COLUMN: H1N1

I vaguely remember what it was like to live in a carefree world. Where every day brought the potential for excitement and the promise of tomorrow brought hope for an enchanting future. A world where dreams could come true if you just wished on a star. Where you could put on a pair of Nikes and JUST DO IT, whatever "it" was. A world where the bogeyman didn't lurk behind every corner.

Then I opened the paper and turned on the TV and it all went to heck. Thank you, global media, for not allowing me one sleep-filled night of carefree abandon and optimism. That would just be silly.

So by now it should be clear to us all that the H1N1 virus is out to destroy the human race. Yes, it won't be long until the only residents of Planet Earth will be germs and toxins and ragtag gangs of bloodthirsty survivors with inexplicable Australian accents who occasionally meet in the middle of deserts to listen to Tina Turner sing songs about Thunderdome.

Okay, maybe it won't bring on the Apocalypse, but you can't pick up a newspaper or turn on a television these days without being haunted by the spectre of swine flu. With such massive media coverage of our new microscopic visitors, it sure would be nice if everyone got their stories straight. CNN tells us that H1N1 is now the world's dominant influenza virus around the globe, yet just a couple weeks ago CBS News was reporting that only an estimated 20% of the folks who think they have H1N1 actually DO (the rest, presumably, have either a particularly nasty seasonal flu or a particularly active imagination.)

Either way, there's one clear message to take home from the media about H1N1: Be afraid. Be very, very afraid. And if there's one thing I'm super good at, it's cowering in fear.

As a long-standing, card-carrying germophobe, an invisible menace like H1N1 is super fun to have around. As I type this, my fingers are cracked raw from the constant application of Purell ("moisturing formula," my fanny.) My desire to write a good newspaper column is trumped only by my desire to be sure not to touch my nose, mouth, or eyes at any cost. Those little menacing buggers could be on my hand right now. Or maybe on the very newspaper and/or computer mouse that you're touching this second. Shh, listen -- I'm pretty sure I heard some of them plotting against mankind as we speak.

But surely I'm over-reacting, right? They say that the flu virus can only live for a few hours outside of the human body, and everybody's been reading the papers and watching TV and following the advice of healthcare professionals, right? Well, let's just say that I pay attention in public restrooms (in a 100% non-perverted way) and I know which of my co-workers do their lavatorial duties WITHOUT WASHING THEIR HANDS (you know who you are.)

So I think until the menace of H1N1 recedes from our headlines, the best coping mechanism is to assume that every one of you are tainted, toxic, and covered in a thin layer of contagious mucus. The truth is, my immune system is comprised mostly of the nutritional elements of the Taco Bell menu, so I'm fighting a battle that I'm destined to lose -- but I'm not going out without a fight.

I love my colleagues at the newspaper, I really do. All of them. But this month? They kinda suck. It all started some three weeks ago when one of my co-workers mentioned that her stepkids were sick with the flu. Gulp. A week later, that co-worker was sick herself - but not before showing up to work for an hour and presumably spreading her cooties around the office all willy-nilly. A few days later, her nearest cubicle dweller came down with the flu. The week after that, MY nearest cubicle dweller got it... and decided that rather than keep her germs to herself, it would be more fun to sit some ten feet away from me, sounding like an alien from Close Encounters of the Phlegmy Kind, reassuring all of us by repeating, "Don't worry, I'b DOT sick!"

I'm now on the shortlist of flu survivors. No-one's been tested, so we don't know if it's H1N1 that's been going around, but I don't want to take my chances. I feel really bad for my co-workers and friends who've come down with this yuckiness, I really do. But I'm also horribly shallow and selfish and don't exactly want to experience the fun for myself if I don't have to. But here's where it gets dicey.

About a month ago, I came down with a whopper of a head cold. The kind that debilitates for a few days and then lingers for a few weeks. I've still got a gnarly cough from it. And when I was at the height of sick, my caring and loving girlfriend doted on me like a trooper. I never had to move a muscle or worry about a thing, because she was constantly by my side armed with soup and love.

So last week, when my girlfriend told me that she suddenly wasn't feeling well, I knew what I had to do:

"Ewww! Seriously?!?! GO HOME! Don't touch anything!" Oh, and then I sprayed down my entire living space, up to and almost including my cats, with a liquid inch of Lysol.

Okay, so Boyfriend-of-the-Year I ain't. But flu-free I remain for the time being (knock on wood.) And I wasn't entirely without caring: I made her a delightful care package, which I placed at her doorstep while maintaining a minimum distance of six feet. I bought her soup and water and a vaporizer and Vitamin C and anything I could think of to make her visit with the swine flu as short as possible. She even complained about being bored so I got her this great High School Musical 3 Activity & Coloring Book. Strangely, she didn't find it as funny as I did.

Happily, she's much better now. Happier still, she continues inexplicably to like me. I've allowed her back into the apartment and might even kiss her in a few days. I, meanwhile, am putting my faith in a regimen of vitamin supplements and elderberry syrup. Little did I know, though, that the answer to flu avoidance may be staring us all in the face. If, that is, you're currently staring at the severed liver of a duck. More on that next week.

COLUMN: Door County Pt. 4

Seeing as how this is the big finale column detailing my recent trip to northeast Wisconsin, it needs some kind of a heady name, like "Door County 4: The Reckoning." Or maybe "Door Countier With A Vengeance of the Sith Takes Manhattan: The Deathly Hallows of the Ring."

So what can I say about our trip to Door County that I didn't mention in the past three columns? Truth is, not much. And trust me, when your trip begins with a horse-drawn carriage wherein we risked life, limb, and fecal contamination... and is topped off by a stranger asking me for a tampon while simultaneously inquiring about my cocaine connections... well, in that case, "not much" is kind of a blessing.

The whole point of our trip was to see some fall foliage and maybe take in one of those legendary Door County fish boils. Well, truth be told, my prime motivator for the trip was to earn some brownie points with the girlfriend by going someplace all uber-romantic and mega-girly.


Take the word "foliage," for example. This is a word that I've never said in my life. I'm pretty sure that my brute machismo prevents it from coming out of my lips. Don't get me wrong - I like my share of girly foo-foo things. I own an alarming amount of romantic comedies on DVD. I think "Incomplete" by the Backstreet Boys is a great song. Heck, my car comes standard with a FLOWER HOLDER. I'm down with my wussy feminine side. But I've never looked at a tree in autumn and gone, "Aww, pretty."


Down here, trees turn a couple boring shades of yellowish-brown. Call it pretty if you want. To me, it's just an annual arbor snuff film, and a boring one at that. But in Door County, fall looks like the kind of thing you only see in movies or, well, travel brochures to Door County.


Instead of five or six exciting variants of yellow, it's a cacophony of color. Vibrant orange, red, and green hues leap out of the landscape like nature's own firework display. Without sounding too cheezy, it was a magnificent sight, and made it kinda tough to keep your eyes on the road. This may explain what happened next.

Wisconsin is called the Badger State. I assumed until recently this meant the state was crawling with indigenous badgers. It turns out that Wisconsin miners of yore would live in their mines throughout the bitter winter, which reminded somebody with apparant state-nicknaming privileges of a badger. While Wisconsin does have its occasional badger, they're not exactly running amok.

But I swear to you all, at that moment I saw a badger. Or possibly a small bear. Either way, it was lying in the middle of the road and was considerably less than alive. I nudged my girlfriend who was driving at the time. "Umm, mind the roadkill." This was my effort to have her perhaps move the car to avoid the mystery animal carcass. And I think that was what she TRIED to do. Instead, she corrected course to immediately aim right for it. I'd make some joke about women drivers here, but I know your e-mailing capabilities, ladies, and I'm not going there.

Regardless, next thing I heard was "WHUMP! WHUMP!" as our left tires ensured that the mystery badger/bear/chupacabra was good and properly extra dead. "Ewwww," I said with extreme brute machismo. "Oops," said Amy as we toodled off in search of more adventure.

Door County, if you've never been, is a huge peninsula that juts out into Lake Michigan like a 50-mile long finger. At the very end of the finger lies Washington Island, a community that's only accessible by ferry ride. We didn't drive six hours to only see PART of Door County, so we hopped the ferry to check it out.

And it turns out that Washington Island is a pretty cool place. Chock full of ancient lore and famed shipwrecks, it was an impressively mystical place, especially in the hazy cold and accurately-forecasted "wintry mix" we were traversing through that day. We'd made it 50 miles up the peninsula without finding a single Monday fish boil, so my hopes were dim on finding good food.

Boy, was I wrong. The KK Fiske, "Home of the Fish Mortician." My kinda place. I'll admit, I was thrown a bit by the sign out front that said, "Fresh Lawyers!" Sadly, it was NOT a reference to sexually-harassing attorneys, but instead a rather ugly freshwater fish. The KK Fiske was the only Door County restaurant we found that had a Monday fish boil (yessss!) But sadly, it didn't start until 6 p.m., and the last ferry to the mainland was at 5.

As fun as it would be to call into work with "sorry, it seems that I'm trapped on an island," we had a looong drive home ahead of us and no boiled fish would stop us. Instead, I had a plate full of fried whitefish that the owner had sailed out and caught that morning. Heaven. And it was a place devoid of tourists but rife with locals in cover-alls who all looked haggard and grizzled and were all inexplicably watching "Days of Our Lives" in silence punctuated only by conversation like:

"So... get yer harvesting done?"
"..........a-yep."


We had just left the restaurant when suddenly I felt a sickeningly familiar vibration under the car. NO! We'd pull over and find a shredded tire with a badger claw jutting out of it. we'd miss the last ferry, and we'd have to find some guy named Cooter who'd tell us that a replacement tire was coming on the January ferry. We'd have to leave our world behind and start life anew on Washington Island. I only hoped that the haggard and grizzled contingency needed a skilled nightclub DJ slash aspiring newspaper columnist.

Happily, though, it was just a weird stretch of pavement and the tires were fine. We made the last ferry back with eight minutes to spare. As we began the drive home, Amy looked at me and said, "When do you s'pose we'll be back in the Quad Cities?"

"11:20," I said, pulling a time completely at random.

At exactly 11:20 p.m., we rolled up my driveway, which I'm pretty sure lets me add "mystic seer" to my resume. Despite all the craziness, we made it from Washington Island to Rock Island in a car weighed down with Door County cherries and happy tummies. Thumbs up, Wisconsin. So... what'd I miss while I was gone?

COLUMN: Door County Pt. 3

It's not my intent to turn this column into a weekly travelogue for northeast Wisconsin, I promise. But our recent weekend trip up to Door County merits a few weeks of reflection. This was no mere vacation. No, it was a learning experience and nothing less than a revelatory exploration of the inherent frailty of the human condition.

Specifically, the human of ME, and the condition of my sanity.

If you've been reading along, my girlfriend and I had arrived just before sunset at our hotel in Sturgeon Bay, road-weary and mind-fogged after six hours in the car. My immediate hope to salvage the night with a romantic carriage ride turned into a terrifying ordeal of sub-freezing temperatures and the World's Most Flatulent Horse.

Upon our return, we decided simply to stay in and enjoy a thoroughly over-priced and thoroughly under-tasty dinner at the hotel restaurant. Afterwards, we moseyed into their inviting lounge before calling it a night. Inviting yet empty, as the only other patrons appeared to be off-duty employees letting off some steam. That's when the evening's entertainment walked into the bar. Well, kinda walked.

You guys know that I DJ on the weekends at a dance club in the District, right? Having worked down there for a number of years, I've got a pretty good understanding of some of the key elements of contemporary tavern-ing. This would include the warning signs that say, "Hrm, maybe I shouldn't serve any drinks to this particular customer."

A clear warning sign, for instance, is when the customer enters your lounge DANCING. Note: There was no music playing. And I don't mean a little dancing, I mean a full-on shuffle step that looked like an intoxicated cross of the Boot-Scootin' Boogie and the Stanky Legg. This dude would make a clear front-runner for "So You Think You Should Never EVER Dance In Public Again." And behind Drunken Fred Astaire staggered his equally-less-than-sober wife.

Another warning sign might be when the wife yelled to no-one in particular, "HEYYYYYWHEREZZZABAFFROOM???" Neither of these appeared to phase the bartender, who frankly looked like he would rather be at home playing Call of Duty on his X-Box. Instead, Slacker Bartender readily obliged with a sigh when Dancin' Joe asked for a round of shots. Uh oh, I thought.

Soon Mrs. Dancin' Joe came out of the restroom with an angry look in her eye. She marched to the bar, slurped down the shot, and then proceeded to tell the husband, the bartender, the two of us, and everyone else within earshot that the restroom... was out of tampons.

If only it stopped there. But no, she had to impress upon all of us her dire need for the aforementioned product, which she did with gusto, volume, and alarmingly creative graphic detail. I can't say much more in a family newspaper, but I'm pretty sure her gynecologist knows less about this woman than I now do. Hurrah.

My girlfriend is a nice person. I mean, hyper-nice. Almost to a fault. If a creepy axe murderer was chasing her around, she'd be the one to stop and ask if he needed a foot massage or maybe some home-made brownies. And I believe it was this inherent niceness, or perhaps an overwhelming desire to shut this woman up at all costs, that made her stand up and go, "I've got something in the room that you could use. Let me go get it."

And before I could even say "umm," she was off... with Mrs. Dancin' Joe in tow.

I sat there dumbfounded for a couple of moments before it hit me. I was the biggest idiot on the planet. I had just let my innocent and beloved girlfriend go wandering off with some drunken stranger while I sat silently with drunken stranger #2. This wasn't just a bad move, this was a future episode of Dateline - "The Tampon Killer." For all I knew, this woman WAS an axe murderer. Eventually, Mr. Dancin' Axe Murderer Joe would either (a) kill me, or (b) run from the lounge cackling, never to be seen again. By the time I could get back to the room, my girlfriend would be robbed or hacked into wee bits and I'd have to explain to Amy's mom why I came back from Door County one passenger short.

Surely my luck wasn't THAT bad, was it? These people couldn't be criminals, they were probably pleasant folk who just had a drink or six too many, right? I'm sure they're nice people...

"Hey, buddy," said Dancin' Joe. "Lemme axe you sumthin..."

"Umm, yeah?" I said.

"Have you ever done blow?"

Omigod. That was it. Amy's dead. I wondered who would play me in the Dateline reinactment. I hoped he wouldn't be as fat as me.

"Umm... NO, man. Not at all, ever."

"Well, lemme gives you a piece of advice -- DON'T."

"Uh... okay?" was all I could muster.

I had just stood up to literally RUN to the hotel room when Amy and Mrs. Dancin' Joe returned, all smiles and laughter.

"You okay?" Amy asked as she sat down. "You look sick or something."

So, lesson learned. Kids, don't take candy from strangers. Adults, don't give tampons to strangers. In our case, we lucked out. The Dancin' Joes were actually a really nice couple (albeit with some apparant feminine hygiene and/or illicit drug issues) on vacation from Minneapolis who indeed DID have 6 drinks too many to celebrate Dancin' Joe's 37th birthday. We hung out with them for a while longer and they shared some funny stories and what turned out to be some great recommendations for the best Door County food & fun...

But that's for next week's column, which I promise will be the last one set in scenic Wisconsin for SOME time.

COLUMN: Door County, Pt. 2

Dictionary.com defines vacation as "a period of suspension of work... usually used for rest, recreation, or travel." I now realize the importance of the word "OR" in that definition. On my recent vacation, I didn't do a whole lot of recreating, and I certainly didn't rest. But oh, did I travel.

My girlfriend and I traveled, in fact, to northeast Wisconsin's Door County. We just made the misfortune of doing so on the coldest weekend to ever grace a Midwestern October.

Door County is NOT an easy place to get to from the Quad Cities. There's no express autobahn. There's not even an interstate. There IS, however, a six-hour journey snaking up state highways past such epic Wisconsin attractions as the Troll Capitol of the World and the World Famous Mustard Museum (hint: you can not make something "world famous" just by putting "World Famous" in your name. If that were the case, I would call this Shane Brown's World Famous Newspaper Column of Global Awe-Inspiring Awesomeness.)

Still, I was in a relatively good mood upon our arrival at Sturgeon Bay, the southern-most town in Door County. As I parked the car at our hotel, there stood one of the greatest romantic brownie-point earners of our era: a horse-drawn carriage.

Now, keep in mind that the girlfriend had recently accused me of neglecting my boyfriendly duty of romantic woo-ing. This was about to change. We hadn't even brought the bags in from the car when I grabbed her hand and said, "Follow me." I took her straight to the carriage. This thing better have a seat belt, I thought to myself, 'coz girl, I'm about to rock your world. It was time to get my woo on.

The driver explained that we could choose a fifteen-minute ride through the historic district of Sturgeon Bay, or a thirty-minute ride down to the waterfront. Seeing as how I was the newly-elected Mayor of Wooington, fifteen minutes wasn't gonna cut the world-famous mustard. She was getting the full thirty minute woo-down. Next thing I knew, we were being introduced to Lucas the Horse, a seemingly charming animal with no outward appearance of being an equine killing machine. How wrong I was. But more on that later.

Here's two things I learned right away about Sturgeon Bay. (1) Our hotel was indeed within trotting distance of the waterfront. But inbetween hotel and waterfront was a 3-block stretch of one of the more unpleasant warehouse districts you could imagine. That equals 10 minutes of waterfront sandwiched between 20 minutes of creepy industrial wasteland. (2) When it's already unnaturally cold out, the best place to go is NOT the scenic waterfront. By the time we saw water, my concerns had turned from wooing to frostbite. I hope that my girlfriend didn't realize that my best "aww-let's-cuddle" moment was more "aww-please-let-us-huddle-together-so-that-feeling-may-return-to-my-ears."

But it was tough to focus on the cold. No, not with the smell. It turns out that Lucas was having a touch of gastro-in-horse-inal distress. Let's just say the sound effects were as such: Cloppity, clop, clop, stop... splat. Yes, nothing says romance quite like a horse in dire need of Kaopectate. And in case you were concerned, Lucas wasn't leaving unsightly presents on the streets as we clomped. Instead, Lucas had a little bag under his nether-regions, making us passengers in a mobile equine outhouse -- with all of the rich fond aromas you can imagine.

We looked up to the porch of a nearby upstairs apartment, where a little yip dog was parading around in all kinds of fluster, barking with all its wee yippy might as if to say, "Omigosh, horsey, horsey, WOW, a horsey, OMIGOSH!" We laughed at how cute it was... but not for long.

"It ain't funny," said Kenny the Carriage Driver, "Lucas would kill that dog."

That's when Kenny added that extra touch of romance lacking thus far on our voyage. For the next ten minutes, we heard charming stories about how Lucas hated small animals and would take it upon himself to stomp the life out of any critter that dared venture near him.

"I tell people with dogs all the time to stay away," Kenny said. "Some folks listen, but others..." and he trailed off, leading us to believe that Lucas had smited a countless number of hapless beloved Sturgeon Bay pets.

"One time, this little farm cat wandered over to check him out," said Kenny with what I'm pretty sure was a chuckle. "Lucas kicked that cat so hard he musta flew about thirty feet in the air. We naturally assumed it was dead, but when we went to get the body, it was gone. Sure enough, a couple months later, we saw that same cat good as new. Of course, his neck was a touch crooked and he done walked funny ever since, heh heh."

Greeeat. So our fate was in the hands of Flatulent Lucas the Death Horse. As we stopped for Lucas to do his business yet again (and oh, yes, business was good,) I'm pretty sure I heard the horse mutter a Satanic chant. Or maybe it just whinnied. Either way, I'm pretty sure it took us to the waterfront because Lucas preferred his human-meat slightly chilled. We headed back towards the hotel and passed a yuppie couple out walking their dog, noticably giving the horse a wide berth. They knew. Or maybe we just smelled THAT bad.

"Get away, doggie," I muttered under my breath, "I think Lucas just spotted dinner."

Amazingly, Kenny heard me, spun around with a deadly serious look in his eye, and proceeded to lecture to me as though I were the stupidest man alive.

"Lucas doesn't EAT the dogs," he said with a deliberate grade-school-teacher voice, "he just KILLS them."

Ahh, yes. Good to know. Thanks, Kenny, because we don't have horses in Illinois. Lucas doesn't kill for food, simply for SPORT. Refreshing.

Eventually, we made it back to the hotel and disembarked from Lucas the Devil Horse. Bravely, my girlfriend even posed for photos. As for me, I held the camera far away from kicking distance, bravely surviving the icy cold stare of Lucasatan.


Our vacation was off to a riveting start. Now all we needed was a quick change and a visit to the local pub to bond with the locals. It couldn't go wrong, right? How wrong it went -- next week.

COLUMN: Door County Pt. 1

I often sit back and wonder what it would be like to be a normal person with a normal life who does normal activities normally. How do you do it, normal people? I'd love to be one of you someday.

If normal people were to tell you stories of their normal lives, they might go something like, "Today, I went to the gas station. I pumped gas, I paid for it, and I left." I try to be one of the normal people. But why can I not have a normal activity without undue amounts of insanity and/or stress? My stories are more like, "Today I went to the gas station. That's when the ninjas attacked." What is it about myself and my luck that draws the abnormal into my daily planner like a magnet?

It all started with a normal dream. The girlfriend had been throwing some not-so-subtle reminders my way that, as a woefully underpaid education professional, she had a gaping hole in her work calendar named Columbus Day. So I took the day off to match hers and was faced with the "what-do-you-do-with -a-3-day-weekend" debacle. I love you, Quad Cities, I really do. But sometimes what I love the most is leaving you behind in a trail of dust and a quest for adventure. It was time for a road trip.

That's when I turned to the world's worst vacation planner ever: Google Maps. When you look at their website, the world is your oyster. Why? Because the whole world can fit compactly on a 26" computer monitor. And when you're looking at a 26" map of the continental United States, ANYTHING looks like a good and possible weekend drive. Texas? Look, it's only 2 inches away from Illinois. Ohio? We could be there in minutes, right? And that's when my eyes spotted it.

Door County, Wisconsin. One of the Top 10 Vacation Destinations in North America, their website proudly announces. And when I saw that Door County had been proclaimed a top fall foliage destination by none other than NBC's "Today" show, I knew I had my destination. (Because, when it comes to travel plans, the #1 mantra in everyone's head is clearly "WWMLD: What Would Matt Lauer Do?")

For the uninitiated, the Door Peninsula is the little part of northeastern Wisconsin that juts out into Lake Michigan like a finger, essentially creating Green Bay, the Packers, Vince Lombardi, and weird people who wear cheese on their heads. The Door Peninsula is known far and wide for its wineries, cherry orchards, and tree-laden state parks. And if you know anything about me, you know that the three things I live for are booze, fruit, and outdoor activities of any kind. Oh, wait, that's Bizarro Shane.

Still, I was down for seeing some pretty fall foliage -- and if Al Roker says it's pretty, then it's pretty, dang it. And two things kind of excited me about Door Peninsula.

For one, it boasts the most lighthouses of any county in the United States. Now, I've never been super keen on lighthouses. At least I don't think I am. They're kind of outmoded, right? Nobody needs a little light beacon to guide their vessel when you've got GPS and some shrill computer voice in a British accent telling you, "Rock ahead. Turn left in one - point - five miles. Recalculating!" And I've never really thought that lighthouses were particularly pretty or anything. Yet every time I go on vacation anywhere near a body of water, I come home with about 18 photos of every lighthouse I pass. It's sort of inexplicable, really. Maybe I don't fancy lighthouses, maybe I just like taking photos of 'em. I made sure to pack the camera.

For another, I had talked to some of my co-workers about the trip, and before I could say, "We're going to Door Co--," those who had been all started shrieking "FISH BOILS!"

At first, I was assuming they were placing a pox on my family. But, as it turns out, fish boils are the culinary rage of Door County. And since it immediately sounded completely disgusting, of course I was fascinated. After doing some intense research, here is, apparantly, how one properly performs a legendary Door County fish boil:

Step One: Catch some fish.
Step Two: Boil them.

Enthralling, right? But wait, there's more. I know because I watched a video of it on Youtube. First off, in order to boil fish, you first need to look like a grizzled old fisherman with worn-out suspenders and the craziest set of sideburns you can muster. Then you need to find the scariest-looking kettle in the history of the world - think Shakespearean witches but with the added bonus crust of 1000 fish boils of yore. You toss in a pile of whitefish, a pile of potatoes, and a pile of onions. Garnish with - I kid you not - a HALF POUND OF SALT.

Bring to a boil. This is done by placing the kettle o' fish 'n' brine over a campfire. But, since that's kinda boring and all, the "boilmasters" (yes, that's what they're called) decide to liven things up by dumping what appears to be a gallon or two of kerosene onto the fire. This creates an immediate and raging vertical bonfire that alerts the tenants of the International Space Station that soup's on in Door County. Actually, the salt changes the specific gravity of the water, causing the fish oils to rise to the top of the kettle, and the kerosene causes the oils to boil over the side (and you thought I didn't actually DO any research, right?) What you're left with is heaven, if your idea of heaven is boiled fish and taters. I needed to try this.

So that was my mindset when I booked the trip, and that was my mindset last weekend when we left for northern Wisconsin. On the record-setting coldest day of October. In the snow. To a town 6.5 hours away and further north than Toronto. Using all county highways (thanks, Mapquest.) Just your average normal person vacation, right?

Normalcy, thy name is NOT Shane. If you'd care to learn more about how we spent a weekend traversing Door County with flatulent back-alley killer horses and strangers inquiring about our current inventories of cocaine and feminine hygiene products, then join me here next week. You'll discover the answers to such pressing questions as: "How dead can a badger get?" and "How many cherries can the human body safely intake in one setting?" Needless to say, we made it up and down Door County without seeing one lighthouse or a single boiled fish. Stay tuned.

COLUMN: Finger

Bad news, Quad Cities. It appears that my bed has turned evil. Regular readers of my column may have noticed that I was "on vacation" last week. Truth be told, I was right here in my apartment, paralyzed by an overwhelming fear of my bedroom furnishings.

It all started two weeks ago when -- wait, scratch that.

I guess it really started two YEARS ago when I bought a new bed. Furniture shopping isn't exactly my idea of paradise, ergo I decided to go whole-hog and get one of those pricey, enormous uber-mattresses that would hopefully last for years and years. You know, the kind with the pillow top and the depth so massive that science has yet to invent a sheet big enough to fit it? I have one seriously pimped-out bed.

But about a year ago, things started going downhill. I was routinely waking up with a wonky back and it seemed like the mattress was becoming lop-sided and sagging to the middle. This really ticked me off, given the relative newness and high price tag (a tag, mind you, that I quickly cut off under penalty of law upon arrival - does that make me a felon?) I had to do something about it.

That "something" was to begin sleeping on the couch every night. I just couldn't bring myself to admit that my extravagant mattress was a back-killer and a horrible purchase. And besides, my couch is pretty comfy, backache free, and stragetically located in close proximity to both my air conditioner AND my television. There are far worse fates than my couch, so I resigned myself to permanent living-room-dweller and pretty much handed over my bed to my two cats, who didn't seem to complain much.

This brings us to two weeks ago, and the onset of The Cold From Hell. I know, normally when I catch a cold I write some kind of pathetic woe-is-me column. But every time I've opened the paper lately, all I see are horror stories about H1N1 and people a lot worse off than me, so this time I kept my yap shut. This was no swine flu. It was just a yucky fall cold, and I decided to just be a big boy and tough it out.

And the first rule of "toughing it out," I've learned, is to whine pathetically to your girlfriend so that she becomes your indentured servant for a week. I was the sick one but Amy deserves the medal -- she ran herself ragged cooking and cleaning and doing my laundry while I lurked under a blanket of phlegm and pathos. I can't express in words how grateful I am -- so I tried expressing it in sneezes instead, and I think she understood. She even bought me a Snuggie, but I'm pretty sure it was just to take embarassing photos and post them on Facebook.

Well, the other night I was plastered to the couch while Amy was hanging up laundry when she called out, "Honey? I think I figured out what's wrong with the bed!"

Did I mention she's awesome AND SMART, TOO? I hobbled into the bedroom as she lifted up the mattress and the bedskirt. Somehow, likely in one of my help-I'm-being-chased-by-faceless-ninjas dreams, the box springs had popped right out of the bedframe and were sitting there all weebly-wobbly. And since the mattress was comically thick, I had no clue whatsoever. All I needed to do was just scoot the box springs over until they popped back into the frame, like sooo...

NYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! Suddenly I was no longer scooting the box springs. In fact, I was on my knees, screaming like a baby, cradling the ring finger of my right hand. It turns out that, while I was fixing things in a safe and cautious manner pursuant to OSHA standards, the bed had sprung to life and bit down on my finger really hard. The only other scenario involved me being an idiot and carelessly pinching my finger in-between the two weighty pieces of metal -- but clearly I'm too smart for that, so Evil Possessed Bed is the story I'm sticking with.

Immediately Amy came to my aid, and being the caring and chivalrous gentlemen that I am, I responded with a polite, "GEEET AWAAAAY!! I NEEED AIR!!! ICE!!! HOSPITAL!!!"

Well, I didn't need the hospital -- I don't think. I didn't GO to the hospital, anyways. I don't think my finger's broken because I can move it. It didn't even get particularly black and/or blue. But it hurts like a mutha even now, a week after the fact. I fear my best Guitar Hero days may be behind me.

So that's why I was "on vacation" last week. My hand hurt too bad to even contemplate typing. My bum finger is usually responsible for hitting U, I, & O on the keyboard, and it turns out that it's really tough to compose a half-vowelled column.

And yes, I know that there are people out there who continue to have it worse than me. I'm whining over a smooshed fingy while Stephen Hawking writes entire books based on eyeblinks. But I'm a whiner, so let me have my moment. Even though I'm left-handed, I'm rapidly learning how important this random digit on my right hand can be.

This was made painfully clear the next morning in the bathroom. How to say this in a family paper? There's a product whose slogan is "nature calls, Charmin answers." Well, for 38 years, Charmin has answered with my right hand. Faced with a left hand of Charmin, it was as though all of the coordination in my body went on holiday. It was SUCH a nightmare that I ended up pulling a muscle in my shoulder and falling clean off the toilet. There I landed on all fours -- shoulder aching, finger throbbing, nose running. I am SO super sexy.

The good news is that I'm on the mend. The cold is almost gone, my finger appears to at least remain attached to my hand, and my shoulder's fine. Better yet, my bed is level and comfy and beckoning. Too bad I'll never sleep in it again. It's already tried its best to break my back AND my finger -- and I'm pretty sure that yesterday I heard it growl with the thirst for human blood. Hopefully I'll be back to column writing speed by next week -- it just might be without U's or I's or O's. Sawry everybhddy. Whsh me lack!

COLUMN: Blog Stats 3

It's time once again for my favorite annual column -- one I've never given a proper name to, but if I did, it would be something like, "If You Thought You Were Weird, Just Hop On The Internet And Learn By Comparison How Normal You Really Are."

At the bottom of every one of my columns, there's a little blurb in tiny print. Those little blurbs have some kind of hip journalistic name that I can never remember ("endtag" or "tagline" or something,) but I prefer "endy dealymajig." Anyways, if you look at my endy dealymajig, it gives the address to my online blog. I've published my blog for years, but in truth, it's little more than an online repository of past columns. That's not to say you shouldn't visit, because you should (thus endeth my marketing skills.)

The fun bit, though, is that I've got a little stat tracker on there. It's a program that allows me to see how many people are reading my blog and what the most popular entries are. But the BEST part is that it monitors keyword searches.

Let's say, for instance, that you hopped on Yahoo or Google and did a search for, oh, I dunno, "ATTRACTIVE BEAVER SNOT." And let's say that once upon a time, I wrote a column that said, "Boy, that Katie Holmes is quite ATTRACTIVE, despite being married to Tom Cruise who looks like a BEAVER. And if you thought he was a good actor, he iS NOT." There's a chance that your search for attractive beaver snot could lead you straight to my blog.

The following is a list of ACTUAL KEYWORD SEARCHES that folks have tried on Yahoo & Google that somehow led them to my blog this year:

• "BAM BURGER SEASONING SUCKS" - I'm assuming by this they're referring to Chef Emeril Lagasse's "BAM! Hamburger Seasoning," a product which this columnist has never endorsed but certainly would if Emeril wanted to pay me. In all honesty, I think Emeril's seasoning is pretty nummers. But let's say that you tried it and it's not your cup of tea. Would your first instinct be to immediately turn to cyberspace to research and affirm your opinion? Why not just reach for the Heinz 57? (Dear Heinz Corp., make check payable to BROWN, SHANE.)

• "I LIKE TO LOOK AT PEOPLE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX" - Dear Pervert, welcome to the internet. This must be your first time. TRUST ME when I tell you that the world wide web can fulfill your needs. But typing this into Google will NOT fill your screen with skantily-clad hotties. I just checked. It does, however, immediately link you to a news story with photos about how the brains of gay people look just like the brains of straight folk. So if you have a fetish for brain tissue of the opposite sex who are not into THEIR opposite sex, these are the search keywords for you.

• "BETTER WORDS FOR VOMIT" - I might suggest "do the Technicolor yawn," "un-eat," "de-food," "launch your lunch," and/or "call Ralph on the porcelain phone."

• "SHANE BROWN PIRATE CHRONICLES" - Long ago, I titled my blog "The Complacency Chronicles," but after seeing THIS, "The Pirate Chronicles" would have been way sweeter. I'd make a lousy pirate, though. I can't swim, my plundering skills are thoroughly untested, and it tickles my throat when I go "ARRRRRRR!"

• "I AM A CREEPY STALKER KILLER" - Well, I'm no expert in the field, but I'd have to believe that the #1 Rule of Creepy Stalker Killing is not to reveal it to the world via a public search engine. It sorts of takes away from the creepiness and stalkiness.

• "HOW TO DO THE HOKEY POKEY" - Again, no expert. But I'm pretty sure you put your right leg in and your right leg out and your right leg in and you shake it all about. Then go to the left, the left, the right, the right, cha cha now y'all, and kick, now kick, now walk it by yourself, it's electric, boogie woogie woogie, heeeeey Macarena!

• "GEOGIA RATZENERGER" - I have no idea. The funny thing isn't that someone searched for "Geogia Ratzenerger," it's that they searched for it SEVENTY-THREE TIMES IN ONE AFTERNOON. No joke. They typed "Geogia Ratzenerger" into Google and linked to my blog, which must be sorely disappointing in its lack of Geogia Ratzenergers. So then they go BACK to Google, search "Geogia Ratzenerger" AGAIN and get linked to my blog AGAIN? So then they go BACK to Google again?? Yes, and seventy-one more times after that, in fact. You'd think after the fourth or fifth visit to my blog, you'd start to get the hint that it's not going to just start inventing Geogia Ratzenergers willy-nilly.

• "THINGS THAT LOOK SEXY WITHOUT DEFYING VICTORY LAKES DRESS CODE" - Out of sheer journalistic integrity and NOT any kind of profane desire to see sexy schoolgirl outfits, I immediately sought out the Victory Lakes School District of Texas website. I was expecting some kind of Footloose-esque plot wherein oppressed kids are forced into ultra-conservative uniforms. Instead, their dress code seems pretty loose, non-limiting, and common sense, despite a clear ban on "any hairstyles which may pose a safety problem." So bad news, Little Susie, no razor blade barrettes or anthrax hairspray, no matter how sexy they may be. Sadface, I know.

• "U SPEND MY HEAD RIGHT ROUND LIKE A RECORD LYRICS" - For the record (that spins right round baby right round,) the lyrics are "you SPIN my head," not SPEND. How do you spend something like a record? What can I say, it's a no-holes barred doggy dog world. Dead ants are my friends, they're blowin' in the wind, and the girl with colitis goes by. Sleep in heavenly peas, and excuse me while I kiss this guy.

And my personal favorite of 2009?

• "ED ASNER NAKED" - I am soooooooooooo normal compared to the internet.

COLUMN: Jeff

Of all the sagely advice my mom handed down to me over the years, there's one that I've always tried my best to ignore:

"NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS AFTER MIDNIGHT," she'd say to me. Twenty years later, I'm starting to suspect she was right.

As many of you know, I DJ on the weekends at a dance club in the District until the wee hours of the morning. 3 a.m. usually finds me trying to make an uneventful way home with tinnitus and tired toes. That's where we join this story last Friday night -- well, technically Saturday morning. Normally I head straight home, but my tummy was rumbly from a half-hearted dinner and I decided to swing by a 24-hour gas station.

I'm not a big junk food kinda guy. I eat bad enough as is without the added calories of a pantry full of chips and candy. So I bypassed the junky snacks and went straight for the junky meal: one of those bland little breakfast biscuits. But as I stood there with biscuit in hand surveying the gas station cuisine, I heard the voices of ALL my friends, yelling at me in unison that I never have anything to snack on in my apartment.

So I decided then and there, with fresh DJ cash in my pocket, that it was time to stock up on some public munchies. Bag of chips? Sure. Sugary candy? Heck yeah. Salsa? Mui bien! Cheese balls? Sign me up. Couple of donuts? And how. (And, okay, the donuts WERE for me.)

So, imagine if you will, your heroic columnist waddling up to the counter with two armfuls of pure food hedonism, looking like a refugee from "The Illustrated Guide to Binge-Eating 101." As I stood there like Richard Simmons' evil arch-nemesis, I was half-embarassed yet half-proud of my combination weight-lifting/balancing act. In front of me, a woman was wrapping up her purchase... or so I thought.

Instead she was one of THOSE people. You know, the folks who go to a gas station as more of a social outing. And this woman wasn't buying a single thing. No, it was just chatty hour with the clerk. I stood there as she told the clerk what a handsome man he was, and how he shouldn't worry because he'd find the right girl one day.

So I'm standing there bemused at the situation and feeling bad for this kid, who's showing remarkable patience listening to this lady lecture him on romance. But it doesn't stop. She doesn't shut up and she doesn't move. And after a while, I can now verify by experience, donuts start to get heavy. So I try the polite "ahem" cough. The not-so-polite hacking cough. The foot shuffle. The exasperated sigh. By this time, I've lost feeling in three of my Pringle- balancing fingers. I've gone from amused to impatient to downright annoyed. Finally she acknowledges my existence.

"Oh, I bet you want me to move..."

"Gee," I said, "Ya think?"

As she steps back, I attempt to sidle up to the counter while figuring out how to gracefully dump my items using those portions of my arms still maintaining bloodflow. That's when it happened.

The woman stepped behind me, began SCRATCHING MY BACK, leaned into my face with creepy deathbreath, and said the words that every man never dreams of:

"ARE YOU GONNA MOAN FOR ME, JEFF?"

How does one respond to this? I can now answer that question. One takes a shimmy forward/side step, twists one's ankle, drops one's donuts to the ground, shivers, and basically recoils in horror. It's a dancestep I like to call the Cootie Shuffle.

"WHOA, lady," I said, recalling the childhood molestation mantra, "Hands off! I'm special! Plus I'm not Jeff."

For a moment, I thought she might apologize and become embarassed. Perhaps she mistook me for Jeff, her long-lost love. After all, I am a pretty hunky dude. Maybe she thought I was NASCAR great Jeff Gordon or mistook my comedic stylings for Jeff Foxworthy or my brute machismo for Survivor host Jeff Probst. Nnnnope.

"Oh," she said. "You look like a Jeff. Or maybe a Scott."

I have never reached into a wallet, paid a bill, and left a gas station faster in my whole life. There aren't enough w's in the world to clearly express my level of "ewwwwwww." I went home, took a much-needed shower, and immediately changed my Facebook status to the tale of my near-molestation.

The next morning, I had a breakfast date with the girlfriend, but, as is my way, slept right through it. So when she let herself into my place and woke me with a whispery "Are you gonna moan for me, Jeff?" I almost started crying.

All day long we laughed at what's now officially become the Creepiest Moment Of My Life, but maybe I was wrong to make non-stop fun. That night, I found myself back at that gas station and thankfully Miss Cootie was off presumably harassing potential Jeffs elsewhere.

"Whew," I said to the clerk, "your new friend isn't here tonight."

"Who?" he said, astonished.

"You remember? The 'moan for me' lady?"

"Oh," he said nonchalantly. "She was nice."

"Are you kidding me?" I said. "People thought Ted Bundy was nice, too. I bet Chuck Manson was a personable guy 'til 'Helter Skelter' came on the radio. She was creepy."

"I politely disagree." he said. and I ended up getting schooled.

"She was nice. She may have been a little weird, but she wanted to know me as a person. She didn't judge and she treated me like a human being and not some retail slave. I like her."

So the moral of the story? Don't be mean to gas station cashiers. Or don't judge people. Or be nice to strangers. Or maybe it's be nice to strangers but not SO nice that you scratch their back and call them random names because that's still pretty stinkin' creepy. Or maybe... heck, I dunno. If you figure it out, let me know. Ask for Jeff. Or maybe Scott.

COLUMN: Beatles...

Otherwise known as
HOLY CRAP THIS IS MY 250TH COLUMN?!
WHOD'A THUNK IT?

Dear world, please help. Earlier this week I was robbed of my life's savings by a gang of thugs. Penniless and hungry. Love, Shane.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'm a sucker and an idiot. Either way, I'm officially broke, and I swear to you all that it's not my fault one bit. I was simply the victim of a nefarious marketing scheme designed to suck the last penny out of every music nerd on the planet. And it's all due to a wily group of thugs whose gang-related activities have infiltrated our culture, corrupted our judgement, and shaken us down for untold amounts of loot.

What gang could do such a heinous act? The Crips? The Bloods? Nope.

THE BEATLES.

I've known this week was coming for ages. I knew the size of the dent this week would put in my pocketbook. I should have been prepared. But it's one thing to have knowledge of your impending fiscal doom, and it's another altogether to see the reality of your credit card getting swiped for amounts of money that are clearly unwise to be spending. But I can't help myself. O God of Music Nerds, thy will is done.

Wednesday was 9/9/09 -- "Revolution #9," indeed. To commemorate such a monumental date, and/or to commemorate Paul McCartney's need for a few more million pound notes, we are officially experiencing Beatlemania Revisited. But instead of girls screaming in delight, this time it's chubby loser music geeks like me screaming at the holes in our wallets.

It's a project that's had music nerds salivating for a loooong time: the Beatles went and got themselves a facelift. For the past four years, a team of sound engineers have been hard at work painstakingly remastering every song the band committed to tape. Using the newest in recording technologies alongside the same vintage gear that the Fab Four themselves used, the end result is a sound that's brighter, wider, and more visceral than any Beatles record you've ever heard in your life.

For a music geek like me, the remasters are must-owns. Sadly, though, they're not free.

The Beatles put out 12 albums in their day. At a suggested retail price of $18.99, that's $227.88. Then don't forget the "Magical Mystery Tour" soundtrack, because a Beatles collection without "Penny Lane" and "Strawberry Fields Forever" should be punishable by flogging, so there's another $18.99. Oh, and the Past Masters discs of rarities, because hey, a fella can't live without having immediate access to such vital gems as the German-language version of "She Loves You" (Sie Liebt Dich! Ja! Ja! Ja!) That's a double record, so that's $24.98. Come to think of it, the White Album's a double, too, so change that $18.99 to a $24.98 Which brings our total to (gulp) $277.84.

"But Shane," you say, "Why buy all 14 at once? That makes no sense. Why not pick them up one by one when you can afford it?"

Someone must have asked the same thing to the marketing executives at Capitol Records, because they had an answer: the limited edition collectible box set. Okay, sure, there's no extra content or any advantage to buying the set en masse, except it's in a box. I like boxes. And it's limited edition. And it's collectible (it says so right on the sticker.) Therefore, it had to be mine -- for the low price of $269.

Now, there's one big argument amongst we hardcore music nerds when it comes to The Beatles: mono vs. stereo. See, the first ten Beatles albums were originally recorded in then-standard mono and later remixed for the stereo format. Some folk believe that the stereo remix is the way to go, while some purists prefer to hear the music the way the band originally intended: in exciting low-fi monophonic sound. Capitol, in all their kindness, figured out a solution: an even-more-limited-edition, even-more-collectible box set of the first ten albums in restored and remastered mono. So there's another $224.

I know what you're thinking. "Okay, sure, Shane -- listening to the Beatles in both mono and stereo formats is pretty sweet. But what's the point if you can't hear the tunes without being able to press multi-colored buttons in time with the music?" And you would be absolutely correct.

That's why this week was ALSO the release of Rock Band: Beatles, a Fab Four addition to the pantheon of insipid video games that have ruled/ruined my life for the past three years. I've been concerned for years now about the amount of time I waste playing a game clearly designed for 12-year-olds, so at least a Beatles edition means that it's cool to be an old fogey AND addicted to a video game.

So there's $60 more dollars to the Buy-Ringo-Some-More-Jewelry fund. But wait, no. If you're going to play a fake game where you pretend to be the Beatles, you better have the fake instruments. That's why you can buy a fake Rickenbacker so you can be fake John, a fake Hofner bass so you can be fake Paul, a fake Gretsch Duo Jet to be fake George, and a fake black oyster logo'ed drum set to be fake Ringo. The fake ensemble is yours for a very real $249.

And if you're mortgaging your house to show your love for the Beatles, you'd better be able to answer some questions about 'em. That's why you need the piece de resistance, Beatles Trivial Pursuit ($34.95.)

So I am officially pimped out in Beatles gear while Yoko presumably is having a bed-in with piles and piles of my money. And while my music nerd street cred survives yet another fiscal challenge, I know that some of you must think I'm ridiculous and insane. To that, all I can say is that my nerd-dom keeps me happy and that the remasters sound so good they're worth every penny. At least they must be. I'll find out for sure when I've saved up enough cash to get my power turned back on.

COLUMN: Objectum

Recently I became aware of the fact that I'm kind of a weirdo. Happily, as it turns out, there's always someone weirder out there.

This hasn't been the best month for me. To say that my fledgling relationship with the girlfriend has hit a bumpy patch is like saying that the economy has been a tad bit iffy. In the past month, we've split up and reconciled... oh, man, I've truly lost count now. 3 times? 4? All I know is that she's worth fighting for, and I'm not giving up on it yet, so hush.

But if the relationship's taken a toll on me, please take a moment to pity those most affected by all the drama: our Facebook friends.

If there's one thing I'm good at in life, it's milking sympathy from friends and family. So when we have one of these epic breakups, within hours I'm on Facebook updating my status to some kind of "woe is me" business while 20-30 friends send comments of support. But I've noticed that the comments lately have been a little less "I'm here for you, call me right away" and a little more "Dude. Again? Seriously." I'm wearing out the patience of Facebook Nation. I'm turning into The Boy Who Cried Break-Up.

But it was a Facebook post from a friend that made me realize just how un-weird I really am. The post was a link to a website about something I'd never heard of before: "Objectum-Sexuality."

Hmm, I can relate. Clearly, as a beloved and much-adored local writer, I spend most of my day-to-day time as a sexual object. Ladies, I can't help it that I'm so macho and dreamy. Trust me, it's as much torture for me as it is for you. But I vow one day women will respect me for more than my hot bod. Until then, I'll go to a website with empathy for sex objects.

But, it turns out, that's not what Objectum-Sexuality refers to. It's not so much to do with sex objects as it is with, umm, finding objects sexy.

Let's try to put it in layman's terms. You know the Centennial Bridge? It's a grand structure that serves as a centerpiece to the Quad Cities, a triumph of form and function that symbolizes community pride. It's fair to say that you might even one day pass its friendly visage and say, "Gee, I love this bridge."

Well, if you were an objectum-sexual, you might not love the bridge. You might loooooove the bridge. Objectum-Sexuality is an alleged orientation to love inanimate objects.

The internet home for Objectum-Sexuality was founded by a Swedish woman named Eija-Riitta Eklof. Eija loves the Berlin Wall. So much so, in fact, that in June of 1979, she married the Berlin Wall, complete with ceremony and taking the new name Eija-Riitta Berliner-Mauer. Yes, she is now Mrs. Berlin Wall. And no, I have no idea what their first dance as wall and wife were.

Through the internet, Mrs. Berlin Wall made acquaintance with Erika Naisho, or as she is now, Mrs. Erika Eiffel. Because she married the Eiffel Tower. Together, they host a network of websites to educate the rest of the world about what they have dubbed Objectum-Sexuality.

According to Mrs. Berlin Wall's website, they "love objects in an intimate way and this feeling is innate... objectum-sexuals feel a strong attraction towards objects possessing, in particular, certain geometry/function." Shockingly, it goes on to add that this attraction often "provokes criticism."

You don't say. I mean, just because you're married to a building and all? People might think you were a bit... odd?

I'm sounding a bit mean-spirited, I know. I don't get my jollies making fun of people, and as far as topics like gay marriage go, I'm an ardent supporter of "love whoever you want." Or is it "whoMever you want?" I never know. But I DO know that it's NOT "love WHATever you want." I'm all for your right to find happiness in the world. But when the object of your desire can't reciprocate the feeling because, oh, it's a WALL? That's a tough leap for even this liberal to make.

Modern psychology has yet to recognize or classify Objectum-Sexuality as either a disorder or a new sexual orientation, so for now it's simply a curiosity and a seriously weird website. But it leads to a few thoughts.

For one, how depressing would it be to be in love with the Berlin Wall? And how must she have felt when the Wall came down? Imagine the entire world cheering with jubilation at the thought of your husband being hacked into a million pieces? But, as it turns out, perhaps the Wall had it coming to it. Upon further investigation, I went to Erika Eiffel's homepage, wherein she admits, "It is also true that I have a longstanding relationship with the Berlin Wall. To my chagrin, this has drudged up criticism of my polyamorous relationship."

So what we're saying here, then, is that the Berlin Wall is nothing more than a cheating rat fink so-and-so, and if the Eiffel Tower ever catches wind of this, there's gonna be heck to pay.

There's part of me that feels really sympathetic towards these women. Clearly something's gone really wrong somewhere. And I dunno, maybe I KINDA understand? I mean, Wrigley Field is pretty sweet. And I don't know any NASCAR fan who doesn't have a SLIGHT fetish for Bristol Motor Speedway.

And I'd better not kid around, because the moment I do, karma will lead me to my unknown Objectum-Sexual self. But with MY luck, I won't be in love with anything as cool as the Eiffel Tower. No, I'll be the guy professing his undying love to a piece of Tupperware. Or a bath sponge. Or any of the random things in the litterbox, if not the litterbox itself.

So I'll shut up, To each their own, I guess. Just please don't be consummating your marriage on the day I decide to visit your betrothed landmark and we'll get along fine. After all, what do I know? I'm just a weirdo.

COLUMN: Flat Tire

Occasionally there are times in life when it's fun to prove your intellectual worth. For some of you, maybe this means that you secretly write poetry or listen to political radio. In my case, it's more of a trivial pursuit.

If you guys have ever seen me out and about, there's a good chance that it's happened at a local trivia night fundraiser. It's the only place where my shameful lack of life skills is trumped by my even more shameful mastery of pop culture. I can't solve a math problem, answer a history question, or perform most basic life functions, but what's that you say? You need someone to complete the following Bon Jovi lyric? Sadly, I'm your guy.

So I get a kick out of trivia events, and that's where I was Saturday night: bringing home victory at the Leclaire Civic Center. The win put me in such a great mood on the way back to my weekend DJ gig that I almost didn't notice the noise at first.

(Thump.) (Thump.) Clearly it's my heart gloating over our (thump) tremendous victory. (Thump.) That's an odd noise. (Thump.) (Thump.) I'll just turn up the car stereo a notch and try to ignore it...

(THUMPITY THUMP!)

This was when I noticed that the THUMPITY THUMP was being accompanied by a SHAKITY SHAKE of the steering wheel. I was pretty sure this wasn't normal behavior for a Volkswaaaaaaaaaa!

And that was the precise moment when my left rear tire went ker-blooey along a lonely stretch of Highway 67 at 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday night.

Occasionally there are times in life when it's fun to prove your intellectual worth. Changing a tire is NOT one of them. I took a deep breath, counted my blessings, and formulated a two-part emergency response action plan. Step one was to kick the car. Step two was to hurl enough expletives to officially make this story NC-17.

If only I knew someone in the vicinity with the brawn and the manpower to sort this situation out. Someone macho enough to take control and replace the tire with gusto and brute strength.

It turns out I did. Her name is Tami.

Tami is a fellow trivia player, and she was only a few yards ahead on 67 when the tire blew. I called her up and she turned around to rescue me. In the meantime, I fumbled around and found the phone number to roadside assistance.

"Are you in a safe location?" asked my "friendly" help-line representative.

"Well, as safe as the middle of nowhere can be," I reckoned. Based on the creepy dark nature that surrounded the car, it was anybody's guess. There was a rustle in the nearby bushes. If I had to guess, I was pretty sure it was a were-zombie. "But hurry."

Five minutes later, my phone rang back. It was HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

"hello." said the unemotive robo-voice. "this. is. the. automated. insurance. helpline. roadside. assistance. is. now. being. dispatched. to. your. vehicle. and. should. arrive. in. FIFTY. minutes. thank. you. good. bye."

Fifty minutes at the intersection of Creepy St. & Were-Zombie Avenue? No thank you. Plus I was envisioning a restless group of tipsy 20-somethings milling about on a silent dancefloor. NOT cool.

That's when Tami spoke up. "Do you have a manual for this thing?" We had a look-see.

"Guten tag! Haben sie einen kaput Beetle auf der Autobahn?"

Okay, it wasn't in German. But it might as well have been. Instead, it was diagram after diagram of things that looked like neither my car OR my tire. But it kinda made sense. We pulled the spare out of the trunk and tried to follow along.

"Find wire hook (aka weird loopy thing) and socket wrench (aka were-zombie de-brainer)." Check. "Hook wire clip into wheel cover. Slide wrench through clip and pull cover off." We slid the wrench through the clip and pulled... and said clip straightened out like a wet piece of spaghetti without remotely affecting the wheel cover. So much for German engineering.

Eventually we pried the thing off and went to the next step, which was to loosen the lug nuts. Now, like I said, the manual was full of helpful diagrams, but not one of them showed me standing on top of the socket wrench, jumping up and down, and yelling "ungh" -- but that's what it took to loosen those puppies. Eventually we got the car jacked up and the tire off.

It was about this time when Amy rolled up. Now, Amy's the oft-discussed person in my life who, depending on press time, the current barometric pressure, and the positioning of Jupiter in the evening sky, may or may not be my girlfriend. (It's a loooong story. Suffice to say we break up worse than we date.) I'd called her earlier, and was expecting her to arrive and marvel at my tire-changing ability. The comically shocked look on her face said otherwise.

I was beaming with pride and teamwork and accomplishment at my fortitude and intuitiveness. But when Amy pulled up, there I stood, flashlight in hand, barking out steps from a manual, while Tami was on her hands and knees, covered in grime and lug nuts, effectively doing 90% of the work. I told you I had a shameful lack of life skills. But if she were ever in a crisis situation where she needed an emergency DJ set and/or newspaper column, I'd be there for her in a heartbeat.

Eventually, we got the tire changed and I was able to cancel the roadside assistance with five proud minutes to spare. And those tipsy 20-somethings? They barely noticed that I was 15 minutes late to the gig, and I was able to salvage some of my dignity by keeping the dancefloor hopping til the wee hours.

I can't possibly thank Tami enough, so instead I'll endorse her. She's a massage therapist who owns TEC Bodyworks on Tech Drive in Bettendorf. If she can handle a bad back half as good as she handled a bad tire, you'll be in good hands. As for me? Let's just say next time I'm at a trivia night and a question about tires comes up, I'll be the go-to guy who knows the right go-to girl.

COLUMN: Seuss

I used to think I had a fairly normal childhood. I had my treehouse. I had my friends. I had a great life. But I've come to realize that I missed out some pretty stereotypical parts of the usual upbringing process. I've recently discovered that, when it comes to Dr. Seuss, I'm a bit of a grinch.

I have no recall of my picture book era whatsoever. Surely I must've had my moment in the sun with the Little Engine That Could, but I sure don't remember it. My mother tells me that I had a somewhat scandalous obsession with "The Poky Little Puppy," but I couldn't give you a synopsis today.

My grandmother used to give me Babar books, but I wasn't having it. After all, as Wikipedia informs, some feel that "although superficially delightful, the Babar stories are politically and morally offensive and can be seen as a justification for colonialism." Clearly this concerned me deeply as a 5-year old. Okay, maybe I just thought Babar looked creepy as heck.

As far as my memory is concerned, here's my childhood in a nutshell: In the beginning, there was nothing. Then Mom said, "Let there be Hardy Boys!" And there were Hardy Boys, and they were good.

I worshipped the Hardy Boys and their keen adventures of, umm, keen-ness. And I'm pretty sure that it was my obsession for collecting the whole series that laid the fundamental groundwork for the OCD-riddled music nerd you know and love today. But by the time I was in grade school, I'd read and re-read the entire series. It was time for a new literary hero.

Naturally, that hero would be: Mack Bolan, The Executioner. Choice reading material for a grade schooler, eh? When I was on the phone asking my mom about the poky puppy just now, she was like, "All I remember are the Hardy Boys and that actiony fellow, what was his name again?"

Here's where you have to learn a little about my dad. My father is one of the most gentle, giving, and harmless people on God's green earth. He wouldn't hurt a fly -- well, unless provoked. But my dad was also a military policeman at Fort Knox for a good long while, and as such, has a bit of a hidden side. A side that subscribes to Soldier of Fortune magazine. A side that's seen every war movie ever made. And a side that apparantly didn't see anything wrong with letting his young son read The Executioner series.

To compare, the Hardy Boys defeat bad guys using their intuition and some wits. Mack Bolan defeats bad guys using his AK-47 and some well-timed head shots. After the Hardy Boys win, they go home and get some pie. After Mack Bolan wins, he goes home and just gets some. (Pie not necessarily included.) If my mother ever knew the contents of those books, my dad might STILL be in the doghouse today.

But the point of this whole literary analysis is that between the innocent mysteries of the Hardy Boys and blood-stained streets of Mack Bolan, I somehow ignored the ultimate childhood rite-of-passage: I was never into Dr. Seuss.

It just wasn't my thing. Odd little amorphous, asexual creatures all talking in rhyme and usually complaining about stuff? Not my scene. Here's how I used to stereotype Dr. Seuss books:

First, have your cat walk across the computer keyboard. Like this (here, kitty!):

PRULKINFARG

This is now your amorphous, asexual main character's name. Now do it again (meow kitty!):

RUTTVING

And that's your character's homeland. Then just come up with something bad to happen (you can do that later) and set it to rhyme:

There once was a Prulkinfarg from Ruttving City,
Where (something something really bad) and it was such a pity.

In the end, something something really good happens and everyone learns a lesson. And then when you're in your mid-20's, you learn that your cheezy little children's story of yore is secretly an allegorical condemnation of the horrors of nuclear war and you go "Whoooa, that's deep!"

Me, I just thought they were boring little dumb-named blobs who wore ugly hats and fancied green eggs and one, if not two, fish of the red and/or blue persuasion. So I kinda skipped out on Seuss, and now I feel like I missed the boat. Everyone my age and below reveres Dr. Seuss like a childhood friend. I, meanwhile, was the only person on the planet who recently watched "Horton Hears a Who" and didn't already know the plot.

So it was with some trepidation and reluctance that I accepted my friend Kelly's offer last week to go see Quad City Music Guild's production of "Seussical," the musical that weaves multiple classic Seuss storylines into a magnum opus of cats and hats and Hortons and Whos and Thinks you can think. And for a local production -- heck, for ANY production -- I was blown away.

Between the three fabulous leads (especially fifth-grader Emily Baker stealing the show as Whoville's Jo Jo) and the tight direction of Andy Davis, the entire Seuss canon came to life before my eyes and melted this grinch's heart. The only thing that stunk was that I was watching it WITHOUT the accompaniment of the biggest Seuss fan I know, my girlfriend. (This might be due to the fact that we split up, but that's another topic for another time -- just suffice to say we really suck at breaking up since she's sitting on my couch as I'm writing this.)

I couldn't imagine Seussical without her -- so the very next day, I took her to the matinee and saw the show again. Double the Seuss, double the fun... and now double the incessant songs from the score that are playing in my brain on an infinite loop that could, if they don't soon stop, cause ME to start hearing Whos any minute now. The point is, it only took me 38 years, but I finally realized that I DO like green eggs and ham, Sam I Am. Now I think I need to start work on a musical devoted to Mack Bolan the Executioner -- it's just way hard finding anything that rhymes with "bloody human carcass."

COLUMN: Carnivore

It's not often that my life gets easier -- and that's sad when you think about it. I mean, come on, this IS the 21st Century. We should all have jetpacks and flying cars and teleportation and clothes that self-wash and food that comes in pill form. Instead, it just seems like life piles up more and more complicated crud on us with every passing year. Ergo, it's the little things that count.

My life just got easier. My girlfriend is now a carnivore. Huzzah!

Maybe it's because I hang out with a lot of hipsters and artsy types, but we meat-eaters are an endangered species in my clique of friends. Ever since college, I've always had at least one close friend in my life who recoils in horror at the sight of a Quarter Pounder. Whenever you hear of a PETA protest in town or someone throwing fake blood onto a fur coat, there's a pretty good chance I know 'em.

Now, don't get me wrong, vegans and vegetarians. I have nothing against you, your lifestyle, and your digestive tract. I get the whole vegetarian thing, I really do. I consider myself a cute-itarian: I simply refrain from eating any animal that might one day make me go "awwwwwwww" when featured in a Disney cartoon. Deer are cute -- hence they stay off my plate. Chickens? NOT cute. Turkeys? NOT cute AND mean. Cows are only cute when they're babies, so no veal for me, thanks. Cows are beautiful creatures. They're just slightly more beautiful when served medium well with an ample amount of Heinz 57.

When your friends are vegetarians, eating out can be a real chore. When your GIRLFRIEND is a vegetarian, it's an entirely different ballgame.

I can't tell you the number of dates I've been on the past six months where I sit and tear through a steak while my girlfriend contentedly nibbles on an unappetizing assortment of twigs and berries. Some restaurants are really accommodating to the vegeterian way of life, others not so much. I'm too new at this to know which is which. But wherever we end up, she'll invariably go, "Oh, don't worry, I'll find something!" Sometimes she'll end up with something decent. But sometimes it ends up me devouring Chicken Little while she asks the waiter for some ranch sauce for her parsley sprigs and I'll feel like Glutton McMeateater.

All that changed at the NASCAR race in the Iowa Speedway the other day. I thought nothing of it when she said she wanted food. What I didn't expect was to see her come back with a chicken sandwich in her hand.

"Whaaaa?" said Shane.

"It looked good. I wanted some chicken."

"Wait, this isn't going to be the sort of decision you'll regret later and freak out on me, is it? 'Coz we can get you some nice tofu in a bit..."

"Nnnnnope," she said, taking a big ol' bite of the forbidden carnal treasure. She said something after that which was nearly indescipherable, other than it started with "OMIGODITSSOOOOGOOOOOOOD!" I'm pretty sure it was what scientists refer to as a meatgasm.

I thought maybe it was a one-off dance with the devil until the ride home, when she asked, "Umm, can we stop by Arby's? I think I want a Beef 'n' Cheddar." Gulp. And with that, her lengthy experiment with vegetarianism came to a crashing halt. Now I'm completely open and accepting and supportive of anybody's dietary choices, and I would NEVER pressure any twig-eater into plunging headfirst into a meat pile, but can I just say: HOORAH! Goodbye, guilt. Hello, Jim's Rib Haven!

Of course, the timing couldn't have been worse. Mere days after her epic change of heart, I had an experience that made ME second-guess my carnivorous ways.

There exists in the Quad Cities a fast-food restaurant. I won't say which one, because you might not ever want to eat there again. It's a restaurant whose drive-thru lane I frequent frequently. And just inside that drive-thru window, there's a bulletin board. And hanging on that board are any number of employee memos -- which, if they're written large enough, can be read by any customers who are nozy and/or bored enough to bother with.

It was on that very bulletin board the other day that I saw this note, written in huge letters with what appeared to be an angry, exasperated pen:

"ATTENTION ALL EMPLOYEES! THERE WILL BE NO MORE BOXING UP AND SELLING OF EXPIRED CHICKEN!!"

ummm... on behalf of the entire Quad Cities at large, can I just say... good? I suppose I appreciate the sentiment of the notice, and that the restaurant now gives a rat's behind about NOT treating their customers to an extra helping of enterotoxins with their poultry. But no, what I'm concerned about here is one word in that notice:

MORE.

The sign didn't say "there will be no boxing up and selling of expired chicken." No, it said, "there will be no MORE boxing up and selling of expired chicken." One must only assume, prior to this sign's invention, that the boxing up and selling of expired chicken was a frequent pasttime of this establishment, until somebody had to come along and ruin all the fun with a pesky sign.

I suppose it can be forensically argued that ANY chicken who exits a processing plant in the correct manner had better be "expired," but something tells me that wasn't the point of this sign. At a fast-food joint, we're not priviliged to see the sell-by date on our combo meals. I suppose, though, if an e.coli bacterium can survive a ride through a deep-fryer, it's somewhat deserving of a nice intestinal tract to vacation in.

Still, I prefer that intestinal tract to NOT be mine. So, for the time being, chicken from THAT place is off my menu. And maybe chickens as a whole are suddenly much cuter than I once thought. And maybe a diet without red meat might not be the worst decision I could make. And maybe tofu doesn't taste THAT bad. And maybe parsley with ranch sauce sounds kinda appetizing.

ARRRRRGH. Life was supposed to be easier.

COLUMN: NASCAR Weekend

There are two Shanes constantly waging war in my head.

The first is Shane the Artsy Hipster. This Shane doesn't really exist, because the real me is far too nerdy to pull it off. I'm too old, too chubby, and the nearest Urban Outfitters is, like, two hours away.

The second is Small Town Redneck Shane. This Shane doesn't really exist, either -- my natural wussiness prefers the air-conditioned comfort of my apartment over a sunburn any day. Still, like John Cougar Mellencamp so aptly said, I was born in a small town and I can breathe in a small town.

And so the war rages on. Let's say, for instance, there was a one-act play in town that portrayed existential nihilism as a poisoning of the human soul. Shane #1 would think it a winning night out. Shane #2 would rather sit in a La-Z-Boy eating hot dogs and watching reruns of "Cops."

That's the kind of dilemma I found myself in last weekend, as two major events had the indecency to occur simultaneously.

On the Shane #1 hand, it was the 30th Anniversary Birthday Bash at the Rock Island Brewing Company, and attendance was all but mandatory. A full weekend's slate of music featuring the reunion of three of the greatest bands the Quad Cities ever produced: Einstein's Sister, Driver of the Year, and Tripmaster Monkey. Speaking as a card-carrying music nerd: Wow.

But Shane #1 wasn't the only one excited about this past weekend. For six months, Shane #2 had been whispering in my ear about an event coming up -- and it was a whisper that I'm pretty sure had a southern drawl. I had to own up to my secret shame: A very big part of me would NOT be happy gallavanting around the Quad Cities with the knowledge that, less than two hours away, a major NASCAR event was occurring.

There. I said it. I like NASCAR. Sue me. As hip and cool as I yearn to be, there will forever be a part of my brain that thinks cars racing in circles for an entire afternoon is super rad. I watch the races, I listen to NASCAR radio in my car, and I'm currently 2nd in my NASCAR fantasy league and stand to make a pretty penny if the season keeps going my way. And by pretty penny, I clearly mean the value of respect and admiration from my fellow racing enthusiasts and in no way, shape, or form am I inferring that any monetary amounts are being wagered because that would be really, really wrong. Cough.

Two measly hours away from the Quad Cities sits the Iowa Speedway and last weekend's Nationwide U.S. Cellular 250. The decision was too much for me. NASCAR or music -- which would it be? That's when Shane #1 and Shane #2 spoke in unison: "BOTH." Not the brightest move, but I sit here at my keyboard as a monument to human fortitude, because I pulled it off. Here's how it went down:

On Friday night, I went to RIBCO and saw Einstein's Sister reunite to an all-Beatles set that lit my world on fire. But it was a fire I had to quickly douse, because it was off to early bed for me. 8 a.m. was harsh. My bones ached, but I didn't care. NASCAR waits for no one but the rain.

After throwing myself together, my girlfriend -- a wonderful sport in all this, by the way, since I'm pretty sure SHE has two voices in her head and neither one of them were asking for guitars or cars -- and I headed west on I-80. Two hours later we were in Newton and the Iowa Speedway was in sight. Then it disappeared from sight because the traffic cops directed us to a fine spot that I'm pretty sure was in Indiana.

After a lovely hike through the infinite gravel parking lot, we got to the gate -- to discover that our seatback chairs weren't allowed inside. So we had to walk allllll the way back to the car. Well, since I blew my knee out about a third of the way back, it was more hobbling than walking.

Dear NASCAR, have you ever SEEN your fans? We are NOT what you would call toned athletes who enjoy a brisk walk. While normal people spend their Sundays getting out and about, we spend them in BarcaLoungers watching cars go in circles. Normal people worry about their weight. We worry whether we've got enough nachos to make it through the caution laps. There are 43 perfectly good cars capable of shuttling us to and from the parking lot. The least you could do is send out Kevin Harvick to gimme a lift.

Eventually we made it through the gate and headed towards much-needed refreshments. Suddenly the guy in front of me looks at my Augie t-shirt and goes, "Aug-us-taaana? We don't allow no Quad City f------ in NASCAR Nation!" Greeeat. I take my girlfriend to her first NASCAR race and get us killed before the green flag even waves. That's when the guy continued. "Har! Har! Just kiddin', brother! NASCAR ruuules! Whooo-yaa!" Maybe I made up the whoo-yaa. I honestly don't remember. But whoo-yaa was definitely going through MY head.

I hate to admit it, though, but NASCAR really does bring out the best in people. Everybody around us was smiling, friendly, and high-fiving strangers. The race was killer. Kyle Busch, the driver that every NASCAR fan is contractually obligated to hate, started in last place but made his way to the lead in under 70 laps. Then it was a battle between good and evil, as Busch fought -- and eventually lost -- to Brad Keselowski, who we have to like because his car is owned by Dale Earnhardt Jr., who is to NASCAR fans what Jesus is to, well, NASCAR fans.

But we didn't see the win. We were too busy hustling our dirt-covered bodies back to the car for a quick getaway to a much-needed shower, a knee brace, and a hasty arrival at RIBCO exactly ten minutes before Driver and Tripmaster took the stage. It was an awesome topper to an awesome weekend. For once, I had my cake and ate it, too. It just kinda tasted like burned rubber, though.

COLUMN: Summit

Grr. It's been one of those weeks where very little column-worthy's been going on in my life. Jeez, and it had such potential, too.

I mean, this weekend was the dreaded Parental Summit, wherein my girlfriend's parents journeyed to Galesburg to meet MY parents. This would be GREAT, right? And my great I mean AWFUL, naturally. After all, these are MY parents, legendary in the art of telling embarassing and cringe-worthy tales. I was prepping for the entire day to be an unholy exercise in patience, luck, and my deft ability to change the subject in mid-conversation.

But, like all potentially awful events in my life, the upswing is that even the worst of days can become the best of newspaper columns. I drove to Galesburg with trepidation in my heart but a sharpened and eager pencil in my pocket. If I was going to take the fall this day, at least I'd have something epic to write about. As I was driving towards my certain embarassing doom, I kept looking to the skies but not once did I see four horsemen. Good sign for me, bad sign for the column.

The sad and boring truth is that the whole day went swimmingly well. Astoundingly and shockingly well, actually. My parents and her parents got along from the first moment.

My dad wanted to show off his newest handiwork -- he just finished screening in the entire patio, an epic project with plans dating back to my childhood. Her dad asked all the right questions and nodded at all the appropriate points in the guided patio tour. Me, I got lost 30 seconds into it. There was something about expanding wood and aluminum reinforcements and suddenly the word "wolmanized" was in there someplace -- if wolmanized is, in fact, a word, which I'm not quite sure about. I was just amused at how my dad said "wolmanized" and then thought about what a weird word it is to pronounce, so I kept doing it in my head over and over - wol-MAN-ized, WOL-man-ized, wol-man-IZED -- and then pondered whether or not one who wolmanizes is referred to as a "wolmanizer," and how THAT is a business card I would kill to have ("Shane Brown, Wolmanizer") and then suddenly it turned into a Britney Spears song ("Wolmanizer, wolma-wolmanizer, oh, you're a wolmanizer, baby") ...and the next thing I knew, our guests were saying "cool" to my beaming father while once again I remain perhaps the most ignorant and inept son to ever live who couldn't build his way out of a paper bag, let alone screen it in with proper wolmanization. Sorry, Pop.

But the point is that the dreaded summit wasn't too particularly dreadful at all. Happily, she and I are both blessed with relatively cool parents (as cool as parents can be, I suppose) who are free of pretention, snobbery, and hang-ups. They got along like gang-busters.

And I only wanted to kill my mother once, but it really wasn't her fault. She only made the misfortune of saying "yes" when asked the following: "OOH! DO YOU HAVE ANY BABY PICTURES?"

Now, here I need to interrupt the story and talk a little bit about my girlfriend. One of things that initially made me go ga-ga for her was her countless photos up on Myspace and her seemingly inate ability to look cute as a button in every single one of them. "My God," I thought, "she's, like, the most photogenic human being in the world. This girl does NOT take a bad picture."

Now I know better. This is not to say that my girlfriend is anything less than wonderful (calm down, honey.) In fact, I'm quite the lucky feller to be with someone so stinkin' cute. But she, like everyone else on planet Earth whose names don't include the words "Iman" or "Schiffer," is not immune to the occasional bad photo. She simply overcompensates for it by taking approximately 11,000 photos of every major event in her life -- events such as, oh, driving in a car.

The other day, in fact, we were driving in a car when she went, "Ooh! This needs a picture!" Naturally. Because three score from now, we'll want to be sitting in our rocking chairs reminiscing fondly, "Ooh, remember that one time when we went driving in a car? Good times..." But, me being the nice guy and all, was like, "Umm, okay." I then learned that it takes upwards of 12 staged photographs to effectively capture the pure spontaneous bliss of driving in a car. By this time, I'm flash-blind and a danger to pedestrians. But at least if I killed a pedestrian, we could provide the police with our own handy photographic evidence.

This doesn't sit well with me, as I detest having my photo taken once, let alone 12 times. I don't need twelve reminders of what an unphotogenic mess of a human being I am. Cameras point at me and my head instinctively turns to an odd angle, my eyes sink into my head, my second chin grows a third, and my mouth forms what my brain thinks is a smile but my brain is sadly mistaken. This is a girl who can take twenty pictures of a dress, and this is a boy who takes less than twenty pictures per decade.

My mother, on the other hand, shares my girlfriend's fondness for capturing those moments of life best lost to the ages. Next thing I knew, photo albums were coming out like the wind. Chubby baby Shane. Christmas morning Shane. Crying Shane in a forced pose with a fake Santa. Shane dressed up as Uncle Sam for the sesquicentennial parade. Shane in his "Welcome Back Kotter" sweatshirt. Acne-ridden pubescent Shane. "Ooh, remember that one time when you had those grotesque zits? Good times..."

But I survived, despite the assorted ohh-ing and aww-ing of the female summit members and the eyerolls of the male contingency. Pizza was had, jokes were told, and hopefully some new friends made. Too bad it wasn't exciting enough to make for a good newspaper column. Or was it...?

COLUMN: Hat

If you're just joining the party, my last two columns were devoted to my girlfriend's failed attempts at getting me to dress like a proper and upstanding member of society (or, as I like to refer to it, a preppy loser.) When my girlfriend was on her good-natured "let's-improve-the-boy" kick, she brought up one other concern as to my wardrobe -- and it's something very close to my heart. Well, actually it's something very close to my head.

To understand, we need a flashback to the distant land of 1983, where epic decisions awaited a wee junior-high Shane.

It's about this age that I began to transform into the mature, forward-thinking, career-minded professional that you know and love today. After carefully investigating, analyzing, and researching all of the options laid before me by the world, I decided at age 12 that the most prudent vocation to set my sights and training towards was, clearly, that of ROCK STAR DRUMMER.

Here was an occupation that promised all of the perks of gainful employment that I was concerned about, such as a progressive atmosphere of teamwork fostering professional relationships with colleagues such as the smokin' hot girl in the "Rio" video who dances on the sand just like that river twisting through the dusty land.

After having been evaluated for multiple instruments back in middle school, the band teachers decided that my natural aptitude for melody, harmony, notes and scales made me best suited to bang on noisy objects with sticks. Despite my musical shortcomings, by the time I had reached junior high, I was first chair concert/marching snare with dreams of rock & roll greatness. But the four of us in the percussion section knew that junior high band was small potatoes of "boom-tap-tap, boom-tap-tap" until we reached the big show: high school marching band.

Back in Galesburg in the 80's, our high school band was the stuff of legend. They won awards, they did routines, and their drummers were the coolest people we had ever seen. How cool? So cool that, during football games, instead of wearing foot-tall marching band hats like the rest of the band, they got to wear whatever hats they wanted. One of the dudes wore a fedora, another guy got to wear a leather newsboy cap. They were the rebels of the band, the zenith of cool, and the epicenter of everything my 12-year-old heart wanted to be.

At the same time, I was developing my own tastes in contemporary music. Having been brought up in a very pro-music house, my weekly allowance back then was already being efficiently routed safely to the hands of Musicland, and my growing collection of cassette tapes was my pride and joy. I didn't know much at age 12, but boy, did I know music. I was such an expert, in fact, that I looked at all the artists in the pantheon of rock history, and proudly announced to everyone I knew that The Greatest Rock Band To Ever Walk Upon The Face of the Earth was... the JoBoxers.

In retrospect, probably not the brightest thing to say. This was, after all, a band whose ultimate musical legacy left to the world was the two singles "Just Got Lucky" and "She's Got Sex." At least I know where my 12-year-old mind was at the time. But I promise you, for a 1983 heartbeat, the JoBoxers were pretty rad. As I watched them prance about on MTV (and oh, prance they did) in their suspenders and caps, I wanted to be a JoBoxer with all my heart. I wanted to just get lucky, too, whatever that meant. I wanted the suspenders. I wanted the cap.

Wait a tick... the JoBoxers were cool, and so were the high school drummers. And what was the common thread uniting the two? They all wore HATS. Instantly a plan went into motion. I, too, would get a cool-guy cap. Then I would be the cool rock-&-roll rebel who just got lucky. Only one problem.

I am the proud owner of an elephantine skull of enormous magnitude. I've long bragged that it's to hold my enormous brains, but the truth is that I'm just kind of a freak. Let's just say there was a reason I was born via C-section. Even in junior high, they were already having to custom order my size XXXL marching band hat. Just my luck -- I find the ultimate answer to coolness and can't find one to fit my obscenely huge head.

It's twenty-five years later. The JoBoxers went the way of the dodo, and high school band lost its lustre after discovering they held daily practice at 6 a.m. Still, my obsession with ill-fitting hats remains. There's seldom a time that I pass a cap in a store without flipping it over in hopes that it'll happen to be a XXXL wide. In college, I found one that was. I was broke at the time, but lived off ramen noodles for a week to afford it. And I wore it every day until it honestly starting molting. If you don't believe it, check my closet today - I can't bear to toss it.

But thanks to the internet, I've found my home away from home -- Lamood.com: Big Hats for Big Heads. I've been an ardent supporter for years, and now have an arsenal of XXXL caps at the ready: newsboy caps, driving caps, Gatsbys, and my pride and joy: my Greek fisherman's cap. I have two, actually: wool for the winter, cotton for the summer. I wear the heck out of caps.

Naturally, my girlfriend hates them. This time, though, I kinda know why: they're pretty much ugly. I know that my Greek fisherman's cap makes me look less like a JoBoxer and more like a pudgy Captain in desperate search of his Tennille. And it's not like I need them to cover receding hair - that's one thing that genetics has so far blessed me with.

I can't explain why I continue to wear the silly things. They're just my trademark. I like wearing caps, and ptooey on you if you're not onboard. I may look like a giant dork, but somewhere in the back of my brain, there's still that 12-year-old who can finally be the drumming JoBoxer of his dreams.

RIBCO 30th Anniversary Birthday Bash!

Before there was a District of Rock Island, there was RIBCO. Before there was a Gumbo Ya Ya or a Ya Maka My Weekend, there was RIBCO. Before there was fun at all, there was RIBCO.

OK, OK. Perhaps mankind amused themselves before the arrival of downtown Rock Island's premiere live-music venue, but it probably wasn't as fun, and it certainly wasn't as loud.

The Rock Island Brewing Company turns 30 this summer, and they're celebrating the only way they know how -- music, music and more music.

The RIBCO 30th Anniversary Birthday Bash happens this weekend with an indoor showcase on Friday followed by an all-ages outdoor show Saturday. There will be a lineup of past and present RIBCO favorites, including a few names you never thought you'd see onstage again. Putting together the project has been a labor of love for RIBCO talent buyer Jason Parris.

"We wanted to do something special that wasn't only fun but challenging to put together," Mr. Parris said. "We approached bands that helped shape RIBCO's history, including a few that haven't played together in years. To a lot of them, the idea of a no-pressure get-together sounded exciting."

Chief among the bands reforming for the event is Tripmaster Monkey. In its storied career, the band put out three releases in the mid-1990s on Sire/Warner Bros. Records and toured the U.S., all while getting MTV airplay and critical acclaim here and abroad. This weekend will be their first time onstage as a group in more than a decade.

"We were always looking for a reason to reunite," said Tripmaster Monkey guitarist Jamie Toal. "RIBCO's 30th seemed plenty good. Of course, there was also that dream I had with Abe Lincoln, except it was Spaceman Abe Lincoln from outer space. He said, 'Jamie, check this out! I am totally on Mars right now! Anyways, do me a favor -- reform the Monkey at RIBCO in August. The future of space travel and human awesomeness depends on it.' You don't say no to Honest Abe."

Other bands required considerably less extraterrestial persuasion to hop on board.

"RIBCO is the 'A Room' to play in the Quad-Cities, and has been for 30 years," said Bill Douglas, frontman for the defunct, but temporarily resurrected, Einstein's Sister. "RIBCO has hosted so many great bands and shows, and to be able to play that stage along with so many of them this weekend is an honor."

The power-pop of Einstein's Sister kicks off the weekend on the indoor stage Friday night, alongside local stalwarts John Resch & Detroit Blues. Rounding out the Friday lineup are two other recently revived favorites -- Keep Off the Grass and Jim the Mule.

On Saturday, Tripmaster Monkey is joined on the outdoor stage by Dean Wellman, The Warmth and another group reassembling for the first time in three years -- Parris' own Driver of the Year.

"I wouldn't call it a reunion as much as a return from a much-needed pause," Mr. Parris said. "Driver of the Year will never die in our eyes. I'm just excited to play with such a great variety of artists that I've respected for a long time."

After the outdoor celebration stops on Saturday, the party moves inside RIBCO for the grand finale -- the raunchy glam-rock shenanigans of Cheese Pizza, a crowd favorite.

"RIBCO is where it's at in the Quad-Cities as far as live music goes," said John Nelson, aka Cheese drummer Gil Fishman. "It's my favorite room to play because of the professionalism of the place. Great owner, great PA, an incredible sound engineer in Al Dimeo ... What's not to love? Just being included on this bill is an honor."

You can't interview any of these bands without them taking time to praise RIBCO owner Terry Tilka. Under Tilka's reign, RIBCO has risen from a solid local bar to a national touring destination. Known for his fair-handed, tell-it-like-it-is management approach, Tilka and his venue played a large part in the growth of every band on this weekend's lineup.

"Terry is a really smart guy," said Toal. "He's seen some crazy stuff with the Monkey boys, and we probably ticked him off on many occasions -- but he's really done a remarkable job in the Quad-Cities."

"For Terry to add us to that bill along with these other great acts tells me what he thinks of us as a band, and we appreciate that," Nelson said. "Terry loves us. He once cross-dressed and hopped onstage with us to sing 'I Think I Love You.' OK, that's a complete lie, but print it anyway."

Making the decision to reform was easy for some of the weekend's bands, but getting into the swing of things proved a little more challenging.

Toal described his first practice with the reformed Tripmaster Monkey as "the perfect sonic marriage of nails on a chalkboard with a flock of dying geese. These things take a while to get back to where they need to be."

We're promised they'll be in fine form by this weekend. And at the low cover charge of $5, it's a risk well worth taking for one of the best two-day lineups of local music imaginable.

"This is our way of giving back to all that have supported us over the years as a great music venue," Parris said.

RIBCO has been a steady hand in the Quad-Cities music scene for 30 years. Will we one day see a 60th-anniversary bash?

"We're already working on the line-up," Parris said with a grin.

COLUMN: Shirt Wars, The Sequel

Ahh... there's nothing like waking up after voting day, is there? The birds in the sky chirp with the satisfaction and accomplishment that comes from our free and Democratic society. Yes, a utopian world, really, where every voice has its say, every hope can be realized... and every shirt can be worn.

In case you missed last week's column, let's get you up to speed:

Your humble columnist, otherwise known as The Hero Of Our Story, dry cleaned his collection of super-sexy silk shirts for the purposes of summer wearing. This was much to the chagrin of his loving girlfriend (The Evil Villainess,) who felt that he would be much better suited in a spanky collection of argyle polo shirts. The Villainess, normally a lovely and caring princess whom Our Hero wouldn't trade for all the video games in Japan, was clearly under some kind of evil spell, as these argyle polo shirts hailed from the land of Preppy Golf Course Nightmares.

Thus began the epic battle of Shirt Wars - Episode One: The Argyle Menace. Since the Villainess was immune to all of the reasoning and logic that our couch-dwelling Hero could provide, he instead decided to take the battle to the people, in the form of last week's column. Facts were laid out, opinions stated, and photographic evidence of both the pleasing button-down silk ensemble (yay!) AND the argyle atrocity (boo! hiss!) were presented to you, the general public, for your careful consideration and feedback.

After last week's column was turned in, we both promptly laughed about it and left the Quad Cities for a romantic daytrip to Wisconsin, where my choice of shirts was the last thing on our minds. In other words, it was kind of a joke column, folks. Little did I know that, while we were cruising the waters of Lake Geneva with champagne wishes and caviar dreams, the Shirt War was raging on amongst a goodly percentage of our readership.

What neither of us knew was that the column had made its way to the main page of QCOnline.com, drawing many an eye. By the time we got back in town, I had an inbox bulging with e-mails from readers. Online comments were piling up on our website. Even our respective Facebook pages were teeming with mutual friends up in arms... all about my clothing. I will never look a gift shirt in the mouth again.

Through all of the comments, I learned important things. For example, here's what one reader had to say:

"Your silk man-blouse is UGLY! Your girlfriend has the right idea. In the argyle, you look 20 pounds lighter and your hair and eyes look so much cooler."

Here's what another says:

"I hate the argyle polo shirt. It makes you look fat and look like a dork. The silk look is better for you."

So, if there's one thing to be learned from this exercise, it's the satisfying knowledge that I'm clearly a lard-butt no matter WHAT I drape over myself. Personally, I simply suspect that all cameras on Earth hate me with a blinding fury. I'm just big-boned -- especially my stomach bone.

Still, I wanted an answer. I was convinced that the ghost of Chess King wouldn't have led me wrong about silk and rayon shirts all these years. I wanted to dance on the grave of my girlfriend's argyles. I wanted a definitive and exact picture of myself as seen through the eyes of strangers. This is why I just finished sitting here, meticulously counting the votes and opinions that have come in via e-mail, website, and Facebook all weekend.

Ladies and gentlemen -- the winner of Shirt Wars 2009 is...

THE SILKEN SHIRTS OF SHANE BROWN. By a margin of exactly two votes. In yer face, argyle!

I promptly contacted my girlfriend and delivered my victory speech, the text of which I'll gladly reprint here: "Ahem. Nyah Nyah Boo Boo! You suck! I rule! The end."

Needless to say, she demanded a recount.

When the votes were tallied a second time, I'm afraid to say that two entries were called into question. For instance, there was this comment, on my Facebook, from our mutual friend Sarah:

"So much argyle, so little time..."

I had assumed this was a sarcastic comment favoring MY choice of clothing. My girlfriend, however, feels that this is a clear vote for her argyle polo shirts. This was a conundrum. It's times like this when you realize that you can't trust your own predisposed opinion and must look at the situation from a purely non-partisan view. I needed to think like my elders and my civic leaders. We decided to stop, take a deep breath, and ask ourselves, "What would Rock Island Circuit Court Judge Mark VandeWiele do?"

We struggled for three days to ascertain this commenter's intent, knowing that every vote is critical in this fashion war. The length of the struggle in and of itself helped answer the question. By a preponderance of the evidence, this is a vote for ARGYLE. But Shirt War calls for a clearly ascertainable vote and this columnist and his girlfriend cannot in good faith make that finding. Since these commenter's intent is not clearly ascertainable by a totality of the circumstances as required by a good 'n' proper Shirt War, these two comments shall not be counted as a vote for either shirt.

In other words, we've come to a tie. Persuant to the by-laws of my apartment, this means The Great Shirt War of 2009 shall be decided by -- you guessed it -- drawing lots. I'm just not sure what we need to draw lots of. In grade school, I used to draw lots of rocketships, so I'm hoping that's what it'll be.

Until said time that we draw lots of rocketships, I declare myself the winner. I shall continue to wear my ugly silk shirts with pride, and I'll even concede to the occasional public outing of the thoughtfully-purchased argyle polo shirts because I love my girlfriend and maybe one day I'll love her shirts, too. And if the girlfriend has any issues with that, this humble writer reminds her that she's more than welcome to go and get her OWN newspaper column nyah nyah boo boo. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a victory party to attend -- dress code strictly enforced.