COLUMN: Shirt Wars

The best part about forging a new romantic relationship has to be the communication. When your way of life merges with another's, a bond is formed by sharing and discourse. The relationship begins to flourish as each of you gains new insight and understanding of your lives.

For instance, I have gained the insight and understanding that I am apparantly incapable of dressing myself.

I know fully well that I am no fashionista. As a long-term testosterone-fueled bachelor, I've developed a few simple rules when it comes to fashion:

• Never buy clothes that require ironing. The amount of time that one spends sweating away over an ironing board can then be thusly used on far more relevant and worldly tasks, such as Super Mario Kart.

• Always find shirts with sleeves that can be pushed up, thereby giving the wearer the advantage of owning both winter and summerwear with one purchase. The amount of money that one spends on seasonal wardrobery can then be thusly used purchasing far more relevant and worldly items, such as Super Mario Kart 2.

• Clothing should be carefully selected in two colors only: (1) dark, and (2) slightly off-dark. Time is precious and fleeting, and Super Mario Kart waits for no one -- especially you weirdo girls who waste time sorting your laundry into color-coordinated piles. If one simply buys an entire wardrobe of dark and dreary colors, you can just shove 'em all in the washer en masse and turn the machine to "I-don't-really-care-what-temperature-you-wash-these."

These rules have so far proven to be a triumphant success. That is, until the girlfriend walked in the other day.

"Surprise, honey!" she exclaimed, shopping bag aloft. "I got you presents!"

Presents, it should be noted for those of you wishing to buy them for me, should consist of: food, money, toys, or a Rane Serato Scratch DJ System. Despite her best intentions, they should never be a bag of clothes. Clothes are not presents. Clothes are functional necessities at best.

Still, there I was, facing a bag of thoughtfully-purchased polo shirts. I steadied myself as I examined them with my best "ohhh, wow, you shouldn't have" face. And admittedly, it was a really sweet gesture. Two of them were actually quite nice, and shirts I could easily see myself wearing. One was basic black and another was basic blue, both with your standard polo stripes. I can work with these.

The other two? Hrrm. These shirts made liberal usage out of something I have never owned in all my live-long days. Argyle, explains Wikipedia, is a diamonds-&-diagonal-checkerboard pattern derived from the tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in eastern Scotland. It got its name because "argyll" is the retching noise that one makes when forced to wear it.


I kid. Kinda. I suppose they don't look bad. And to hear my girlfriend go, "Awwwwwww, you look SO CUTE" is never a bad thing. But to look at myself in the mirror was another story. They're not just argyle, they're bright and happy. One's white and the other has a big ol' yellow argo-diamond smack across the midsection.


I know in reality that I'm little more than a huge nerd, but in the Me that I like to fancy myself, I live above and beyond the constraints of society. I'm dark and mysterious and esoteric and ironic and funny and, quite possibly, the coolest person that's ever lived. In my new argyle polo shirts, I'm not dark or mysterious. I'm merely late for my squash match with Mitzi and Roland Buffington III. They are, without a doubt, the most anti-me shirts to see the inside of my closet since my much-maligned "ponchos-are-kinda-cool,-right?" phase.

Yet, for the sake of my cooing girlfriend who assures of my argyle-clad attractiveness, I'm giving them a shot and simply feeling uber-weird wherever I go. But it gets worse.

"I got them because you don't seem to have many summer-y shirts," she said with glee.

A-HA! How wrong she was. I explained to her that I simply hadn't taken my summer stash to the dry cleaners. Tucked away in a laundry basket in the far end of my closet lies a pile of shirts that only see the light of day from June through September. Shirts whose greatness breaks all rules. Shirts I adore.

Ever since the glory days of Chess King circa 1987, I have been an ardent fan of button-down silk and/or rayon shirts of the psychedelic and awesome persuasion. If it's in any way silky and looks like Pink Floyd threw up on it, I probably own it. And now they're back in style -- and with the help of a certain Mr. Tommy Bahama, the collection has been growing exponentially.

I took the stash out to proudly show off. To my surprise, it was met with a look of horror. With each shirt I'd pull out, the look intensified, until she finally blurted it out:

"They're old man shirts. Oh, honey, no. You own old man shirts. Omigod, I'm dating an old man."

I figured all it would take is a quick fashion show to prove her wrong.


Now, girls have a certain fashion wisdom that boys will never understand. Girls say things like, "Everyone knows you shouldn't wear white socks with a black watch after Arbor Day." Us guys, meanwhile, merely find like-colored objects that don't induce migraines and piecemeal an outfit together. So I put on some olive cargo pants, a sort-of off-olive undershirt, and an unbuttoned light olive silk shirt to complete the ensemble. I looked like Joe Cool -- or so I thought.

"No, honey," came the reply. "You look like a dingy carpet sample."


So that's where I'm stuck. I have a closet full of silk shirts that I love, and a girlfriend who's silently plotting how to destroy them all in an industrial accident. I think they look great -- she thinks I look like Grandpa Brown. So I'm calling on YOU, my diligent readers, to be the jury. Silk shirts of awesomeness or polo shirts that make me argyle up my lunch? The decision is yours. E-mail your thoughts to sbrown@qconline.com and I'll share them with the missus. A grateful closet awaits your reaction.

COLUMN: Mike

I've received six e-mails and eight Facebook messages this week from readers of this column, all with the same question:

"When are you going to write something about Michael Jackson?"

Well, my initial instinct was to say the Fifth of Never. After all, what can I say that hasn't already been said at this point by, oh I dunno, EVERY JOURNALIST IN THE FREE WORLD?

I'm a pop culture junkie. It's really the only hobby I have. And, just like you, I was stunned by the events of Thursday the 25th. First, Farrah died. And that was sad, even though I was a little too young to appreciate the red swimsuit poster in its heydey. Then around 4 p.m., I received an e-mail from a friend that said, "Are you aware Michael Jackson's likely dead?"

Now there's a surefire way to wake me up from a hazy Thursday. I immediately felt bad for my friend who sent that e-mail, as she's one of the few people whose work day is directly impacted by the deaths of celebrities. She works for a company that manages the obituary sections for a number of newspapers across the country.

Among her job duties is the review and approval of public condolences on their celebrity obituaries. There's always gonna be a handful of internet troublemakers who like to wreak as much havoc as possible in any public forum, and her job is to go through and weed out any tasteless or obscene comments before they're presented to the public.

She'd already had a long day approving Farrah's entries when the word came that Michael was in trouble. You couldn't pay me enough to do her job.

It was an amazing moment when I got home that night and logged onto Facebook. As someone obsessed by pop culture, I'm friends with a LOT of egocentric artsy-fartsy types. Folks who discuss artistic integrity at great length and automatically shun any music played on the radio as commercial drivel -- geeks, goths, snobs and nerds aplenty.

And not ONE of them had a bad thing to say about Michael Jackson that night. He was one guy with the power to cross social, racial, and global barriers with little more than a song and dance. Love him or hate him, you've got to at least respect his power.

When wee Shane first reached the age of allowance earning, one of the first things I did was rush out to Musicland and come home with Michael's "Off the Wall." It was the sound of an artist coming in to his own, and I still argue that it's the musical apex of his career.

The cultural apex, though, had only just begun. With "Thriller," Michael Jackson conquered the globe in a way that I guarantee we'll never see again in our lifetime. I didn't even really dig the music too much, but you still had to give it up for the videos and the moonwalk and the ease by which he charmed the world. I remember timing a slumber party at a friend's house for the sole purpose of being able to watch the world premiere of the "Thriller" video -- and being scared out of my socks by it.

After "Thriller" and "Bad," Michael Jackson the Artist took a slow back seat to Michael Jackson the Circus, but it was just as captivating to watch. For the most part, I forgave him for his eccentricities. I mean, the guy was a kajillionaire. If he wanted to build an amusement park in his front lawn, why not? If I was the biggest artist from here to Zxcvbnmistan, I'd probably want my own chimpanzee, too.

When you live in a celebrity bubble like that, it's probably not as crazy as it seems. The movie director Kevin Smith once told a great story about meeting The Artist Who I Think Is Now Once Again Called Prince and talking privately to one of Prince's assistants. As Smith tells it, the assistant explained that Prince, for the most part, lives in Prince-land, and sometimes can't understand why it's a problem when he wakes up at 3 a.m. with the simple request of having a camel delivered to his house.

To us, it's crazy. But when your entire life is crazy, fancying a camel ride at 3 a.m. might just be a normal Tuesday. Of course, Michael took things to the extreme. When your life becomes a non-stop Fantasyland AND you've got a serious fixation on your lost childhood, it's going to cause problems. But instead of trying to give the guy a break -- and I'm just as guilty of reading the tabloid fodder as everybody else -- we exascerbated the problem until Michael became little more than a pop culture sideshow attraction who probably needed professional help.

The court case pretty much sealed the deal. Do I think Michael Jackson was a pedophile who preyed on innocent boys? I can't say for certain, but I'd certainly be surprised if he was. I think he was an immature soul who wanted to stay young forever and didn't understand the problem with befriending little kids just like Prince didn't understand the problem with procuring a camel.

And now that Michael's gone, we're about to reap the reward for treating the guy like a circus freak all these years. His name will be center stage in tabloids for years to come, as every human being who ever managed to weasel their way into his life will be vying for their fifteen minutes of fame with tell-alls and book deals full of half-truths and speculation.

I wasn't a huge fan of Michael Jackson. But will we ever see an artist make his kind of impact ever again? Probably not, and that makes me sad. I feel bad for the guy, and I mourn his loss with the rest of the world, if for no other reason than we'll never hear the exclamation "SHA'MON!" in contemporary music ever again.

Here's hoping that the next time we're blessed with an artist of his magnitude, we don't force them down the same path.

COLUMN: Date Night

Totally leeched off someone named Illflux's Flickr.

He's got lotsa cool pics - go check it out.

I feel like my columns of late are occasionally descending into stereotype: Hapless bachelor writes for years about meeting nice girl. Hapless bachelor meets nice girl. Hapless bachelor can't shut up about nice girl.

I don't wanna be that guy. And I'm certain that you kind folk don't want to waste your Sundays reading the play-by-plays of our boring dates. Good thing, then, that our dates aren't boring.

The other night we had plans for a no-holds-barred evening o' romance and chivalry. This is not my strong suit, as my usual idea of romance is letting her hold the remote control for an hour or two. But I had a plan.

First a nice dinner and a stop for ice cream. Afterwards, I'd take her to one of my favorite locales: Lock & Dam 14 at Fisherman's Corner out by Hampton. You can stroll right out on the Illinois side until you're pretty much in the smack dab middle of the Mississippi -- just you, your special someone, a few quaint fishing folk, the setting sun, and the gentle call of nesting pelicans. It would be my shining romantic moment.

So after dinner and ice cream in Davenport, I slyly headed north along the river giving myself mental high-fives. Goin' to the dam, gonna be all romantical and supa suave studly maaaaaan.

That was about the time we reached Leclaire and I remembered that the I-80 bridge to Illinois was closed. Not good. I was trying my best to play it off like our night was super spontaneous and magical, and I feared a sudden U-turn would blow it.

I had to find a way to play it cool, so I just kept driving along the river with the hopes of finding an appropriate turn-off to nonchalantly get us home. A few miles later, I realized I didn't know where the heck I was, other than way far north. At this point, if I turned off, I'd have no clue how to get us home. That was when I decided my best option was to keep right on truckin' up to Clinton and just take the bridge there and come back to the dam.

Sure, my night was starting to go badly, but unbeknownst to me at the time, someone was having an even worse night. Someone so distraught over the state of their life that they had chosen that night to end it all.

That someone was a suicidal deer -- and just as I reached a bend in the road at 55 mph, it trotted out in a kamikaze head-on dash for my grill. I didn't even have time for one of my customary expletives. I slammed on the brakes. Bambi of the Damned just galloped straight at me. I swerved to the side. It swerved to the side. I swerved back. It swerved back. This deer clearly wanted to die. I braced for impact, grabbed my girlfriend's hand... and missed the sucker by THAT much.

I could have reached out and pet it as we went by. Well, I could have, were I in control of my extremities. As my girlfriend tells it, I reacted to the close call by throwing my fists in the air and screaming "YES!" as though I'd just scored the winning touchdown. Truth is, I was simply happy that I hadn't wet myself.

Ever been SO pumped by adrenalin and a racing heart that you can't sit still? That was MY state of mind when we reached Clinton. I needed a breather after Venison: The Home Game, so I rolled down my window to get some fresh air.

Ladies and gentlemen, NEVER DO THIS IN CLINTON, IOWA. Dear, sweet Clintonians: I love you all. I really do. And I know it's not your fault. But your town STINKS. Yes, I know, it's a horribly rude thing to say. After all, I'm sure there are occasionally times in life when yours truly smells a little ripe. But even at my funkiest of funks, I can rest safe in the knowledge that I will never be as reeky as Clinton, Iowa. It's a delightful mix of yeast, molasses, rotting entrails, and creepy Jimmy Spencer, the kid from my 5th grade class who never showered. I've now learned that one of the key elements to a romantic night is to plot a route that DOESN'T make your girlfriend retch and dry heave in your car.

But I'm stubborn and I'm not a quitter, so we charged over that bridge and headed back on the Illinois side -- and when I finally saw the turn-off for Lock & Dam 14, I took it with gusto. I wanted my romantic stroll to the middle of the river. I wanted my picturesque fishermen. I wanted the gentle lull of the pelican's call.

None of things, I've come to learn, happen at midnight. In fact, I'm not even sure the dam's open at midnight and perhaps I'm confessing a felony trespass in this column. Either way, lesson learned. There were no quaint fishermen at midnight. There was NO ONE at midnight. Just the two of us, a damp river fog, the darkest walkway ever, and probably a 20-30% chance of being dismembered by an axe-wielding homicidal rapist ghost vampire werewolf.

The gentle Mississippi looked more like the River Styx. Oh, and as for the gentle lull of the pelicans? When you wake them up in the middle of the night, they just start going "HOOOOOOOOONK!" and flapping their wings spastically in alarm. I was hoping to salvage at least one or two sweet nothings in my ear. Instead, what I got was, "OMIGOD SOMETHING'S ON MY SHOE EW EW GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!" It was at that point we made a break for the car and never looked back.

So my grand idea of a romantic evening ended on the couch with a rerun of the Colbert Report. Still, I'm not entirely without chivalry -- once I fell safely asleep, I let her have the remote control.

COLUMN: Mayflies

(Totally snagged off someone named Natalija's Flickr.

She's got some cool pics - you should check it out.

Hope she's cool with me using her mayfly.)

Sometimes it's bad to be curious. Heading to the parking lot on my way home from work just now, I glanced over at our loading dock. What's usually a meticulously tidy area was covered in what looked to be piles and piles of sawdust. That's weird, I thought to myself. Did I miss out on some kind of industrial-arts fun time out back? As the investigative journalist that I am, I went over to check it out. Well, okay, as the man-boy that I am, I went over to kick one of the piles, because that's the kind of juvenile fun you just don't grow out of. Smirking like a schoolkid, I charged at one of the piles and sent sawdust flying into the air and all over my pants.

That's when I noticed that the sawdust was squirming.

That's when I realized I had just kicked a heaping pile of dead and dying mayflies. Umm... eww, to put it mildly.

There are times in life that I'm conscious of trying to look relatively cool. This was NOT one of those times. When your clothes are suddenly writhing with the death throes of a kajillion mayflies, one does not think of looking cool. One DOES, in fact: shudder, nearly vomit, hop up and down like a lunatic, wave one's arms like a madman brushing insect corpses off of one's pantlegs maniacally -- and, as it turns out, one might even do all of the above while making a noise that sounds like "blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

After living in the Quad Cities for over two decades, I've gotten used to a LOT of things about life on the river. Mayflies, however, are not one of them. I'm originally from Galesburg, a town thankfully lacking in aquatic breeding grounds for prehistoric creepy water bugs. Never in my life have I encountered insects that live and die in such mass quantities that they actually show up on doppler radar and begin PILING UP upon their demise. It is, without doubt, the grossest part of living in the Quad Cities:

The North American Ephemeroptera. Otherwise known as the common Mayfly, because they're supposed to be prevalent in the month of May even though it's June and they're so stupid they don't even know what month it is. Otherwise known as the Dayfly, because the Day they come out is the Day we should all stay inside. Otherwise known as the Shadfly, because "shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!" is the noise you make when you're trying to repress vomit after kicking a pile of them.

If you've ever thought that your life sucked, at least you're not a mayfly. Here's their basic life cycle: First off, you hatch in the water with somewhere around 8000 siblings. You're an incredibly ugly infant called a naiad. You spend anywhere from a few months to a few years crawling around the bottom of the river, spending your days dodging predatory fish and eating algae. You stave off boredom by moulting up to 20-30 times and checking out your fancy new exoskeleton. Eventually, one of those exoskeletons comes complete with a spanky new set of wings. You might also be taken aback by the fact that your mouth stops working and becomes vestigial. This is your cue to float up to the water surface, learn to fly, and have some REAL fun.

At this point, you have but ONE thing to do in life: search for some Barry White records, because it's time for some mayfly lovin'. Humans might just see a streetlight, but to the hordes of mayflies flitting around them, it's the Playboy mansion. In fact, mayflies even -- wait, it's a family paper, how can I say this -- umm, boy mayflies have not one but TWO boy parts, and girl mayflies have TWO girl parts, thus the potential for some serious freaky-deaky. The good news is that you don't even have to take her to breakfast the next day, since you no longer have a functioning mouth. The downside, of course, is that you die.

If you've ever thought that your life sucked, at least you're not the guy who created www.shadfly.com, the web's #1 fansite for mayflies. There you can find "fun" videos and pictures of the common shadfly, in case the 10,000 of them stuck to the side of your house aren't enough to satisfy your viewing habits. You can read shadfly poetry (example: "shadfly / clinging to the light / it strives to hold / shadfly / clinging / the spirit blows away.") You can learn to dance The Shadfly Shuffle (grind heel, step, rock recover, bird vine, step forward, 1/2-turn, shuffle in place. C'mon, everybody, join in!) You can even buy a fabulous white gold shadfly pin so you can experience the joy of having an insect carcass clinging to your clothes all year long.

All I know is I hate the dumb little buggers and it wouldn't upset me if they disappeared from our little ecosystem altogether. But once again, science scolds and reminds me that mayflies are an important part of our food chain -- they're a tasty little dish for trout and catfish. But last I checked, there weren't too many hungry catfish in our company's loading dock, so I wish they'd stick to the river. Apparantly, though, a healthy mayfly crop means a healthy river, since they can't reproduce well in polluted waters. And while the shallow, insect-hating part of my brain would encourage all of you to start polluting the Mississippi with extreme malice, the wrath of Chad Pregracke is probably worse than the wrath of mayflies, so I'll keep my yap shut (but mostly for fear of inhaling a cloud of insects.)

Just do me a favor -- the next time you see a horde of mayflies swarming around, remind them that they're a month late to seasonal extinction. I'm sure they'd thank you if they had mouths.

COLUMN: Jaws

Good news. After exhaustive research, countless experiments, and what I can only assume to be gobs and gobs of our money, a team of scientists have finally postulated, theorized, tested, proven, and now, yes, ANSWERED a question that's been plaguing our fragile world for years:

We now know why some people like scary movies.

I know, I know. I heard it on the radio this morning and I still can't believe it. After all these years of wondering, all the hopes and dreams of lost generations, science has prevailed. Unfortunately, I was hard at work all day today and must have missed the ticker-tape parades and victory celebrations that must have assuredly been breaking out across the globe.

It turns out that some people are born with: the scary gene. Well, maybe the gene itself might not be scary -- I honestly have no idea, though experience has taught me that most of the tiny components of our existence are pretty creepy lookin' under a microscope.

But apparantly there really does exist some kind of rogue gene in the fundamental building blocks of certain people that makes them really, really dig "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." I assume that this was discovered by taking a random smattering of people, treating them to a matinee of "Hostel," and then rewarding their terrified state by prodding them with needles (a far scarier proposition than the movie itself, if you ask me.)

As it turns out, the test subjects who enjoyed watching hockey mask-clad psychopaths severing the heads of hapless campers were, in fact, carriers of an extra gene -- or, in layman's terms, "idiots." Those of us who enjoy our movies without the occasional disembowelment (those I like to call "sane folk,") were missing this genetic anomaly.

I am proudly one of the gene-deprived masses. Horror movies are NOT on my agenda, thanks much. I get no kicks from being creeped and/or grossed out. You would have to drag me to Hell to get me to watch "Drag Me To Hell." But that doesn't explain this past Saturday.

As a young(ish) hep and happening couple on the go, my girlfriend and I had ambitious plans for Saturday. A little shopping, a pool party for a friend, an oil change for the Beetle, afternoon church service, a nice dinner. A good plan, indeed. Too bad I decided to channel flip to the start of "Jaws."

124 minutes later, there we sat, still glued to the same positions on the couch, transfixed by a 34-year-old horror movie featuring an animatronic shark and Richard Dreyfuss (I'm not sure which is scarier.) How this happened is beyond me.

Had I seen "Jaws" before? Sure, but I think only the censored network TV version. This was the real deal, in high definition, with gallons of fake blood and severed limbs aplenty. And I was TRANSFIXED. Me, the wussiest man in America, who usually channel flips through horror flicks with eyes closed for fear of seeing an eighth of a second of the bogeyman. And I'm cheering, like, "Yeah, shark! Chomp that leg off!"

What gives? Do I suddenly have a new appreciation for horror flicks? I don't think so. I'm pretty sure that "Jaws" doesn't affect me because I am, how shall we say this, aquatically challenged. Despite my parents paying out the nose for swimming lessons, I never got it. I am, however, quite adept at sinking.

So I have no fear of Jaws. I can watch that shark dismember a legion of movie extras and not be affected. Why? Because I'm up here on dry land. Despite what classic SNL skits might teach you, Jaws will NOT be ringing your doorbell. If you wanna go trapsing out in the ocean, be my guest -- but don't be surprised if you return sans leg. Sharks can have their ocean. You wanna scare me? Pick a land-based fear.

Which is, of course, what happened to me the very next day. We decided to close out the weekend with a relaxing drive through the country, which landed us outside of Maquoketa at a place called the Hurstville Interpretive Center. Now, a normal writer would tell you what a wonderful and educational place it is, and how you can learn all about the colorful history of the Hurstville lime kilns while soaking up some native Iowa animal life.

Instead I will tell you that the Hurstville Interpretive Center is evil. Pure evil. They sucker you in with this wonderful educational experience and then you turn a corner to... a beehive. A live, active indoor beehive filled with tens of thousands of bees.

Okay, sure, they're behind glass and they claim it's an educational display for children, but WHAT KIND OF SICK PUPPY DESIGNS SUCH A CONTRAPTION? Everyone knows that bees are the scariest creatures on Earth. Well, okay, maybe I just think that. But looking at that hive was like making me watch every horror movie on Earth ever all at once. If you don't believe me, my girlfriend was kind enough to snap a photo at the exact second I saw the thing, and I look just like Hapless Camper #2 before Jason attacks them with a hatchet.

The display talked about what an important job bees have in nature blabbity blah blah. All I know is that I held my ear up to the glass and I'm pretty sure I heard 10,000 bees chanting, "STING THE FATTY! STING THE FATTY!" The only education I wanted from this is learning precisely how much Raid is required to commit bee genocide.

If there's a gene out there for dealing with bees rationally, I was tragically born without. Hurstville can have its history and its lime kilns and its (actually quite delightful) Interpretive Center. Just don't mind me as I appreciate it like I appreciate the ocean -- from afar.

COLUMN: Grilling

As I type this, it's the joyous celebration of My Girlfriend's Birthday Eve. I think it was our first date when she proclaimed to me, "Oh, there's one thing you need to be aware of: my birthday's kind of a big deal." Part of her was kidding. The other part? Not so much.

Now don't get me wrong. By typing this, I'm not suggesting that my girlfriend is high maintenance, because she's not (well, not ALL the time, at least.) In fact, she's the most giving, caring person I've ever met. I just walked into my apartment moments ago to find it meticulously clean and a freshly-cooked pot roast on the stove. I'm not one to get all mushy, because I hate you mushy people with a sincere and deep passion, but I'm still in sticker shock from finding such an amazing person who seems to strangely dig me.

That said, the birthday thing has been causing me night terrors. How big of a deal is her birthday? Well, LAST year she had a shindig with an inflatable BOUNCY CASTLE -- and let's face it, bouncy castles are pretty much the bee's knees. But where does that leave me? In the unenviable position of trying to top that.

My girlfriend knows and/or is close personal friends with roughly 80% of the Quad City metro area. There's a 1-in-10 chance that she's your child's teacher and/or babysitter. Everywhere we go, someone comes bounding up for a power hug. And in the event of a hug-free outing, no worries -- her phone screams "NEW MESSAGE!" three times an hour to make up for it. Once upon a time, I thought I had a lot of friends. Compared to her, I'm a social leper.

The drawback to being acquainted with a majority of the phone book is that it takes otherworldly acts to get these folks to converge en masse for birthday shenanigans. That's why we've arranged for this year to be a series of nightly gatherings to accommodate the varying schedules of her legions of well-wishers.

Saturday was dance party night at the club (a blinding success if I do say so myself -- I've got some pull with the DJ.) Sunday was a fire pit at her house - we'll get to that later. Tonight is (shudder) karaoke night, which I'm far too busy writing this column to attend (aw, drat the luck. Cough.) Tomorrow is birthday proper, and that's MY day to shine. But let's go back to Sunday for a minute.

The weather was decent, and it looked like a nice night to chill out in her backyard, have some friends over, and end the weekend on the sort of mellow note that fits my life perfectly. Then I said it:

"Why don't we get some burgers and stuff?"

Or, in layman's terms:

"Why don't we drop everything we're doing, bolt to Hy-Vee, fill my car to the brim with a cubic ton of groceries, and then have me try to impress everyone by offering to man the grill?"

On the surface, what's not to like about grilling out, right? You get to feel manly, provide meat for your tribe, AND play with fire. But the thing is: meat doesn't exactly come with instruction manuals, and I could count my past grilling experience on one hand, and that hand could even have a couple of severed fingers. Still, as we headed to her house, I felt optimistic.

That's when I pulled into the driveway and gulped. Two guests had arrived early to the party -- her parents. Yikes. Now I REALLY had to bring my A-game. I'M fully aware that I'm pretty much worthless at most things in life, but I like to keep that secret to myself -- and ESPECIALLY from a set of loving parents who surely wanted to see if the weirdo her daughter dates was capable of being The Manly Provider. Gulp.

If there's ONE thing in the kitchen I'm good at, it's creating some decent burgers -- especially when I've got the help of my pal Emeril. At the grocery store, I slyly picked up a shaker of Emeril's BAM! Burger Seasoning. Throw in a little Worchestershire sauce and some garlic pepper sprinkles and it's burger magic.

Too bad the grill didn't magically light itself. I can spice up meat fine and dandy, but I've never ignited a charcoal briquet in my life. As I carried over the bag with brute machismo, hopefully no-one caught me desperately reading the instructions on the back. ("WARNING: FIRE HAZARD.") Happily, my girlfriend's aunt (who had just arrived) volunteered for charcoal duty, which is good because (a) I'm an idiot and (b) I value my arm hair.

It turned out okay. Well, the grill was a little TOO warm at first, as I managed to flash-char the first burger -- but otherwise, I think I proved my worth a tad. I only got scared when the veggie patties came out, as those icky little things are entirely alien and inedible before AND after the grill. But even with me at the helm, the food came out tasty and -- thus far -- none of her family or friends have fallen prey to e.Coli, so yay me.

As for the next couple days? We do things the Shane way. If all goes to plan, tomorrow morning she'll be awakened by the gentle strains of my favorite local band, The Premium Sellouts, who I've arranged to serenade her from her front lawn. Then I'm taking her out for MY kind of meal, where you sit down, get pampered, and let someone ELSE worry about the food. It's no bouncy castle, but I think I'm gonna be just fine.

COLUMN: Camping

I like parties. I mean, who doesn't, right? I am, after all, a nightclub DJ on the side, so I like to think that I know my way around a good time or two. So when my girlfriend told me that an entire group of our more fun and hipster-ish friends were meeting this past weekend to celebrate one of their birthdays, I was more than eager to sign us up for attendance.

But where would such a suaree be held? Someplace called Eden Valley, I was told. Oooer, I thought to myself, what on Earth is that? A hip and trendy nightspot I was shamefully unaware of? A concert venue where cooler-than-thou bands play post-modern experimental art rock? Some sort of elitist and potentially illegal underground gathering spot?

Err, no. As it turns out, Eden Valley is a campground facility in the middle of a dark and creepy woods handily located in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. Just head for Maquoketa, look for the most isolated and backwoods stretch of highway you can find, and hang a left.

Now, I know that there are some people out there who refer to themselves as "camping enthusiasts." I prefer the term "crazy in the head." As far as I'm concerned, at the precise moment that primitive man discovered that he could put a door on his cave, an electric light in his ceiling, and ten different channels of HBO on his wall, camping immediately and forthwith should have lost its lustre.

There are a kajillion ways to have fun in this world -- watching TV, playing video games, reclining on a sofa, surfing the web, etc. Or MY approach: watching TV from the sofa while playing video games on the web. Camping is just like that, except that it's pretty much the exact opposite of that.

I recall camping once as a kid (keyword: once.) It was a weekend trip as part of my junior high's photography club. My dad, excited about the fact that his only son wanted to experience nature WITHOUT a protective pane of glass in the way, volunteered to be a chaperone. Biiig mistake. After getting out there and realizing right away that tents don't just automatically assemble themselves, I immediately abandoned my father amidst a pile of canvas and stakes to search out the kid with enough smarts to bring his ColecoVision Head-To-Head Football and an ample supply of 9-volt batteries.

Happily, my girlfriend shares my opinion on the overall fun-ness of camping, so we decided to raincheck the event. Still, we felt kinda guilty blowing off our friend's birthday, so we decided to drive up in the late afternoon and put in a cameo appearance at Eden Valley on the way to my DJ gig.

Step One, of course, was finding said valley. I didn't have the directions or a map handy, but how hard could it be, right? We set off towards Maquoketa. I assessed the situation and let my vast knowledge of navigation and tracking skill take over.

"Look for a buncha trees," I said.

Well, I can now safely confirm that there's more than one set of woods in Iowa -- and I'm pretty sure we just visited every single one of them. The paintings of Grant Woods have taught us all that the Iowa countryside is full of round little hills with the occasional round little tree, right? Well, Grant Woods lies. The Iowa countryside is full of crummy, low-maintenance, pothole-laden gravel roads, 70% of which dead-end at creepy abandoned farmhouses that inexplicably lean 20 degrees off their foundation while saying, "Please, step right in and get murdered in me."

After winding around these roads for an hour -- at one time having to stop to allow a GOAT to saunter across the road -- my keen ability to drive, shift, and use the GPS function on my iPhone led us to Eden Valley.

Finding our FRIENDS, however, was another matter altogether. Dear Verizon Wireless and/or AT&T, can you hear me now? Well, if you're in Eden Valley, the answer is a clear NO. Our phones were both dead to the world.

So, rather than call our woodland friends, we instead had to drive through the campgrounds reeeeally slowly, staring intently at every passing campsite in a desperate attempt to identify any human forms. Which, based on some of the looks we got, probably came across more like we were shopping for children to abduct. After casing the joint as best we could, we were seconds from giving up when we spied our friends' cars all in a row - at the entrance to a foreboding nature trail.

Based on a handy nearby map, the trail stretched from the parking lot to, oh, I think somewhere in Peru. And there on the map, at the very end of the trail, was a little icon of a teepee -- which either represented the campsite our friends were at or the ancient cliff civilization of Machu Picchu.

We sauntered down the trail for about a half a click (whatever a click is - I just think it sounds cool to say) before discovering that the "nature" part of the "nature trail" was, in fact, hordes of mosquitos -- and I'm pretty sure I could see the West Nile Virus in their tiny little eyes. Add to that the fact that we were now effectively hiking in dress shoes and nightclub-wear while holding our iPhones skyward in desperation for a signal -- let's just say we were NOT the poster children for Gander Mountain.

After looking at each other and realizing how ridiculous we were, we quickly gave up, placed an apologetic note on our friend's car, and made our way back to air-conditioned civilization while congratulating each other on a fine day of camping.

Our friend, meanwhile, just got back in town and updated her Facebook page with a status update of how "incredible" the weekend was, especially the "rafting mud party and getting shocked by the electric fence." Gee, drat my luck for missing out. Happy birthday regardless, Abby. What say we do the next one INSIDE? I know JUST the dance club...

COLUMN: Bandits

I was getting a little scared about this week's column. A whole week had just passed without anything particularly interesting, amusing, and/or column-worthy going down in Shaneland. Inspiration was at an all-time low. Good thing, then, that this weekend I came under attack from bandits.

I spent my Saturday night the same way I have for the past 7 years: moonlighting in the District of Rock Island behind the turntables and CD players of 2nd Ave. That was where I found myself last Saturday, standing in the booth at 2 a.m. before a sea of writhing bodies. It was so packed, I had to have my own security guy up in the booth with me. I'd like you to think that he's there to fend off my groupies and/or prevent attacks from lesser-talented, bitter and jealous rival DJ's -- but really he's mostly just there to make sure caps are on straight and free-range groping is kept to a tasteful minimum.

That's when the bandit struck.

Now, this is a family newspaper, so bear with, because I have to choose my words here verrrry carefully. Hmm, how to best put it politely...? Okay, so, we can agree that human beings are mammals, right? And when our mammalian biology dictates that the byproducts of our consumption creates a mixture of gases in our digestive tract, it creates a scientific, all-natural, and family-friendly need to release those gases in a manoever we can best describe as a "tooter." Science goes on to tell us that the aforementioned necessity for tooting is oft exascerbated by dietary choices, such as, say, beans.

Let us now imagine a human being who has been raised for 21+ years on nothing but beans his or her entire lifetime. Beans for breakfast. Beans for lunch. Beans for dinner. Oh, and perhaps an in-between snack of lentils, onions, rotting cabbage, and the occasional roadside animal carcass. This person, whoever he or she was, was clearly in attendance at the Ave. on Saturday night.

It hit me like a sneak attack. I stand before you now to tell you that, in all honesty, I have never smelled anything worse in my life, not ever. Words cannot describe the pungency, if pungency is even a word. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm not here to gross you all out, but I'm pretty sure I could TASTE it. And just when my olfactory nerve regained its composure, it hit AGAIN. And again and again, with disturbing regularity. Trapped in my DJ booth, all I could do was hunt for my assailant.

Suspect #1 was my friendly security guard. He was clearly within nose-shot and didn't seem to be reacting to this terrorist attack in any way. But what was I to do? Recommend a good gastro-enterologist to this guy? This was a burly dude who could clearly kill me without breaking a sweat, and I was in no hurry to call him out as a closet tooter. After all, there exists a school of thought that says he who smelt it dealt it, and were I the dealer in this scenario, I would not be DJing - I would be SEEKING IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION.

Eventually, I couldn't take it any longer. I leaned over to my co-worker and, with tact and grace, politely inquired as to whether or not a large animal may or may not have been decomposing in his large intestine.

"Dude," he replied, "It's not me. I'd gladly own up to it if it was." Mmm hmm.

That leaves Suspect #2: any one of the fifty folks shaking their groove thangs in the vicinity of the DJ booth. Now, I'm no expert when it comes to dating, but I'm pretty sure that one of the key rules is, when trying to woo a member of the opposite sex, one should make a valiant effort to keep one's flatulence to oneself.

No one looked suspicious, and my comrade-in-arms was pleading his innocence non-stop. Apart from breathing through my mouth, there was nothing I could do but suffer and continue bringin' da noise while the stinky bandit kept bringin' da funk. I went home and spent the remainder of the morning resuscitating my sinuses.

The next day, my girlfriend stopped by in the morning with a basket of cookies on her way to church (umm, cough) and was about to leave when she suddenly stormed back into my apartment. "SOMEONE HIT MY CAR!"

Upon inspection, no one hit her car. Someone did, however, attempt to burgle it. Both exterior door handles had been pried off with -- I dunno, some kind of door-handle-prying-off implement. The cops showed up and dusted the car for prints while I reveled in my front row view of CSI: Rock Island.

"No prints," the officer eventually said, "But what IS this stuff all over the windows?"

I hadn't noticed - a Hardy Boy I am not - but on both side windows, almost where you could imagine the perpetrator leaning to gain door-handle-prying-off leverage, were some gross smears.

"It's greasy," the cop said after inspecting it. "Kinda like Vaseline."

"It's greasy," I said after inspecting it. "Eww."

Happily, our newly-found and apparantly overly-lubricated friend didn't get into the car. The bad news is that they got away. Clearly, I must have a new arch-nemesis hell-bent on new and exciting ways to totally gross me out. I beg of you, Quad Cities, if you're perchance at the grocery store and happen upon a comparison shopper in the bean aisle who may or may not be coated in Vaseline, do the right thing and unmask the Stinky Greasy Bandit once and for all. A grateful nation will thank you.

COLUMN: Word Vomit

"I dunno what to say -- YOU'RE the wordsmith around here."

That came out of the mouth of one of my best friends the other day. I don't remember what it was in regards to at all. Maybe I was ordering food or writing in somebody's birthday card. Maybe we were plotting world domination. The scenario was entirely forgettable, but that sentence wasn't. One of my friends thinks that I have a way with words. Translation: One of my friends doesn't know me very well at all.

I suppose it's true that I can coherently string sentences together in this column every Sunday, but I've also had 230-some-odd blessed weeks of practice -- and frankly, that has a lot more to do with luck than skill.

Truth be told, I can be a complete idiot when it comes to expressing myself. For a guy with a degree on his wall that says Speech Communication, you sure wouldn't know it by talking to me. I open my mouth with full intent on the creation of a grand and verbose illumination on life -- but what comes out instead can only be called word vomit.

And I've rapidly discovered the perfect recipe for word vomit: just add a dash of girlfriend.

Case in point: A couple of weeks ago, I'm out on the town with the new girl I'm smitten with. This is the phase of the relationship known as Trying To Make A Good Impression. You're constantly trying to find the happy medium that says, "I might just be the coolest human being you know." The goal here is to be attentive and caring yet confident and at-ease in the moment. I was, as the kids say, bringing my A-game.

At some point in the night, we meet up with one of her friends who needs a ride home.

"Sure," she says, turning to me, "We can give her a lift, right?"

Absolutely. I was about to make the same offer. Then I thought about it.

Barring the occasional blip in the space-time continuum, I've been single for just about... well, ever. And there's one universal truth you need to know about single guys: When we have no-one to impress, we are messy, messy people. And that especially goes for my car.

"Don't worry," my girlfriend tells me, "I'll just sit in the back."

Worrysome. The back seat of my Beetle is, for all purposes of explanation, a level 3 biohazard. I collect stuff. And that includes stuff that's prone to decay. This stuff will then mate with other stuff in my car and bear forth entirely new species of stuff, until finally evolution provides the stuff with legs that it uses to then saunter off to my back seat and a long and prosperous life in a new, exciting, and quite possibly toxic ecosystem of my creation. And now my girlfriend wants to sit on it. Worrysome.

The way I see it, there are countless things I could have said in this moment that would have been appropriate:

"Gee, honey, my car is quite messy. Please allow me to go clean it out real quick."
"Certainly. Carpooling is but one of the ways I care about the environment. Have you seen my composting efforts in the back seat?"
"You know what would be fun? Taking a taxi! Allow me to order one!"

But no. Not Shane, the master of word vomit. I took stock of the situation, analyzed my options, and determined that the best course of action to make a grrrreat impression would be to look at my girlfriend and say the following:

"Umm... are you sure you can FIT in my back seat?"

Word. Vomit. It was the first time I'd actually seen someone's mouth fall open like a cartoon -- and not just HER, but her friend, too. I am soooooo smooth.

And it doesn't stop there. My girlfriend is deeply involved in her church. One of the things her church provides is as-needed counseling with a sort of peer mentor, who helps not just with the spiritual side of things, but with any woes that come along in life (such as dating a guy who vomits words, I'd imagine.)

The other day, she takes me to her church for the first time -- a big deal for her, right? -- when she goes, "Oh, look! That's my counselor!" Now, I had expected to see some rigid, grey-haired woman of great wisdom. Instead, I was surprised to see a girl who was young, fresh-faced, and bubbly.

Again, a million things that could have been said here. But here are the words that I chose to roll out of my mouth:

"Jeez, you're old enough to be her mom!"

Best of intentions, worst of executions. It's a good thing we were in church because otherwise, I might just have gotten punched.

Yet, as the ultimate testament to her awesomeness, she continues inexplicably to date me. In fact, this past weekend was the nerve-wracking Meet-The-Extended-Family Day. Gulp. We all got together over Frank's Pizza, which would have been great -- were it not at 1 in the afternoon and had I not been up until sunrise the night before unwinding from a rather lengthy DJ gig.

Normally it takes me multiple hours and an infusion of caffeine to put me in social mode. This day, I had to make do with 30 minutes and a cold shower before being thrown to the wolves. Happily, though, her family weren't wolves at all. In fact, they were super fun people who put me at ease right away. Hiding in her family were musicians, audiophiles, cat lovers, and closet NASCAR fans -- topics I can dwell on any day of the week sans word vomit. Fingers crossed, I hope I made a good impression, 'cause I like her clan -- even if I DID catch a group of them perusing an entirely incorrect choice of Sunday newspaper. Don't worry, this wordsmith will set 'em straight.

COLUMN: DMV Redux

Irresponsibility, thy name is Shane.

You know that one person in your clique of friends? The one who's usually good for a laugh but little else? The one who's your friend but NEVER your best man because you wouldn't trust him to keep hold of your ring for even the minute-and-a-half walk down the aisle? I'm starting to think that's me.

Case in point: Food Days. If there's one thing to be said about the journalism industry, we don't go hungry. If there's an excuse on Earth to eat, our gang will find it. It's your birthday? FOOD DAY! The anniversary of your hiring date? FOOD DAY! It's Cinco De Mayo? TACO BAR! True story. I'm writing this column on, err, Quatro De Mayo, and we're taco-ing it up tomorrow. Too bad it's gonna slip my mind between now and then.

In my office, we are in a near-constant state of Food Day. And I, concidentally, am in a near-constant state of Forgetting About Food Day. Tomorrow I'm expected to bring in taco-tastic ingredients to share with my journalistic brethren, and I'm the clod who'll once again forget, walk in empty-handed, slap my head, say "d'oh," and then spend the rest of the workday sheepishly apologizing while eating my body weight in free food.

I'm fed up with being the forgetful, irresponsible one. But I have NO idea how to fix it. Actually, I've figured out part of it: be lucky enough to score a responsible girlfriend. She just showed up at my apartment bearing chopped tomatoes and black beans. (Isn't she awesome? Everybody say "aww" on three - ready? 1, 2, 3... aww!) Perhaps I'll be lucid enough in the morning to remember to bring it to the food day.

Someday I want people to look at me and go, "Wow. There goes Shane, the most responsible guy I know." Oh, and I forgot, "plus he's got a super sweet booty." Hey, it's MY dream.

Anyways, I'm on a mission to become more responsible, and it started with one simple task. Every May, my license plate sticker renewal comes up. And I usually remember it mid-July or so -- occasionally with the help of a friendly police officer. THIS year, though, Responsible Shane remembered. I even put a note in my calendar. On May 1, I would strut into the DMV a changed man. A responsible man.

I was beaming with pride. No more would I be the poster child of immaturity and irresponsibility. I was turning a new leaf, and May 1st was the day that leaf would flip. Good timing, then, that on April 30th, I just happened to glance at my driver's license and realize in terror that it had expired on my birthday -- all the way back in January.

For the past 4 months, I've been cruising about the QCA with an expired license. Awesome. It's official -- I would forget my brain if it wasn't attached to my spine. Suddenly, my journey to the DMV became a tad more critical.

Our local DMV is a grand and glorious place -- a one-stop for all of your transportation licensing needs. In fact, I can say with certainty that whenever I'm in the mood to spend $78 on a colored sticker, the first place I head to is the DMV -- conveniently located for your shopping pleasure in: the absolute middle of nowhere (I believe the locals call it 'Silvis.')

As I made the drive, I got to thinking. Since I was an idiot and let my license expire, would I have to re-take the tests? The written test was pretty cake as I remembered it, but to do so without first perusing the Rules of the Road might be risky. After all, if I come to a 4-way stop at the same time as another car, I have no idea who to yield to. Usually I yield to the driver with the grumpiest face, and somehow I doubt that'll be one of the multiple choices.

Same goes for parallel parking. If I parallel park on an uphill slope, I'm supposed to turn my wheels (a) towards the curb or (b) away from the curb? As a general rule, I choose (c) go park someplace flat.

After navigating my way into the labyrinthian parking lot (which I still say should count as the driving portion of your licensing exam,) I wandered through the doors into the epicenter of the H1N1 flu virus. At least, you would have thought so from the jumbo jugs of hand sanitizer beside every employee. It even looked as though the employees were quabbling over their ethyl alcohol stockpile -- the gallon bottle in front of me was rudely scrawled with a marker: "CAROL'S!!!!!" Suddenly I began to realize why DMV employees aren't exactly known for their cheeriness.

For what it's worth, it was a relatively painless experience. While no-one there was particularly personable, everyone was efficient and dutiful. And thankfully no testing needed. I just had to stand there while some lady pelted me with bizarre questions: "Are you prone to seizures?" "Do you have any mental health issues?" "Do you occasionally heed the verbal instruction of your cats and/or houseplants?" Etc., etc.

Once officially certified sane, it was just the matter of taking a quick pic. "Look at the smiley face sticker and smile if you want to," which was my cue to tilt my head 15 degrees, make the world's most awkwardly forced half-smile, and realize the fashion complications of wearing a blue jacket over a black shirt. CLICK. Ah yes, a moment I'll be happy to be reminded of every time I reach into my wallet for the next four years.

So once again, I am fully licensed to drive and basking in the glow of at least marginal responsibility in life. I'd dwell on it more, but right now I've got to focus. Don't forget the black beans... don't forget the black beans... wish me luck.

COLUMN: Brittany

Dear Hollywood starlet Brittany Murphy,

Please stop stalking me.

I'm sorry to bring this up in a public forum. I admit, it was fun at first, but things have gotten out of hand. I realize that I, like my uncle James, am a sex machine. But you need to learn some self-control. The facts are simple. You're MARRIED. I have a GIRLFRIEND. It's just not going to work out, and you need to get that through your head.

It started oh so many years ago. My friends and I purchased tickets to go see a little movie called "Clueless" -- which, of course, we went to out of purely scientific reasons: to see the smokin' hot chick from the Aerosmith videos. Little did I know that you would soon step on screen and make me forget all about Alicia Silverwhatzit.

That's when I made my mistake. When your lovely visage strolled into view for the first time, I turned to one of my friends and whispered my heart-felt passion for the beautiful and eternal unrequited love I instantly felt. Words cannot express the deep emotional connection that you and I shared that day, but what I came up with was fairly close. I believe, in fact, it was something like, "Duuuuuuuuude. That chick is WAY cute AND way hot. High five."

I thought I whispered it under my breath. Apparantly not, because somehow... some WAY... word must have reached you of the virile and sexy man-boy from Illinois with the passionate heart and the magical way with words. That's the only reason I can find as to why you've gone out of your way to haunt my life.

The evidence is over-whelming. See, I'm an average (yet incredibly handsome and intelligent) modest guy. And, speaking for all other average guys, naturally we just want one thing in life: movies and more movies in which Ashton Kutcher gets married. So when Ashton released his seminal getting-married movie, the aptly titled "Just Married," I was one of the many single hip guys in the opening night audience. And just when we were about to enjoy the timeless comedic stylings of Mr. Kutcher, he has to ruin it all by marrying YOU. I was so overcome with undying lust for you that I could barely focus on Ashton's subtle comedic nuances -- I hope you're happy.

It was merely the first of countless films you've inserted yourself into to get my attention, knowing full well that I would one day watch them. You ruined my appreciation of Eminem's struggles in "8 Mile." You gave new meaning to the term "Sin City." You even had the unmitigated gall to interrupt "Girl, Interrupted." I can't even enjoy the hit Fox animated comedy "King of the Hill" without your melodic voice coming out of Luanne's mouth. Back off, sister.

As if appearing non-stop in movies wasn't enough, then you got SERIOUSLY dastardly. That's when you decided to start appearing in my subconscious. There I was in the middle of one of my usual dreams -- wherein I and a rotating cast of friends are chased through Gothic settings by nameless, faceless bad guys (we can save the psychoanalysis for a future column, thanks) -- when I looked over and who was running beside me in my dreamscape but YOU. Why you were only wearing a skimpy bikini was anyone's guess.

And now we've come to this. As I'm writing this very column, film crews are out today in the Quad Cities shooting a made-for-cable disaster movie with the working title "Megafault." The male lead has been announced: It's Eriq LaSalle, best known as Dr. Peter Benson from NBC's "E.R." What HASN'T been announced is the female lead. But I'm a smart guy with ears to the streets, and I've heard rumors who that actress is. I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with Frittany Murphy.

The gossip mill offers a variety of reasons for the secrecy. They say it's a case of an overprotective and loving husband. Or maybe it's a fear of the ruthless Quad City paparazzi who harass me on a daily basis. But it's clear what the REAL reason is why everyone's being so hush-hush: she's in town to secretly stalk me. Apparantly my movies and my dreams just aren't enough, eh, Brittany? You just had to show up in person to chase down the love we dare not speak of.

It's just too late, my dear. I'm in a happy relationship, and you've got a new husband to think of. Our romantic liaison can't happen. Fate has dealt us a semi-sweet hand and our tryst is just not in the cards. The madness must end. I'll do whatever it takes to be left alone. The way I see it, there's only one way to prove once and for all that our love simply can not and must not carry on:

I need to take you to dinner, famous actress Brittany Murphy. Perhaps once and for all, in a romantic setting before a steaming plate of Rossmeat with extra bacon, you'll gaze into my eyes, bear witness to my brute machismo, and once and for all realize that I'm not the humor columnist for you. Tell you what: I'll even pay.

The torment must end. I realize that I'm a hunky, hunky guy. And if the price I must pay for my hunkiness is to constantly fend off A-list Hollywood celebrities with a stick, then so be it. But Brittany Murphy, you need to forget about me. At the very least, you certainly shouldn't call me at the newspaper office Monday through Friday during normal business hours at the number conveniently located in all major Quad City area phone books. And you certainly shouldn't e-mail me at sbrown@qconline.com. Or look up my Facebook profile that I check multiple times in a day. Get over it, babe. It's time to stop living in a fantasy world. Cough.

COLUMN: Discotech

It's official: I hate getting old. I know that's a horribly cliche way to start a column, but it's the truth.

I refuse to go quietly into that night, but the facts are simple. I am 38 years old. That makes me an awful lot closer to 40 than 30. If the show Thirtysomething were still on the air and casting, I would probably be considered too old. The fact that I even remember the show Thirtysomething makes me too old.

People my age are rapidly becoming fuddy-duddies. Don't deny it - you are. At 38, you're no longer in a coveted advertising demographic. You're not supposed to listen to and/or comprehend Top 40 radio. When we watch shows like "South Park," we're supposed to grimace and say something like, "What ARE we teaching our kids these days?"

I don't wanna teach kids. I wanna BE a kid. As a life-long single dude who's yet to chalk up any dependents and/or crying infants whose lives I'm inexplicably required by law to sustain, I end up having a lot more in common with your average 18-year-old than someone my own age.

And normally I'm cool with that. I think I'm holding my own fairly well thus far. It's not often that I've had a Danny Glover moment and announce that I'm too old for this feces. But last weekend? I was too old for this feces.

You guys know I'm a bit of a music nerd and still DJ every weekend at a dance club down in the District, right? Well, not to bore you with weird DJ minutae (unless you want me to, because I can -- oh yes, I can,) but part of being a super awesome DJ is spending an inordinate amount of time online, digging for remixes and tracks to make me sound better than the dude DJing down the street.

Well, most of the remixes that I rely on come from a couple guys out of Milwaukee called DiscoTech. Well, the other day I get a text message from one of my DJ friends: "DISCOTECH IN PERSON. IOWA CITY. SAT NITE. COMING?" You didn't have to ask me twice. Within minutes, I had arranged a fill-in at the club and a carful of friends itching to roadtrip.

After wandering around downtown Iowa City for a bit, we settled on a little restaurant called Givanni's where I had THE best piece of salmon in my life followed by a stellar creme brulee - it was a full-on foodgasm and our whole table was smitten.

Afterwards, we headed to the gig -- to find ourselves pretty much the only ones there. we settled on a booth when they first started showing up. College kids by the truckload. It turns out our relaxing night out was the last stop on one of the biggest bar crawls of the school year. Within a half hour, the place was at capacity with barely legals, all clad in identical baby blue bar crawl t-shirts, all of whom appeared to have been crawling since, oh, noon-ish, I'd reckon.

Kids would walk by me yelling while their drunken spittle would land on my face. Girls were dancing on tables. Guys were high-fiving each other. At one point, I swear to you, two hundred people started yelling "To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!" for reasons unknown. Two hundred people who weren't even alive when "Animal House" was made.

Suddenly I began to wonder if I never feel out of place at my club only because I'm safely tucked away in a DJ booth. Out in the thick of things, I felt like Old Man Brown the Hipster Buzzkill. A few instant truths about today's dance-clubbing college kids: (1) They all look like they're 12. (2) They're now officially young enough to be my children. (3) Regardless of age, no one in Iowa can dance, and alcohol doesn't help matters. (4) I wanted to knock half of them upside the head and yell, "GROW UP!"

Still, the guys from DiscoTech put on a great show, and it's always humbling to watch DJ's waaaaay better than myself. I just wish I wasn't forced to see them while surrounded by the cast of "High School Musical 8: The Collegiate Binge Drinking Boogaloo." But would anybody else my age care about a couple of great DJ's?

I say yes. We just can't let the kids know. It's time we almost-40's take the fun back from today's generation - they're clearly too idiotic to handle it. So here's my plan, middle-agers. We open a club just for US. But we have to be sneaky about it.

Outside the place, we pipe out nothing but Billy Joel and Celine Dion on an endless loop. Then we hire a couple people to sit by the window, read the paper and put together jigsaw puzzles. This is to ensure that no 20-something ever step foot inside. Then on the inside, we fill it with everything we've ever wanted to do but felt too old for:

Hip-hop music. Guitar Hero & Rock Band. Lazer Tag. The Cupid Shuffle. Wii Bowling. Video screens that air nothing but "South Park" and "Gossip Girl." We might be losing our hair, but there's no rule that says we can't still pop, lock, and drop it from time to time. We'll just keep the lights reeeeeal low on the dancefloor so noone has to see it.

Something MUST be done. The war against fuddy-duddy-dom must wage on. When I go out of town and witness world class DJ's in an upscale nightclub and all I want to talk about is how great my salmon dinner was, there's a problem. It doesn't have to be this way. Rage, rage, I say! Rage unto the dying of the light! We're only as young as we feel!

On that note, I need to call it a day. The arthritis in my typing fingers is really acting up -- rain must be a-comin'.

COLUMN: Area Rug

I've got a dilemma, Quad Cities. My feng shui is all kinds of funked up.

Let's flash back to a decade or so ago. My wee little efficiency apartment that had seen me through the latter half of my college years was becoming a touch less than efficient. With every nook, cranny, and corner of the apartment piling up with an excess of my stuff, I was officially outgrowing my habitat.

Just as I was gaining the gumption to begin a new apartment search, my landlord came to me with an offer. A one-bedroom unit had recently opened upstairs in the same complex, and it could be mine at a reduced rate -- if I didn't mind the current state of the unit's carpeting, which was, as she put it, "a little stained."

I went upstairs and had a peek. "A little stained" was the understatement of the year. The only thing "little" was the part of the carpeting that WASN'T stained. You almost had to applaud the enthusiasm and level at which the previous tenant desecrated his living space. Perhaps he was an aspiring auto mechanic who chose to practice his oil changes in the center of the living room. To call it "a little stained" would be like calling a Jackson Pollack painting "a little off-white."

So the carpeting sucked, but the rest of the place was quite nice, and the price was right - so I did it. I boxed up my stuff, bid adieu to the one room I had called home for nigh on a decade, and moved on up to a deluxe apartment in the sky. It's the place I still call home to this day.

My first order of business, though, was the carpeting. I rented a floor cleaner and gave it the ol' college try, but it only turned the stains from ungodly to unsightly. There was only one choice left - hide the carpeting at all costs. Or actually, given my budget, hide it at as low a cost as possible.

That's how I found myself at one of those 24-hour big box stores browsing for area rugs. And if there's one thing that big box stores are known for, it's clearly NOT floor coverings. When shopping for a rug at a megalithic-mart type place, there's only one question you have to ask: which of these fashion atrocities is the LEAST terrifying?

This explains the Rug o' Infinite Tackiness, a staple of my apartment for a decade and a constant conversation piece to many of my friends. Words can't do it justice. It's as if I somehow single-handedly freed Tibet, and it expressed its gratitude by vomiting all over my living room floor. I'm sure whoever designed it was thinking words like "ornate" and "exotic," but the end result looked like a set piece from a Bollywood version of "Goldfinger." At least it was better than the leopard-print option I left behind at the store.

For years, the Rug o' Infinite Tackiness served me well, but like all good things, it eventually reached its final sunset. I looked at it the other day and it appeared to be woven of 80% cat hair. In fact, my cats had clawed and frayed the edges so bad that in the past years, two vacuum motors lost their lives wrapped up in its tacky tendrils. It was time to bid the grand dame adieu.

I checked the big box stores to discover tacky area rugs had evolved to a new and exciting level. Suffice to say that apparantly these days, shag is "in." I chose "out," and instead walked into my favorite Moline furniture store -- a place where I walk in and immediately yearn for 80% of the store's inventory. A place that caters to furnishings that makes hipsters salivate. There's only one problem: hipsters are usually too busy being hip to bother making money, and this store might just be the most over-priced joint in the Quad Cities.

I found at least ten area rugs there that would look swell in any abode, but the cheapest sale price I could find was $600. Frankly, I'd rather stare at stains from the crooked angle of sitting on a wallet overburdened with $600 in it. I was whining about my dilemma to a friend, who stared me down and said, "Why don't you just go to Ikea?"

Of course! Ikea! Swedish functionality and affordability could be mine for only a 3 hour drive to the suburbs! On my very next day off, I leapt into the Beetle and journeyed up to Bolingbrook. I strutted through the doors of Ikea to the smell of cinnamon rolls and lingonberries. It was the smell of hope. Within minutes, I found a perfectly delightful striped area rug that somehow managed to match my sofa AND walls simultaneously. Oh, and some nice little plastic glasses. And ooh, a lint roller. And look at that desk lamp for only $9.99! Aww, lookit this cat bed! Hey, A mirror!

That's when it hit me. Ikea, for all its European pomp and circumstance, is nothing more than a big box store. It's the same mass-produced, low-priced consumer-quality junk you can find at any other megamart -- just infinitely less tacky. Thanks, Sweden.

My new rug is now down and enjoying its new role in life as a stain remover. I just can't get used to it. It changes the whole feel of my place. I can't watch TV without a small part of my brain going, "Something's weird! Something's weird! And stripe-y!" Hopefully this feeling will pass and I'll get used to the new rug sitting below all my furniture. If not, I can just go back to Ikea and get all new furniture -- and maybe some lingonberries.

COLUMN: Gay Marriage

Why can I not stop myself from soaking in the idiocy of others? I'm a smart person, right? I went to college. Okay, sure, I skipped my share of classes, but I've got a diploma in my closet certifying that at least a portion of my intellect is broadened and intact. I should know better. I should have self-control.

But noooo. Every time a controversy starts brewing in the news, my fingers leap to the internet and I surf at warp speed directly to the comments section of our newspaper's website.

Some people clearly live to hang out on our website and leave incendiery comments all the live-long day. Some have valid points in their rhetoric, while others craft comments that are a stone's throw from all-out racism, bigotry, and stupidity. It is a non-stop showcase of the best and worst of extreme left-minded and right-minded opinion. And invariably, I get suckered in.

Here's how it usually works. We'll post a news story. The topic doesn't matter - it could be about a hotbed issue or it could be a story about a cat getting stuck in a tree. Either way, someone will come along and find a way to be incensed and outraged about it.

"I hate cats! We need to kill all of them with our guns that President Obama is trying to take away from us," the right will say.

"I love cats! We should harvest their stem cells for our socialized health care program," the left will say.

Within five posts, someone will quote the Bible. Within ten posts, someone will reprint a speech by Ron Paul. Within fifteen posts, all-out melee ensues. I, meanwhile, gaze upon it with raised blood pressure, aghast with the shock and awe and knowledge that what I'm seeing are only the comments fit for print in a family publication.

And that's a cat in a tree. Imagine the fun when we post a news story that REALLY ruffles feathers and polarizes the masses. So when the news broke last week that the Iowa Supreme Court put the legal okay on gay marriage, I did what any good fan of entertainment would: I made some microwaved popcorn and logged on to our website.

In the wide pantheon of hotbed topics, gay marriage might just be the ultimate controversy. Is there anything these days that stirs up people more? And, as per usual, I don't get the big deal.

I'm not a political guy, nor am I a political writer. We pay people good money to touch those stories without the aide of a ten-foot pole. I'm best left to poking fun at the follies of life. But when it comes to the issue of gay marriage, I'm absolutely fascinated by the folks who get red-faced and outraged. Let me hop on my soapbox for JUST a quick second, I swear it won't be too painful. Here goes.

When I was in high school, my best friend was gay. I didn't care in the slightest. He was fun to hang out with and a fellow music nerd. But being his friend, I saw the teasing and the bullying first-hand. Between my friendship with him and my ineptitude for sports, a good chunk of my school assumed I was gay, too. In fact, at my 20 year reunion last summer, one of my classmates told my then-girlfriend in the bathroom that it was "so nice of her to come support me as a friend."

I once dated a girl who I thought might be THE one. It turns out I wasn't even THE gender. She came out of the closet shortly after we broke up. She now devotes her life to helping Iowans in need and she's doing great things with her life. Minutes after the Court's ruling, she announced that she and her girlfriend were officially engaged. I couldn't be happier and I hope I get to DJ the reception. She doesn't like dudes. I don't like onions. It happens -- to each their own.

Enough soapbox. I'm not here to condone the gay lifestyle. I know that some of you have really strong opinions and beliefs, and that's fine. That's the cool thing about America -- we're all welcome to our opinions.

But what I reeeeally don't understand is why the idea of two same-sex people getting hitched is worth spewing hate and intolerance the likes I've never seen before. To those of you who are actively trying to protest the Court's decision, I've just gotta ask: WHY?

I'm not trying to be condescending, either. I'm trying to understand your mindset. I truly don't get why this is such an upsetting big deal. How in the slightest does this ruling affect you? Does it make your heterosexual marriage any less valid? Nope. Does the piece of paper acknowledging their marriage impact your life in any way? Nope.

Isn't it just common sense? If you don't condone being gay, then, umm, don't be gay. If you get invited to a gay wedding and it's not your thing, don't go. If your religion frowns upon homosexuality, same-sex couples will not be knocking on your chapel door. Have your belief, that's the American way. But why waste energy and bandwidth and legal resources to force that belief on someone else? That's not what our country's all about.

I hate Bon Jovi. I hate their stupid smug smirks and their stupid smug songs. As far as I'm concerned, they could ride out of town on steel horses in a blaze of glory while both livin' on a prayer AND giving love a bad name. That said, I'm not going to step into your living room and demand that you stop listening to Bon Jovi. I don't care what you listen to, just as long as I don't have to hear it.

My views on marriage are the same. Just because gay couples can be legally wed doesn't mean that your Iowan way of life is changing in any way, does it? If anything, it might be a boon to the local economy -- weddings aren't cheap these days.

I'm not asking you to change your beliefs, whatever they may be. Stick with your opinions and feel free to rant them in the online comments for this very column. I honestly don't care. But that's my whole point here: neither should you.

My Computer Caught the Swine Flu... Twice.

Howdy all.

I know it's been about a month since my last update... urgh :/

But this time there's an excuse far better than my laziness. Little did I know it was International Technology Failure Month, and boy, have I been celebrating in style.

First, my computer at work crapped out on me. For the first time EVER, I caught a virus, and it crippled my computer like little else I'd ever seen. Our IT guys had to get me a complete Windows reinstall and a happy little lecture on why it's probably NOT a good thing to click on the "Enlarge My Penis? Sure!" ads and I was good to go...

For exactly two days. That's when my computer at HOME died. This wasn't a virus, but a hard drive breathing its last. So I got a little preoccupied with saving the precious data therein (500 GB of music with NO backup. YES, I am an idiot.)

The GOOD news is that, thanks to my awesome friends in the Dispatch IT Dept., they're in the process of saving most of the stuff on it and I hope to have it back in 24 hours.

The BAD news is that, while I was computer-less at home, somehow a SECOND virus reared its ugly head on my work computer, crushing it ALL. OVER. AGAIN.

Now here's the thing. I tend to pride myself on my computer abilities. I don't know the first thing about hard drives or how to diagnose/fix any problems that arise... but I DO know my way around the internet better than most.

I've had a PC at home since 1994. And I pretty much LIVE on the internet, including some not so happy places on the net. As a semi-professional club DJ, I'm always on the make for the newest and greatest music -- and over the years, that's involved everything from Napster to Limewire to seedy back-alley Russian websites and such.

And I have NEVER had anti-virus software on my home computer. And I have NEVER gotten so much as a hiccup of a virus on my home computer...

Yet I'm supposed to believe that I picked up TWO devastating computer viruses within 14 days of one another at work? I call party foul.

My theory is that someone (i.e. perhaps our cleaning staff, perhaps an off-the-clock employee) is sneaking upstairs to our neck of Cubicle-World and going willy-nilly on our computers. A few weeks ago, I logged on in the morning to find a rich and exciting web history of checking out dudes on Match.Com. No offense, but that's not really my style (or sexual preference.)

So now we're installing security cameras and putting "VERBOTEN!" signs on all our puters and seeing what happens.

The point is, my columns are saved on my home computer... and backed up on my work computer. And both have been fritzed out for the better part of two weeks now.

So as SOON as I'm back online with my column archive, I'll update the blog. That might even be tomorrow or later today, so keep yr fingers crossed!

In the meantime, how 'bout that Lost season finale, eh?