Why? Halloween's just around the corner, so it's only appropriate I answer that question now, since the first (and only) time I spoke in front of a classroom full of students, it was altogether like a horror movie:

The call came into the office on a Friday afternoon. The teacher, from a nearby Catholic high school, wanted me to tell her ninth-grade students about the spectacular world of journalism. Her hope was that - after hearing me soliloquize on the boundless joys and wonders of writing for a newspaper - her students would set their sites high, aim for the stars, and maybe even do their creative writing homework for a change.

I know myself well, and one thing I know about myself is that I hate speaking in front of a group. I hate it, fear it, loathe it. I would prefer to watch 99 back-to-back episodes of American Idol rather than speak in front of a group, which should give you some idea of just how much I hate it.

But as a kid, I attended Catholic school and was conditioned early on to never say "no" to a nun. (It turns out very few nuns actually teach classes these days, but I didn't know this at the time.)

With some trepidation, I said, "Sure, sister." The teacher, recognizing in me a thoroughly indoctrinated Catholic, neglected to mention she was no more a nun than I am.

"Great," she said. "We'll see you Monday at 10 o'clock!"

That gave me the whole weekend to fret, agonize and worry over my upcoming speaking engagement. I did.

Monday dawned dark and drear. Low, charcoal-hued clouds scudded across an angry sky as I pulled my truck into the school's parking lot. A murder of fat, glossy crows hammered their wings against the autumn wind, sketching widening gyres around the forlorn, empty playground.

I pulled into an empty slot marked "school guests only," then sat for a moment, gathering my thoughts and my courage.

I approached the building, as a hunter might approach a wounded, but not yet dead, jaguar. The wind gusted my previously groomed hair into a mad, Einstein-like swirl, untucked my shirt, and covered my shoes in a thin layer of parking lot dust. By the time I opened the school door, I looked like a hobo begging for handouts.

The office secretary looked me over carefully before finally paging the teacher on the intercom.

The woman who appeared at the other end of the hall was pretty, middle-aged, with short blonde hair and a delicate, trim frame. She didn't look like a nun; not like the sturdy, blockish bastions of black-and-white I remembered from my own school days.

But nuns these days sometimes disguise themselves as civilians. My personal belief is they do this better to catch lapsed Catholics like me in the act of swearing, spitting, or doing any number of things the nuns used to catch me doing back in ninth grade. To this day, I hide my knuckles whenever I see a ruler.

"Sister," I said.

"Actually, it's Mrs. Palmer," the teacher said, smiling warmly.

"Oh," I said, realizing I could have said no to this speaking engagement after all. Too late now.

"The kids are looking forward to hearing from you," Mrs. Palmer enthused, leading me like a sacrificial lamb toward her classroom.

Have you ever seen the movie Children of the Corn? That was Mrs. Palmer's class. They stared, with huge, vacant eyes as I stumbled over my prepared message. They gazed blankly out the window, as if waiting for the monster from "behind the rows" to come lurching out and pull me into the darkness beyond.

The only time they showed any interest at all was when I inadvertently used the word "damn." That elicited several small gasps and a couple delighted chuckles. Adults in a classroom are not supposed to say "damn." I knew this, but I am not accustomed to speaking to kids and - in my flop-sweat, anxiety-stewed state - I forgot.

Somehow, I stumbled to the end of my talk and opened the floor to questions.

The first was, "How much do reporters make?"

Ah, finally, it was my turn to scare them.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or public speaking tips, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor is a note-writer. She writes notes to the kids, to her mother, to herself and, most frequently, to me. Most of these notes are of the "honey-do" variety: "Fix the light," or "Don't forget to pick up the dry cleaning," or "Your dog puked on the floor again! I cleaned it up! You owe me!" That sort of thing.

Because of our work schedules, we rarely see each other in the morning, so any communication between us is scribbled on Post-It notes and stuck to the cupboard door, the one behind which we keep the coffee filters. It's the only spot in the house certain to be looked at in the a.m.

That line of communication is usually one-way, from Mrs. Taylor to me. If a response is required, I e-mail her once my laptop's fired up for the day.

As I mentioned, most of her notes are "reminders" to run whatever errand I promised to run the night before. I don't mind these notes, because I really do need them. My memory - especially when it comes to remembering chores I'd rather put off until another day, or forever - is not so good.

Admittedly, a note will sometimes remain affixed to the cupboard door for several days before I actually act on it, but that's just me being a man. (Right now, there's a note reading "Fix the phone, please!" stuck there. It's been there for three days because, as a man, I'm supposed to know how to fix the phone. I don't, but I don't want to admit that to Mrs. T. Again, it's a man thing. I figure if I leave it sitting on the charger long enough, the phone will miraculously "heal," at which point I intend to claim full credit and take the note down.)

At any rate, not all Mrs. Taylor's notes are "nags."  Every so often, she'll pull a change-up and leave one that says something like "I love you" just to keep me on my toes. It's a variation of the "carrot and stick" motivational technique frequently used on recalcitrant donkeys. I should be worried that the technique also works on me, but I'm not. Hee-haw.

She left one of these "mushy" notes yesterday, next to the one reminding me to fix the phone. She must have figured it was time to apply a little "carrot." It worked, because I spent ten minutes dorking around with the phone, changing cords, wiggling plugs and banging the handset against the kitchen tiles.

Mrs. T's "nice" note read, "See you tonight, sweetie. I love you!" It was situated lovingly between "Fix the phone, please!" and "Don't forget to make the deposit."

After ineffectually banging on the phone a few minutes longer, I stuck the "love note" in my shirt pocket, got the deposit together and stuck that in there too, and headed for the bank's drive-thru.

Now, my hometown is a small one, the municipality version of Cheers ... everybody knows your name. When I pulled into the drive-thru, I saw my friend Tim, who manages the place, behind the glass. We waved; he pushed a button on the counter and said "Hello." Then he wandered off to do whatever it is bank managers do.

I put my deposit - cash, checks, deposit slip - into the little drawer, and watched it disappear into the bank. The teller on the other side, a cute girl about my daughter's age that I didn't recognize, proceeded to count out the money, pushing buttons on an adding machine as she went.

While counting, she glanced at me through the glass several times, giving me a coquettish, flirty smile. Now, being the virile, sophisticated stud muffin I am (and humble!), I'm used to getting smiles from cute girls half my age. (OK, OK, I know ... just roll with me on this one, will ya?)

I smiled back, in a noncommittal way, as she passed my receipt back through the window.

"Thanks," I said.

"I'm married," she said.

"Huh?" I said.

"I won't be able to see you tonight," she said. "I'm married."

Ever quick on the uptake, I said "Huh?" again.

"Or was this note meant for someone else?" she said, holding Mrs. T's note against the window. Even through the inch-thick glass I could read, "See you tonight, sweetie. I love you!"

Inside the bank, Tim was laughing in a very non-managerial, unprofessional fashion.

I'm just glad Mrs. T's note didn't read, "Give me all your money in a plain, brown bag!"

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the addresses of banks where nobody knows his name, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

I have passed up a lot of good food in my life. Those who have seen me in person would no doubt question the truth of that statement, but I swear it's true.

Why would someone like me - someone who obviously enjoys his groceries - pass up food? In a word, fear of embarrassment. OK, that's three words, but it's still true. I fear the prospect of ordering food I cannot pronounce or food with a name so silly I feel like a fool just saying the word.

With regard to the former category - food whose name I cannot pronounce - I mostly blame the French, though Mexicans, Greeks and even our good friends the English must shoulder some of the blame.

Crackers au Moutarde, for example. They sound wonderful; pastry wafers with herbs, cheese and butter. I see them on menus at fancy restaurants from time to time, but I've never ordered any. Why? Because I don't want to give the waiter a chance to put on that waiterly look of disdain and say, "Do you mean the..." and then pronounce it with that snobby air of superiority that implies that not only can he correctly pronounce Crackers au Moutarde, he also has discovered the secret of cold fusion and is keeping it a secret because idiots like me can't be trusted with that sort of knowledge.

Moutarde could be pronounced "moo-tar-dey." Or maybe "moo-tard," although that one sounds like a learning-disabled bovine. Or maybe even "mow-tier-dai." The point is, with the French, you never know. They intentionally think up difficult words just to make Americans look stupid.

So, unless I bake some myself from a recipe in a French cookbook, I'll probably never get to enjoy Crackers au Moutarde.

I had the same problem with gyros for a long time. When they first became popular around here, I thought they sounded great. They're Greek, and being half-Greek myself, I thought I should give them a try. Then I realized I didn't know how to pronounce gyro.

Was it "jie-row?" "Guy-row?" "Gear-o?" I just didn't know.

Eventually I overheard someone with knowledge of Greek cuisine order one in a restaurant, and that solved my dilemma. (It turns out you can pronounce it "jie-row" or "yer-row," either is correct.)

Then there's fondue Bourguignonne, Carpaccio de Boeuf, Soupe a l'Orignon and Avocat et Oeufs a la Mousse de Crabe. Being French dishes, I'm guessing every one of them is better than the meatloaf I had for dinner last night, but I'll never know for sure, because I'm never going to give some supercilious waiter the chance to withhold his secret of cold fusion from my table.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is fast food. Why oh why must fast food joints give their entrees such idiotic names?

Time was you could go into most any greasy spoon and say, "Gimme a cheeseburger." The guy behind the counter would know what you meant and would, in fact, give you a cheeseburger.

These days, every franchise has its own lingo. Want a ham & cheese? That's a "Yumbo," or used to be, at Burger King. Want a fish sandwich? Order a "Whaler."

I can bring myself to say "Whaler" in front of a line of hungry diners, just barely, but not "Yumbo." Sorry, that one's just too stupid for words.

Likewise, Wendy's latest offering, the "Baconator." On the drive-through menu photo, the Baconator looks awesome: Bacon, meat, meat, more meat, with a little added meat just to be on the safe side.

But I'm supposed to walk up to the counter and (with a lame Ahnold accent, I assume) say, "Hello. I vould like ze Baconahter, please! Und gif me zome fries with dat."

Can't do it. I don't want my food to have hard-to-pronounce or cutesy names. For cryin' out loud, I just want it to taste good.

Looks like meatloaf again tonight.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or recipes for Flan au Roquefort, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

What I know about Bavaria can be summed up in one word: Nothing.  Well, that's not entirely true; I know they make those cream-filled donuts there, or claim to.  Also, I think Bavaria's somewhere in Europe.

Hold on a sec...

OK, now I know a lot about Bavaria.  Thank you, Google.

It turns out Bavaria is a free state of Germany, with an area of 70,553 kilometers (that's about seven miles, American, or 2,574,548,882,888.01 centimeters, I think) and contains about 12.5 million inhabitants.  The state capital is Munich, which is way cooler than Lansing and produces some really good beer.  And the politicians there manage to keep things going without the occasional threat of a statewide "shutdown."

Maybe that's because Bavarian politicians, some of them at least, are also way cooler than the people we have running our government here in Michigan.  I'm thinking right now of Gabriele Pauli, who heads up Bavaria's Christian Social Union (CSU), sister party of Chancellor Angela Merkel's Conservative Christian Democrats (CDU).  Apparently, in Germany, they aren't so enamored of that whole "separation of church and state" thing.

At any rate, despite all the Christian references in German politics, Ms. Pauli has expressed some views that would shock the pants off most American Methodists, which would be a bad thing, as American Methodists prefer to appear in public with their pants on.*

Ms. Pauli - who is one uber-hot redhead, lemme tell ya - has suggested that marriages, by law, should last no longer than seven years.

In a press interview last month, Pauli said, "The basic approach is wrong ... many marriages last just because people believe they are safe.  My suggestion is that marriages expire after seven years."

After the seven years are up, Pauli advises, couples could decide to either extend their marriage or simply walk away.

Pauli, who is 50 - but like I said, still a hottie - has been divorced twice.  On her Web site (www.gabriele-pauli.de/) she is seen dressed in red and black leather, straddling a motorcycle.  I have no idea what her politics are, because I don't speak German, the language of her Web site.  But I know I'd vote for her anyway, if I could, if for no other reason than that she dresses in leather and rides a crotch rocket down the Autobahn between Parliamentary (or whatever they have in Bavaria) meetings.

Don't get me wrong, I don't agree with Ms. Pauli's marital advice.  Frankly, it took The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and me at least seven years before the dust even started to settle on our marriage.  It wasn't until Year Nine that the ride really smoothed out and got comfortable.  If we had split at Year Seven, we would have missed what has - so far - been the best part of our lives together.

The trick, I think, is not to worry so much about how long you're married, but about who you marry.  Pick the right girl - say, one who doesn't get upset when you mention how hot some German politician looks in red and black leather - and chances are it'll last a lifetime.

* I'm not trying to pick on Methodists here; most Catholics and Lutherans also prefer to wear pants.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or marriage proposals, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

There is justice in this country, this nation of laws. Assuming you can afford it. The rest of us can expect eventually to be involved in incidents like the one that took place recently in Union City, Georgia, where a fast food employee was arrested for putting too much salt on a burger.

I'm kidding, you say. I am not, I reply.

Not only was Kendra Bull arrested, she was charged with misdemeanor reckless conduct and freed only after spending the night in jail and putting up $1,000 bail.

Apparently, Bull accidentally spilled salt on some hamburger meat, an act not generally considered a felony. Being a good McEmployee, she reported the incident to her supervisor, who "thumped" the meat until most of the salt fell off. On her break, Bull ate one of the burgers made with the salty meat herself and found it, well, a little salty, but otherwise OK.

The trouble didn't start until a police officer, Wendell Adams, got a happy meal containing one of the salty burgers. According to Adams, the added salt made him sick. Why he went on to eat the entire over-salted burger after tasting it, he didn't say.

Adams returned to the McDonald's, questioned the employees and - in the interest of protecting the public from a dangerous, heinous criminal - slapped the cuffs on Bull and took her downtown.

In what can only be described as an inspired use of taxpayer dollars, investigators sent samples of the salty burger meat to the state crime lab for tests. Apparently, the mitochondrial DNA status of ground chuck is of great importance to the ongoing investigation.

According to the city's official statement, prosecutors charged Bull because she served up the burger "without regards to the well-being of anyone who might consume it."

All I can say is, it's a good thing the cops nabbed this Charles Manson of cheeseburgers before she decided to take it on the lam. The ensuing nationwide, multi-jurisdictional manhunt could have dragged on for weeks and cost taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars. And who knows what innocents might have been put in harm's way as Bull fled across the country, passing out salty burgers as she attempted to elude the authorities? Think of the tummy aches, man! It's terrifying!

At some point, Homeland Security and the FBI would get involved. That's when things would really rocket straight to Planet Koo-Koo. I can see it now...

After months on the run, Bull has finally come to ground in an old, abandoned farmhouse, on the outskirts of Waco, Texas.

In the months since Bull began her cross-country "burgering spree," five other disgruntled fast food employees and the vice president of the American Salt Council have taken up her cause and joined her. They're with her now in the farm house, which FBI authorities believe has been heavily fortified with trip-wire bombs designed to splash hot French fry oil on anyone who gets too close.

Satellite surveillance shows the path leading to the door of the farmhouse has been littered with soggy pickle slices and mayonnaise-slathered sesame seed buns, making a frontal assault all but impossible.

The feds have the farmhouse surrounded; half-tracks, sharpshooters and armored personnel carriers form an escape-proof perimeter around the property. Choppers hover overhead night and day and loudspeakers set up nearby blast the "hold the pickle, hold the lettuce" song over and over at high volume in an effort to inflict maximum psychological damage on the "Salty Seven," as Bull and her followers have been dubbed by the media.

A lone, federal negotiator cautiously approaches the house, unarmed, in an effort to "talk the perps out," but Bull and her disciples pelt him with half-drunk strawberry shakes and hot apple pies. The negotiator escapes with only minor injuries and some pink stains on his white shirt.

For Commander Steve Steele, the FBI special agent assigned to head up the operation, this is the final straw. Getting on the walkie-talkie, he orders the flame-thrower-equipped half-tracks into position, fires several canisters of tear gas through the farmhouse windows, and personally leads the SWAT team to the front door, which they - in true cop-show tradition - kick in.

But it's too late. Realizing their fate, Bull and her followers have donned identical white robes, lain out side by side on small cots, and - after checking for nearby comets - eaten the salty burger meat.

In the months that follow, every nuance of the operation is analyzed in detail by television anchors with really stiff hairdos. Conspiracy theories abound. Hundreds of Web sites spring up, citing salty burgers as the cause of everything from global warming to the JFK assassination. A congressional task force is formed to study the issue.

Finally, things settle down and the Salty Seven are more or less forgotten.

Meanwhile, in Akron, Ohio, a Burger King employee has spilled pepper on a box of frozen onion rings...

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or to ask if he wants fries with that, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.