COLUMN: Thank You For Your Service

Have you ever woken up on the wrong side of life?

That was me the other morning. Instead of greeting the break of dawn with a spring in my step and a song in my soul, I instead woke with a scowl on my face and more than a few choice words for my alarm clock.

I'd like to offer an explanation for the rain on my parade, but it was just one of those mornings. I thought momentarily about calling in sick, but knowing MY luck, next week I'd come down with ACTUAL flu and need that sick time. Besides, I'm too annoyingly honest. My guilty conscience would kick in and I'd probably spend my entire Ferris Bueller adventure checking work e-mails from home and worrying about co-workers having to cover my duties. I'm so lame.

By sheer willpower and a thunderous need for caffeine, I forced myself into action and went about my morning rituals. As I began the flooded, bridge-traffic-addled drive to the office, I took stock of the situation and tried to find the good mood that I had clearly misplaced. That's when I had my brainstorm.

What's the one thing I could do to brighten my morning and reaffirm my love of life? A selfless act.

I needed to do something -- anything -- to make someone's day better. It made perfect sense, right? Give a little bit of yourself to bring a smile to someone else's face, and you're destined to fill with warm fuzzies and self-confidence. The world might be going to heck in a handbag, but a little act of kindness might just slow the descent a bit. Pay it forward, as they say.

They, of course, are mostly full of it. The ugly truth is that most selfless acts don't really exist. My motivation was entirely off kilter. I wanted to commit a selfless act to improve my SELF, and that's the exact opposite of "selfless." I was definitely looking to make someone's day better -- and that someone was ME. I wasn't motivated by helping others. I was motivated by the warm fuzzies I'd feel when I did it. Did I just disprove the righteousness of charity on my morning commute?

These are NOT the sorts of philosophical quandries one should wrestle with prior to one's first cup of coffee, so I made a mad dash into my favorite gas station for a cup of black gold. That's when I saw him -- the unmistakable fatigues of an active military serviceman. Bingo. I'd seen it done many times before, and now it was MY chance. Today, I would pay for his coffee, thank him for his service, and be graced with good karma and warm fuzzies aplenty.

I'm in awe of our active and veteran military. They are brave and valorous, whereas I am cowardly and chicken. They run towards danger, whereas I have been known to run from a honeybee. I am the proud son of two veterans, and I was raised to appreciate the sacrifice that every man and woman in uniform makes. They are our nation's heroes, and I am always thankful of their service. Today, I would make sure to let one of them know.

I patiently stood behind the serviceman in the checkout line. As he approached the counter, I could already the warm fuzzies welling. I took a deep breath, cleared my throat... and that's when a voice from behind me rang out:

"I've got his coffee! Thank you for your service!"

Wait, what? And THAT is how, on a dime, I went from paying the due respect (and coffee) of one of our nation's heroes to instead wanting to choke some random stranger for the crime of being nice faster than me. I may have looked like a patient customer in line, but inside, I was SEETHING. How DARE someone selflessly steal MY selfless act? I had DIBS, buddy. As if things weren't awkward enough, that's when the soldier, not knowing who had just bought his coffee, immediately turned around and tried to shake MY hand in gratitude, leaving me to sheepishly mutter, "While I'm very thankful for your service as well, sir, it wasn't me."

Suffice to say, no mood-changing fuzzies occurred that day. Thankfully, my co-workers allowed me a fairly wide berth to grumble my way through the rest of the day, before I got home and went to bed wishing for a do-over.

Little did I know, I'd have that chance the very next morning. I found myself at the same gas station, in the same checkout line, but with a different soldier in front of me. Better late than never, I thought. Once again, I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and made it to "Ehhh" before I noticed he didn't have a coffee in his hand.

"Yes, I need seventy dollars worth of scratch-offs," the soldier said as I quickly ehhh-ed my way back to silence. I'm all for being selfless, but I guess not THAT selfless -- although I did thank him for his service and I hope his scratch-off party yielded bountiful results.

Being selfless feels good, but that's not why you should do it. You shouldn't need an excuse to thank a soldier or a vet. And if one isn't handy, donate to a cause or figure out any way to better someone else's bad day. They might just return the favor someday. As for me? I eventually fixed my bad mood with a small donation to my alma mater, who certainly doesn't need my help. But I earmarked mine towards my college's underfunded and underappreciated campus radio station, where even tiny donations go a mile. Once upon a Shane, that little studio was the epicenter of every good mood in my life. Helping it stay alive for others to enjoy gives me all the warm fuzzies I need.

COLUMN: Colors

I don't want to cause any undue alarm, but I'm pretty sure I may be broken.

To fully explain, you need to understand one thing: I'm a sucker for online questionnaires.

If you're on social media, you know the drill. You'll be innocently scrolling through Facebook when one of your friends shares a viral post like this:

"Here's a fun game! Let's get to know each other better! Have you ever driven a motorcycle? (Yes/No) Have you ever been in a car wreck? (Yes/No) What's your favorite food?" And on and on it goes. They're usually posted by some distant "friend" I barely even know. But like a dummy, I'll drop everything and sit there and answer all the dumb questions like it's super important.

Identity thieves honestly don't have to go to the trouble of writing malicious code or hijacking ATMs. If someone wanted to steal my identity, all they'd have to do is friend me on Facebook and put up a post like, "Here's a fun game! Let's get to know each other better! What is your social security number? What's your credit limit? Does your pin number start with a 4? (Yes/No)" I'd probably go, "Ooh, this IS a fun game!" and happily share all of my confidential life information.

The other day, I was operating on five hours of sleep. Why? Because the night before, I was getting ready for bed and someone was like, "Here's a fun quiz! What musical do you like? What musical do you hate? What musical do you think is overrated? What musical makes you cry?" The smart option would have been to complete the quiz the next morning when I had some spare time. Actually, no, the smart option would have been to skip it altogether and do something constructive with my time.

Instead, I stayed up for an HOUR filling the thing out. Instead of sleeping, I was Googling "lists of Broadway musicals" and watching Youtube clips of "South Pacific" as a refresher. All this to reply to a distant friend who likely spent exactly ten seconds looking at my answers and going, "Hmm." And it probably wasn't even a "Hmm, those are intruiging answers." It was probably more like, "Hmm, I wonder why this guy I barely know took the time to fill this out?"

But the WORST came last month, when I got suckered into THIS viral game: "Over the next ten days, post the cover art of ten albums that influenced you." Being a music geek, this was right up my alley. BUT WHAT TEN ALBUMS TO PICK? Could I possibly narrow my favorites down to just ten? Clearly, I'd need to consult my iTunes library, my CD collection, Spotify, and perhaps a series of short debates with trusted friends. But wait, the rules didn't say your FAVORITE albums. It just said ten albums that "influenced" me. Well, that's an entirely DIFFERENT can of worms. I should probably make a pot of coffee and think about this for a while.

When you're already an OCD record store geek, "fun" quizzes like this are nothing less than life-stopping. After all, I'm the same human being who once tried to determine my 100 favorite songs by judging my entire music collection across eight categories on a scale from 1-25 and totaling the points. I'm THAT silly. I still have the notebooks filled with scores (not to mention the dumbest How I Spent My Summer Vacation story EVER.)

But the REAL head-scratcher was the quiz that popped up on my Facebook feed yesterday: "Here's a fun game! Let's get to know each other better! Leave a comment and let me know your favorite color."

Simple enough, right? But here's the thing: I don't have a favorite color. I've never had a favorite color. I don't understand how people can have favorite colors. My mind doesn't work that way. I don't find one color any more or less appealing than another. Well, except Burnt Umber. We can all agree that Burnt Umber sucks. If your favorite color is Burnt Umber, you're probably a murderer.

I have no color allegiance. I've never been "Team Red" or found myself rooting for blue. Sometimes green things are pretty. Sometimes they're ugly. They're just colors. To me, this question makes as much sense as choosing your favorite letter of the alphabet. Are you an F gal? Or are you more of a J man? I just don't find myself gravitating to a particular color based on its, err.. color.

So am I broken? Does everyone else on the planet have a favorite color? Does this mean I'm not creative or artistic? Do I not have a soul? Should I prepare a notebook and figure out how to judge each color of the spectrum on a scale of 1-25 across 8 categories? My poor Facebook friend must be absolutely beside herself waiting for my response. If you'll excuse me, I need to make some coffee. Maybe black is my favorite color.

COLUMN: Mo Bamba

Welcome back to the semi-regular feature I like to call: Is The World Doomed Or Am I Just Becoming An Old Fuddy-Duddy?

I'm a fairly optimistic person who tries to see the good in everyone. And I like to think of myself as fairly progressive, able to roll with the changes and see new trends as exciting instead of threatening.

But as I ponder the state of the world tonight from my Armchair of Pointless Judgement, a couple things have me on high alert. There may be signs that the world is changing faster than I can keep up, and NOT in a good way.

Exhibit A: The rise and popularity of the song "Mo Bamba" by up-and-coming rapper Sheck Wes.

Are you familiar? If you don't know it, I bet your kids do. Your grandkids DEFINITELY do. Pity them.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those out-of-touch columnists who doesn't "get" rap music. I won't ever claim that today's kids don't understand what good music is (although I'd be lying if I said the thought's never crossed my mind.) But I moonlight on the weekends as a DJ, enjoying and playing those very songs at dangerous volumes to clubgoers half my age. There's a ton of great new music out there, and I encourage all of you to seek it out and stay hip (or possibly even hop.)

But "Mo Bamba" isn't your typical chart-topper. It's pure sonic anger. It's basically the sound of a fight waiting to happen. Most songs on the charts have tempos in the range of 90-130 beats per minute. "Mo Bamba" clocks in at a maddeningly slow 73 bpm. It's a funeral dirge of aggression that sounds like it was recorded in somebody's basement on a shoestring budget. Don't believe me? There's honestly a spot in the middle where the music accidentally cuts out and they just go "oops" and keep on recording.

I'd love to share the lyrics, but this is a family publication and I'd like to keep my job. I don't know if there's a single line in "Mo Bamba" clean enough to publish. Instead, I offer you this watered-down, family-friendly lyrical synopsis:

"Hello! I'm Sheck Wes. I take pride in befriending females of questionable virtue. Where is my associate with our illegal narcotics? I compare my success to that of a professional basketball player. Have you met my brother? He has a gun, and he will shoot you with it. The music just stopped. Oh heck, shoot, darn it all! It's back now. As stated before, I'm Sheck Wes and I'm quite wealthy. I am an exceptional drug dealer (despite still not knowing the location of my associate with our drugs.) I will copulate with your beloved and you shall be none the wiser. Did I mention that I am Sheck Wes?"

That's pretty much the whole song. And look, I get it. An essential facet of pop culture is making sure it occasionally scares your parents senseless. Elvis did it with his hips, the Beatles did it with their hair, Gene Simmons did it with his tongue. Marilyn Manson made an entire career out of terrifying suburban moms and dads. Rebellion is an essential part of youth. It's why God made The Ramones.

So if "Mo Bamba" became popular with a small segment of disaffected and rebellious youth, it'd make perfect sense. But with little club play and virtually no radio support, "Mo Bamba" sailed to #8 on the Billboard Top 40. That means a LOT of people are jamming out to this song, more than just your kids. And that's weird. Maybe guns and drugs and aggression are the new norm in our America?

This brings me to Exhibit B. Last Friday was a busy one in the office, so I decided to drive my lunch a couple blocks down to one of the few riverside parks not presently underwater. As I sat there decompressing, I spotted a guy walking his dog. I should be more like that guy, I thought to myself. Physically fit. Getting some exercise. Maybe I need a dog? And that was when the guy diverted and made a beeline for my car.

"Excuse me," he said, "Do you have a light? Oh wait, I found mine, sorry."

And my new friend used it to light up what I believe is defined as a fatty chronic blunt, then looked at me and cheerily said, "Fridays, am I right?" before engaging me in small talk about the weather and floods while Cheeching and Chonging it up with carefree abandon. I could have been a cop. I could have been an undercover DEA agent. I could have been a newspaper columnist in dire need of a topic. Didn't phase him one bit. I, on the other hand, beat feet outta there to avoid returning from lunch smelling like one of Willie Nelson's road crew. Drug laws have loosened, but they aren't THAT loose.

Maybe this is the new norm we're headed for. Who knows what we have to look forward to? Maybe it's a world of angry rap songs full of explicit swearing. But how angry can we be if we're spending our Fridays wandering around stoned in public? I'm not qualified to predict the future, but however it plays out, I'll do my best to sit in my Armchair of Pointless Judgement explicitly swearing -- that I'm neither fuddy nor duddy.

COLUMN: TiVo

I'd love to write a normal column this week. What do normal columnists write about this time of year? Something about the weather, the floods. Gardening. Spring break. Any slice-of-life tale of whatever people do when they're allowed to leave their living rooms.

Not me. I can't write about that stuff. I'm too busy being kidnapped. Or man-napped. Or whatever they call it when a grown adult is kept against his will. Folks, I'm being held hostage by my TiVo.

When our local TV cable carrier announced their partnership with TiVo to replace our DVR boxes, I was excited. A means to record must-see shows is essential when you're a spry, on-the-go whipper-snapper such as myself. Cough.

Okay, maybe I'm not snapping any whips per se. And maybe the REAL reason I have a DVR is to record one show while I watch another. But still, it's important. I use my DVR like crazy.

If television is an addiction, then TiVo is my pusherman. TiVo boxes do more than record shows. Let's say I want to record an episode of Big Bang Theory. TiVo says, "Sure, I'll record that. Do you want me to record EVERY episode I can find?" Well, gosh, TiVo, if you insist. And then it'll go, "Hey, if you like Big Bang Theory, here's a list of ten other shows that you might like, too. Shall I record THOSE, too?" Umm, I guess. And even if you say no, half the time it records anyways and ends up in a tempting folder called "Suggestions Recorded for You."

TiVo is constantly on the hunt for shows I might like. It's probably recording something right now. But that's okay, because TiVo boxes have lots of room. Mine can hold somewhere around 300 hours worth of shows. THREE HUNDRED HOURS! Just imagine how long it would take to fill that much space.

Answer: Two months. That's how long.

My TiVo is currently sitting at 99% of its storage capacity. Every night, I come home to a warning message that programs I've recorded are "GOING AWAY SOON" to make room for other shows I need to record. Just when I think I'm making progress whittling down my queue, TiVo records a bunch more stupid shows it insists I watch.

And when I say stupid shows, I mean STUPID shows. I usually watch the good stuff when it airs live. This leaves TiVo to pick up the slack on all the weird cable and reality shows I inexplicably like. Ergo, not only do I have 300 hours of TV to catch up on, I have 300 hours of lousy TV to catch up on.

For instance, my queue right now currently includes:

- 87 episodes of a "reality" show where a psychic and a cop investigate ghosts. The cop interviews residents while the psychic makes crazy faces and goes, "Ooh, this ghost is MAD!" At the end of every episode, they instruct the haunted homeowners how to rid themselves of the dearly departed, which usually consists of a warlock and/or priest blessing the house, performing a cleansing ritual, and doing the spiritual hokey pokey. Obviously its an important and thought-provoking documentary series that is in no way a giant load of hooey.

- 23 episodes of a DIFFERENT reality show wherein the same psychic and the same cop go BACK to the same locations to see if they're any more or less haunted than the last time. I only wish I was kidding.

- 7 episodes of "Kindred Spirits," wherein a couple of seemingly earnest ghost hunters don't always find too much. It's probably the most believable and enjoyable paranormal show out there. It's also kinda boring. But it needs to be watched because they occasionally employ the services of psychic Chip Coffey, who is the greatest television personality this side of Charles Nelson Reilly.

- 6 episodes of "Finding Bigfoot" that I haven't gotten around to watching. They stopped making this show two years ago, and I can only presume its because they found Bigfoot and accomplished their mission. No spoilers please.

- 11 episodes of "Live P.D.," which is exactly like the old show "Cops" except that each episode is roughly half a day long. It's mostly just police arresting drunken morons. I'd like to think I'm above the shameless exploitation of humanity like this, but it's pretty much the best thing ever.

- 67 episodes of "The Partridge Family," because one day I said to myself, "I don't know if I've ever actually SEEN The Partridge Family," and TiVo said, "Hold my beer" and taped them ALL. I've now seen 29 episodes and I think my curiosity towards the Partridge Family has been fully satisfied -- but TiVo went to the trouble of taping all 96 episodes and it'd be a shame if I let them go to waste.

- 17 episodes of "Meet the Press," because I feel like I need to balance out the ridiculous ghost shows with some quality journalism. And maybe one day, after I've watched all the ridiculous ghost shows, I'll get around to it.

So enjoy your spring, Quad Cities. If you need me, I'll be in my living room literally watching my intelligence slowly get sucked away. I just hope TiVo isn't gathering information about its users viewing habits to sell the networks. If HBO premieres a show this fall wherein a school bus filled with singing psychics chase imaginary monsters while being pursued by police, I'm afraid you'll know who to blame.

COLUMN: Aurora

Finally. With warmer temps and bluer skies, I can commence one of my favorite activities of springtime in the Quad Cities: leaving them.

I love the Quad Cities and all we represent. But there comes a time when one needs to head out in search of adventure, excitement, and life stories to pass down to future generations and/or fill 800 words in a weekly newspaper column. Spring has sprung, and aimless driving season has begun.

Of course, now that I'm  mature, grounded, and responsible, I can't just pick up and leave the Quad Cities on a whim. It takes a solid, rational reason.

Incoming text, Saturday 3/23: "Northern Lights supposedly visible tonight to the north. Wisconsin?"

That'll do.

Two hours later, with a carload of friends and a freshly selected playlist, we headed north. Because of journalism or something.

The Sun is our planet's life giver -- except when it tries to kill us, which is often. Occasionally, she gets mad and sends solar storms to bombard the Earth with charged particles. The good news is that we've got a natural defense system: our magnetic field, which causes them to dissipate in our atmosphere rather than shower us with radiation.

Best of all, the battlefront is super pretty to look at. The ionization from solar storms throws brilliant waves of color into the night sky at our poles. The aurora borealis (aka the Northern Lights) is a spectacle few people this side of Santa's Workshop get to see firsthand -- but every once in a while, the sun spits out a blast of radiation called a coronal mass ejection that allows the aurora effect to be seen in lower latitudes.

In 1992, a buddy and I were driving home from a late-night DJ gig in Cedar Rapids. Just when we were precisely in the middle of nowhere, we blew a tire. Instead of helping, I stood guard, transfixed NOT by automotive maintenance but instead by the green lights dancing in the sky to the north. It was incredibly random, incredibly beautiful, and incredibly annoying because it was 3 a.m. and we were tired and cold.

This time would be different. Early last week, scientists recorded a mass ejection capable of lighting up auroras all the way to Wisconsin. After a grueling three hour drive of laughs, music, and fun, we finally laid eyes on it.

And by "it," I mean nothing. This time WAS different, because this time there was no aurora whatsoever. I saw some street lights, and by definition they were to the north, but those weren't exactly the northern lights I had in mind. As it turned out, the sun pitched a curve ball and we avoided a direct hit. It's probably the only time I will ever go, "Aw, darn, I wish I was being bombarded by radiation right now."

Instead, we tried to make the best of Wisconsin After Dark. Once upon an aimless drive, I stumbled upon a Wisconsin eatery that had the best brisket sandwich of all time ever. I just couldn't remember the name of the town OR restaurant, but after 20 minutes of hunting for cell signals and Yelp reviews, we found it. A thirty minute drive and a forty minute table wait later, my mouth was reunited with the brisket of my dreams. I'm not one to dole out free advertising, but if you're ever in the town of Monroe, Wisconsin, make a beeline for Pancho & Lefty's. Give the brisket my regards, should there be any left that I didn't eat.

After that, there was nothing left to do but enjoy some sight-seeing in central Wisconsin, which is a good pastime when it's NOT midnight. But darkness never stopped us before, and that's when we took a fateful exit in the town of Verona. We were on an epic drive, so when you see an exit for Epic Drive, you HAVE to take it, right?

It turns out Epic Drive is actually the main drag into the campus of Epic Systems. They're the folks who design the medical coding software that 1 in 2 hospitals use. They are - how to say this politely? - exploding with money. And their massive headquarters is one or two Oompah-Loompahs shy of a Willy Wonka fantasy. There's a castle, a barn, a replica of King's Cross, and an alley that's a Harry Potter homage. There's a Star Wars hallway. Employees use slides instead of stairs. Toy soldiers and Humpty-Dumptys line the roads. It is equal parts amazing and ridiculous and makes me kinda want to be a computer programmer.

Of course, we couldn't see any of this because it was midnight. We could make out the dim outline of a castle followed by the dim outline of a barn and it's a wonder we didn't see the dim outline of an angry security guard wondering why a carload of weirdos were marveling at shadows.

After finding our way out (left at the wizard statue, right at the treehouse,) I looked up and collapsed with laughter. My friends looked at me like maybe I'd spent TOO much time in an Epic wonderland, but I just pointed at the road sign. There we were, 12:40 a.m., cruising down Northern Lights Boulevard. Mission accomplished.

We made it home by -- well, I don't know. Time had lost all meaning by that point. We missed the northern lights, but it was what I needed to get the aimless driving bug out of my system -- for about two days. Now I want to go back during normal human hours and witness more of Wisconsin's finery. After all, there's an International Mustard Museum still on my bucket list.

Happy spring, Quad Cities. Go enjoy it. There's an Epic world out there.