COLUMN: Racing Mowers

Well, it's official. Summer's over.

All we have now are a few blissful weeks of crisp autumn air before ice scrapers come out, coats come on, and meteorologists start talking about the dreaded "wintry mix." I suppose the only thing to do now is sit back, reminisce, and take stock of those random moments that made summer special. In 2018, I have a clear favorite.

It must have been mid-July-ish or so. As is lazy Saturday custom, my friend Jason showed up at my door and we set off in search of anything to do or see. Usually this involves whining about having nothing to do before getting sidetracked in conversation and then eventually we'll look up and find ourselves 100 miles away and road-weary. On this Saturday, we set off in a vaguely northwestern direction and eventually landed in the uninteresting back country of Iowa.

You're a fine state, Iowa. You have, after all, "Fields of Opportunities." But on this particular day, we had journeyed well beyond the opportunities and found ourselves in nothing but fields. This was Nowheresville -- and, as it turned out, Nowheresville was having their county fair.

Now when I say "county fair," I'm sure images come to mind. Carnival rides, food vendors, happy families, et cetera. Right? Not in Nowheresville. As we drove past, all I could see were parked cars surrounding drab exhibit halls and sale barns. In Nowheresville, even their fairs are boring.

That is, until Jason yelled, "STOP! STOP! TURN IN!"

This generally means one of two things. Either (1) Jason had spotted something amazing, or (2) there was a bee in the car and I was seconds away from veering off the road and killing us both. Thankfully, this was the former.

Along the back edge of the parking lot, I hadn't noticed the primitive drag strip or the dozen or so trailers unloading their racers. But these weren't cars. These were souped-up, heavily modified LAWN MOWERS -- and we just happened to arrive at pre-race qualifying.

As we walked up, the noise was deafening. Once upon a time, these beasts were simple garden tractors. Now they were customized monstrosities of polished chrome, elaborate pipes, and nary a muffler in sight or sound. 

Why do people do this to these poor mowers? I suppose I understand the desire to be able to mow your lawn in 3.8 seconds, that's perfectly understandable. But I'd reckon none of these beasts had seen grass in quite a long time. It had to have taken HUNDREDS of man-hours to customize these mowers, and for what? This one day of the year when you get 30 seconds of muscle-mowing fairground glory? That's much of a payoff. Only later did I discover that there are racing LEAGUES for these things, and some of these guys are probably taking their Franken-mowers all over the midwest.

The one thing missing, though, were spectators of any kind. Only a small set of bleachers was set up for qualifying, and the only people around were drivers and their families. In fact, the only thing truly being spectated seemed to be the two of us. It didn't take long before we realized that many, many eyes were turned our way. We clearly did not belong.

"What if someone asks us what we're doing here?" Jason whispered under the roar of the engines.

"Simple," I replied. "We put on our best Italian accents and explain we're with Ferrari Motors, Lawn & Garden Division, and we're obviously here scouting for talent."

The stares didn't stop. It became clear that everyone in Nowheresville knew everyone else in Nowheresville -- except the two of us. It was unnerving. I checked to see if my fly was undone or something -- nope, all good there. But it still felt like some Invasion of the Body Snatchers scene where someone was about to point and yell "OUTLANDERS!" and then they'd all turn and point and scream and come at us zombie-style. I was plotting an escape route when Jason nudged me.

"Dude, hand on heart!"

"Whaa?" I started to reply, but then I heard it, too. Never mind the craziest sporting event I'd ever seen. Never mind that there were less than a dozen people in attendance. That didn't stop Nowheresville from bringing out a teenage girl who, behind all the engine noise, had begun a humble a cappella rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.

So there we were, standing in the middle of the parking lot, hands on hearts, given a brief respite from the Stranger-Danger staredown thanks to the stars and stripes. We gave the song the respect that it deserves -- while also silently stepping back towards the car.

"Oh, say can you see" (Step back.)
"By the dawn's early light," (Step back.)

Two seconds after respecting the Home of the Brave, we were in the Car of the Chicken, beat-feeting out of town before the Nowheresvillagers grabbed pitchforks and hopped on Husqvarnas that could likely outrun my Hyundai. I'm all for seeing lawn mowers that go zero to sixty, but I'd rather do it in a town that DOES cotton to strangers.

In the meantime, the only thing I'm fixing to modify are some pumpkins. Hello, fall. Good to make your autumnquaintance.

COLUMN: NASCAR fail

You shouldn't ever feel guilty about harboring a guilty pleasure. I've got tons.

I know I'm a nerd, but a nerd with some fairly advanced pop culture credibility. I love esoteric and thought-provoking TV shows like Twin Peaks and Mr. Robot -- but I also religiously watch Big Brother. I love dark movies with detailed character studies -- but I've also seen "Bridget Jones' Diary" like fifty times. I thrive on left-of-center artists that push the boundaries of contemporary music -- but I also own the entire discography of Debbie Gibson.

There's nothing shameful about liking something you're not supposed to. Well, unless that something is illegal. Don't murder people, even if you like to. That's a no-no. But other than criminal activities, I say embrace your guilty pleasures and wear them with pride.

Except my guilty pleasure is dying off, and if quick action isn't taken, it might not be ANYONE'S guilty pleasure for much longer.

I like NASCAR. I can't explain why. I've never been able to. I realize it represents pretty much everything in life that I'm supposed to hate. Whether it's fair or not, there's a stereotype of people who like NASCAR, and it's not pretty. Just listen to the folks who call in to NASCAR talk radio and you'll know what I mean. The scarier takeaway here is that I sit around and listen to NASCAR talk radio. It is my guiltiest of pleasures.

I know there's plenty of great NASCAR fans out there, so please don't think I'm trying to tear you down. I am one of you -- and like me, I'm sure you hate the unfair stereotype that most NASCAR fans are uneducated drunken hillbillies. That's just not true. I mean, look in the stands at any NASCAR event and you'll find... well, you'll see a wide variety of... err, no one?

I just watched the 25th running of the Brickyard 400, one of NASCAR's most iconic races. By and large, the stands were empty. No matter how positive the announcers sounded and even though they completely ignored the attendance, there was no hiding the empty seats around the track. In fairness, this year's Brickyard had to be rescheduled to a Monday after a weekend rainout, but still. Do you think Soldier Field would be empty if the Bears had to push back their game by a day? No chance.

The ugly truth is that fans are leaving NASCAR in droves -- and as fans leave, so are the sponsors. And when sponsors dry up, teams dry up. Last week, Furniture Row Racing announced that they're ceasing operations at the end of this season due to a lack of sponsor commitment. And Furniture Row is the home of defending Monster Cup champion Martin Truex Jr. If a championship team can't stay afloat, how are the others going to make it? Imagine if the New England Patriots went belly-up and gave Tom Brady a pink slip.

Strangely, though, as NASCAR flounders, they have yet to consult with ME as to how to fix things. Which is a shame, because I have the answers.

For starters, let's put the S back in NASCAR. Today's top level cars are far from "stock" -- they're aerodynamic racing machines that require a team of highly-paid engineers to perfect. I visited the Hendrick Motorsports complex a while back and it looked more like a science lab than an auto garage. The teams that routinely win are always the teams with the biggest engineering budgets. The new cars might be technical wonders, but racing was a lot more fun when it was souped-up cars you could actually see at a dealership. I'd rather see the best drivers win instead of the best pocketbooks.

Speaking of drivers, it'd be nice if they had some personality. Over the years, NASCAR has made a commitment to making their events family-friendly, and that's great -- but not when it's at the expense of racing. In order for NASCAR to captivate fans, it needs good guys to root for and bad guys to boo. It needs cars that bump and tempers that flare. NASCAR recently had a changing of the guard with the retirement of several older drivers who mostly couldn't adapt to the new high-tech cars. This new crop of drivers are talented, promising, smart -- and super boring to watch.

It's sad to say, but NASCAR's only saving grace right now is Kyle Busch. Most fans hate Kyle Busch. He's an egotistical jerk with a short fuse and a win-at-all-costs attitude. Best of all, he's a skilled driver who wins a LOT. Earlier this year, Busch and Kyle Larson were fighting for the win at Chicagoland. On the last lap, Busch intentionally spun Larson to take the win. Grabbing the checkered flag to a cavalcade of boos, Busch found the first camera he could and mimed cry-baby tears. The outrage was palpable -- and fantastic. Hating Kyle Busch is incredibly fun.

Today's combination of safety, science, and engineering is impressive, but it doesn't sell tickets. Nobody wants to see a race where elite cars get a half-lap jump on the rest of the field and everyone else politely drives in circles for three hours. I'm not saying NASCAR needs more wrecks -- if you're one of those people who goes to a race for the thrill of seeing a driver get injured or worse, you're pondscum. But now that the cars and tracks are MUCH safer, why not let drivers bang it out a little while balancing the technology to give all 42 of them a shot at winning? Once races get exciting again, fans will get emotionally invested and they WILL come back.

I know first-hand that NASCAR's not for everyone. My friends come over and I try to show them an amazing last-lap pass that I've recorded and their eyes roll before I can even grab the remote. But for a lot of us out there, Sundays wouldn't be the same without cars turning left all afternoon. Here's hoping they can figure it out before I have to find a new guilty pleasure. I hear pro wrestling's still a thing, right?

COLUMN: Late

Dear Boss,

I'm sorry I was 25 minutes late for work. Trust me, there's a simple explanation.

I am nothing if not NOT an investigative journalist. And I have carefully utilized my non-journalism degree and lack of investigative skills to uncover a very real conspiracy that runs so deep I might not even be able to convert it into an award-winning screenplay. I hope you people can handle the shock of what I'm about to reveal to you.

Why was I late for work? Because there exists a massive anti-Shane conspiracy involving (I'm pretty sure) the Hyundai Motor Company, Circle K Convenience Stores, The Iowa Interstate Railroad, Apple Computers, The Illinois Department of Transportation, and the passionate libido of a man known only as "Bill." 

As you may know, our office recently relocated to our new home near the East Moline riverfront. I reside in Rock Island. Allowing for my daily stop for caffeinated provisions, it takes precisely 22 minutes to get from my garage to the office parking lot.

Or so I thought. As I backed out of my garage, I noted that I'd left my driver side window cracked. This was noted when it started raining on my face. I generally prefer to make my daily commute free of facial precipitation, but when I hit the "up" button, my window instead made a noise like "gronk" and proceeded to roll DOWN.

My power windows occasionally go a little wonky when it's humid out, and the only way to fix it is to pull over, open the car door, and force the window back into position. Easily accomplished, but I was now sopping wet AND a minute behind schedule. No problem, I can make it up at the gas station.

Or so I thought. Every day when I stop for gas, I'm greeted by the same friendly clerk who has my morning coffee already rung up by the time I get to the counter. THIS day, though, I walked in to see a new clerk I'd never encountered before, who was on the phone with the regular clerk who was running late, and there was much dialogue and explanation to be had. Don't get me wrong, I love that place and everyone who works there, but I was now running FOUR minutes late. A challenge, but one I could handle.

Or so I thought. My car basically drives itself to work. Take the one way around Augie, left on 7th Ave., left on 44th St., annd... TRAIN. Grr. I come from Galesburg, land of trains. I know there's no avoiding trains. They simply make you late and you just have to deal. So as I sat there growing ever more tardy, I simply took solace in the passing graffiti alerting me that "Bill Loves Sweet Pea." Aww.

Five minutes later, I was rolling again, now on pace to be nine minutes late. That's bad, but not awful, and I was in the home stretch.

Or so I thought. Let's get one thing clear: no one asked ME if I wanted a new bridge across the Mississippi. Sure, the old I-74 bridge is a crumbling narrow deathtrap, but what's a trip to Iowa without fearing for your life at least once? I'm a fan of progress, but when progress closes River Drive without warning for God-knows-how-long, I'm less than enthusiastic.

So, too, were the other 30 cars impeded by the sudden detour. So now I was stuck deep in traffic and the only way out was to cut back to the one-way, which meant running into the SAME train AGAIN. In case you were wondering, Bill continues to love Sweet Pea. As I sat there now 14 minutes late, I realized I'd better call the office -- which I would have, had I not left my phone sitting on my couch back at home. I suppose one could argue that I'm more to blame here than Apple, but I wasn't the one who made the iPhone sleek and black and easy to blend into my couch. J'accuse, Steve Jobs!

With the train passed, I just needed to get up to the one-way and haul butt to work. Except the train had caused gridlock in all directions and it took SIX light changes to move three blocks. By the time I got to East Moline, it was too late. I turned to the office in JUST enough time to see the crossing gates go down.

And THAT, friends, is how I got stopped THREE times in one commute by the SAME TRAIN. As I sat there, looking at my office just past the boxcars, I wondered what Bill and Sweet Pea were doing just then. I'd like to think that Sweet Pea dumped Bill later that night because he showed up late after getting stopped by the very train he had just graffitoed. You suck, Bill.

And then, as the last car passed, I saw it. Just there, in the corner, was one simple piece of graffiti: "BILL RULES." I hope my co-workers didn't hear me cursing Bill from a block away, but it's a distinct possibility.

So THAT, boss, is why I was late. It's clearly a Bill-helmed masterplan. I guess I'll be setting the alarm a little earlier. I bet Bill gets to sleep in. Hey Sweet Pea, if you want to date a REAL man, give me a call. Just don't expect me to be on time.

COLUMN: Sekai No Owari

As many of you know, I am nothing if not an obsessive music nerd. And I've found a new obsession.

The majority of my music collection is taken up by dark atmospheric indie bands -- the kind of music that's usually only made for record store clerks and people who wear turtlenecks unironically. But I also appreciate the value of a good pop spectacle. One night I might be in a dimly-lit bar watching some intense beardo bear his soul with an acoustic guitar, but the next night you might find me having just as much fun in the cheap seats at a Britney Spears show. What can I say? Sometimes you want to hear artistic emotional music that touches your soul, and sometimes you just wanna see Gene Simmons spit fire and waggle his tongue.

So when I stumbled across an article recently that read, "2018's Biggest Music Spectacle Is A Band You've Never Heard Of," I was intrigued. And now I'm obsessed. You should be, too. Allow me to introduce you to the magic of Sekai No Owari -- the biggest pop band in Japan.

I've always had a soft spot for Japanese culture. I've got a friend who moved to Nagoya a few years back, and every so often, I'll get a care package full of Japanese goodies both amazing and incomprehensible -- and I love it all. This is, after all, a country where you can go to the corner store and buy corn-flavored Kit-Kats. A country that recently developed a robot you wear on your head that feeds you tomatoes while you jog -- because we all want to run while wearing a robot arm and fresh produce on our heads like a Terminator Carmen Miranda.

No country does pop music like Japan, and no pop band is quite like Sekai No Owari. They're a 4-piece band featuring Fukase on vocals, Nakajin on guitars and drums, Saori handles piano and accordion, and then there's DJ Love, whose only job appears to be creeping people out. No one has ever seen DJ Love's face -- he hides in public 24/7 behind a smiling clown mask. Already this band is awesome.

But it's Sekai No Owari's live shows that have people talking. A full orchestra dressed as mummies? Check. Inflatable trains that drop LED bracelets onto the crowd that sync up with the band's light show? Check. Onstage waterfalls? Sure. Pillars of fire? Absolutely. ANIMATRONIC LIFE-SIZE ELEPHANTS? You betcha. The band stopping mid-set to fight ninjas? Most definitely.

I've seen some good shows in my day, but I don't ever recall Bono fighting ninjas or Michael Stipe riding an animatronic elephant. Kiss only WISH they had this level of spectacle.

But as good as the live shows are, the songs themselves might even be better. In true J-Pop fashion, every tune is bubblegum pop that's been overly polished, overly produced, and fully orchestrated into little pop symphonies. Each song is a major-chord feel-good lovefest, and that's something woefully missing lately from the American charts. Earlier this year, Lil Uzi Vert went to #7 in the US with a song that goes, "All my friends are dead / push me to the edge." Sekai No Owari, on the other hand, recently had a Japanese chart-topper about falling in love with a 200-year-old magical snow fairy.

See for yourself. Just check out the video for "Honoo to Mori no Carnival." The lights come up as Fukase walks through a door into the woods, where he stumbles upon the rest of the band. DJ Love shows up playing a tuba because of course he does. And the subtitled lyrics read as such:

"The emergency exit of 'Cosmo Panic' in Yokohama / that's the entrance to the party"
(Okay, awesome. Secret parties are rad. What is it? A rave? An underground casino?)
"When you open the door, you will see a giant tree / This place is called Treeland."
(Sooo... not a rave then.)
"Here you are a superstar!"
(I'm a superstar in Treeland? I always suspected as much.)
"Tokyo Fantasy / Mummies are dancing too"
(You sure this isn't just Studio 54?)
The wizard said this to me: "You have to keep this love a secret, because if you don't, this girl's life will be in danger."
(Wait, what wizard? What girl? Am I a girl in this scenario? Why would you take me to a carnival where I could get killed?)
"'Please take me to the party' / You look at me with your sad eyes."
(No, what I said was 'Get me the hell out of this party, I don't trust those dancing mummies.')
"As I was staring at the robot at the bar, you started to get upset with me."
(Damn straight I did. Take me home... unless the robot wants to feed me tomatoes first.)
"Surrounded by people, I gave you a kiss."
(GREAT. Didn't you listen to the wizard? NOW MY LIFE IS IN DANGER."
"And now it's time for you to take the stage!"
(This is less "Tokyo Fantasy" and more "Spooky Tokyo Hell Dream.")
"I've decided to stay with you, my love, forever."
(And now I have a stalker. Just great.)

And, hand to God, at this point in the video, the band drop what they'e doing and launch into a zombie dance routine.

Clearly, Sekai No Owari are the best thing ever. And now, according to Wikipedia, they're working on an English language album and plan to conquer America. They've already conqurered my heart. If there's one thing our Top 40 charts need right now, it's a proper dose of fun. If there's six things our Top 40 charts need right now, it's robots, wizards, mummies, Treeland, 200-year-old snow fairies, and a tuba-playing DJ in a clown mask. I beg of you, go directly to Youtube and indulge.

Thank me later.