so much as a manure-hauler position at the organization’s annual Yak Fest picnic.

If that weren’t enough to explain my lifelong dislike for this 11-inch-tall piece of plastic responsible for giving generations of young women serious body image issues, her newest “job” is that of astrophysicist. That’s right, somehow Barbie is now qualified to work side-by-side with Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Stephen Hawking. (OK, not Stephen Hawking, but only because he’s dead.)

How did Barbie land this cushy, high-profile gig? Did she spend 15 years paying off her student loans? Heck, no! I did, but you don’t see NASA beating down my door. Well, OK, admittedly, NASA doesn’t have a lot of use for an English major, but still.

The Astrophysicist Barbie – coming soon to a store near you – comes complete with a telescope, star chart and (of course) a fashionable T-shirt featuring a graphic of a nebula. Let me tell you something, Barbie, it takes more than a 4-inch refractor scope to make an astrophysicist.

I don’t know what that “more” might be, but that’s because I don’t know anything about astrophysicisting. But neither does Barbie. That’s my point!

Just dressing up in a lab coat isn’t enough.

Mattel, the evil corporate overlord that created Barbie in the first place, says Barbie’s latest careers are designed to inspire young girls to strive for greatness, to reach that unreachable star.

Personally, I think it cultivates even more unrealistic expectations in girls. Now, not only is little Suzy expected to maintain a perfect physique that exists nowhere in nature, she’s expected to somehow earn multiple PhDs in fields generally requiring years of laborious study.

And she’s supposed to do all this while balancing her extensive social life, her fashion career, her relationship with Ken … the list goes on. And who’s going to keep little Suzy’s Dream House clean while she pursues her career? Ken? Fat chance. He’s interested in nothing but surfing and trying to hide the fact he’s anatomically incorrect.

No, this whole Barbie “dream world” has to stop and stop now. Or at least before my youngest granddaughter, now only 3, hits her Barbie years.

As God is my witness, I’m not buying another Dream House.