COLUMN: Ghost Hunting

Summer brings to mind many adjectives: carefree, lazy, relaxing, tropical, sunny, delightful, etc. Thus far, mine can be described as spooky. And perhaps a little stupid.

In my never-ending quest for personal growth and long-term success, I've set a series of important goals for myself this summer. Well, okay, ONE goal: It's time to get my DVR queue down to a manageable level.

This is the ONE time of year when I get a respite from my arduous and time-consuming TV watching schedule. We're in that magic window between the end of season finales and the start of my true summer shame: Big Brother. It's the perfect time to watch all the shows that have been gathering and taking up space on my DVR.

There's just one problem: it's mostly all quite terrible stuff. I watch all the good quality shows live, which means I leave the DVR to tape all my guilty pleasures. My DVR presently sits at 98% capacity. And I'd reckon about 95% of that 98% is nothing but shows about ghosts, UFOs, and sasquatches. I realize this sort of television fare is best suited for times a bit more Halloween-y, but some of these shows have been stacking up SINCE Halloween, so I need to get my summer paranormal on, y'all.

I like to think that I'm not a stupid person. That said, I DO enjoy my share of stupid shows about things that go bump in the night. Is most of it ridiculous hocum designed to get ratings and appeal to the lowest common denominator of humanity? Absolutely. Do I still watch it religiously? You betcha. And now I have somewhere in the range of 150 hours of this nonsense to catch up on, all so I can clear up room to record even MORE nonsense.

So while you've been enjoying nights out with good weather, great friends, and grilled food, I've been sitting here watching people take electromagnetic readings of door handles to prove the existence of bogeymen. Good times.

I'm starting to realize I can only suspend my disbelief for short doses. The more of these shows I watch, the more ridiculous they become -- and this is a genre that can already make the leap from scary to silly in a heartbeat. Among the worst offenders is a show featuring a woman with purported psychic powers who enters supposedly haunted homes and communicates with the dead. Having spent last night binge-watching, I have questions.

Each episode follows the same rough outline. We meet the scared homeowner who goes into great detail about their haunted domicile. The poor family is usually being plagued by unexplained noises, strange shadows, and the ever-popular "feeling like we're being watched." Sometimes they report seeing ghostly figures and apparitions popping 'round to say hello.

Then it's later that night. The psychic lady enters the house and says something ominous like, "THIS IS NOT GOOD!" before regaling us with tales of the evil and malicious spiritual forces at play.

Here's my question: I've seen umpteen episodes of this show, and I've yet to see her encounter ONE friendly ghost. Is there some kind of afterlife prerequisite that all ghosts must be demented or have some kind of malicious murderous agenda? As far as I'm concerned, this would be a bummer.

I've always hated change. When I'm forcibly shuffled off this mortal coil, if a white light shows up to take me away to the loving oneness of the universe, there's a pretty good chance I'll go, "Thanks, I'm good. I'd rather just stick around my living room if that's cool." I've always thought I'd be a fairly decent ghost to have around, but I'd clearly be a letdown if any psychic show came a-calling.

"I'm afraid you were right. Your house is haunted by the unholy presence of a dark spirit."
"Horrors! What does it want?"
"Let me attempt to communicate with him."
"I'm scared! What do you want, o spirit demon?"
"He says... he says... he says the band you were listening to last night was prosaic and derivative. He wants to make you a mixtape. He also hopes you could leave your TV on HBO. He wants to discuss the ending of 'Game of Thrones' with you."
"Oh no."
"THIS IS NOT GOOD!"

Pity whoever buys my house.

At the end of every episode, the psychic then tells the homeowners how to rid themselves of their otherworldly infestations. This can involve anything from salt to prayers to exorcisms and/or shamanic rituals -- all your standard ghostbusting checklist type stuff. But in the episode I watched last night, she produced a vial of something called "tar water" supposedly culled from one of the more voodooey bayous of Louisiana.

"One drop of this in each room," she explains, "and all spirits will be banished."

Well, that's handy. But wait, ALL spirits? So shouldn't tar water be the answer to every one of these episodes? In fact, shouldn't every episode from this point on last for exactly one scene?

"My house is haunted. Please help!"
"Here. Have some tar water."
"Much better. Thanks. Goodbye."

This might make for a slightly less entertaining program, but clearly a more efficient one -- not to mention a much-needed boon to the struggling tar water industry. Most importantly, it'd sure take up less space on the DVR. TV should hire me. It'd give me something to do this summer -- looks like I may have some free time on my hands.
   

COLUMN: Wasp Nest

Help me if you can, Quad Cities. I'm feeling down.

I'm working on this column Tuesday night. As I type these words, those lucky and/or wealthy enough to have tickets are presently at the TaxSlayer Center breathing rarified Beatle air. Sir Paul's in town while the biggest music geek I know -- namely, ME -- sits on my couch making a pouty face.

I shouldn't complain. I've seen my fair share of amazing concerts. Plus my couch is comfier than the seats at the TaxSlayer, and I should be grateful just to have a roof over my head and a place to call my own.

There's just one problem. My place is under siege.

I had no idea until last week. I was in the yard checking on the evergreen tree I've been babying since I moved in. But then something caught my eye, I looked up, and that's when things got fuzzy.

I've never fainted before in my life, but I'm pretty sure this was close. I may have forgotten to breathe for a bit. After thirty seconds of paralyzing fear, I blinked, ran full bore inside the house, and commenced freaking out.

There, hanging on the side of my house, was a wasp nest. No, I'm underselling it. This was a wasp metropolis, larger than a basketball, attached to MY safe space. At least I thought it was my safe space. It turns out my confines are no longer friendly.

Nothing makes an afternoon fly by quite like crippling irrational fear, and nothing turns me into a cowardly idiot faster than insects that fly and sting. If a bee gets near me, all rational thought ceases. I will run and scream like an idiot. I have tried to jump from moving vehicles. I once had a fast food employee think I was having a stroke in the drive-thru lane because a bee landed on my shirt and the only noise I could make was "Gfffraak!"

There is reason to my apiphobia. When I was little, I stepped on the wrong barn board and some angry bumblebees sent me to the emergency room when I puffed out with hives and my throat almost closed. Honey used to do the same, but nowadays I can eat it without problem, so there's a fair chance I've outgrown my allergy -- but I'm in no hurry to find out.

Wikipedia says that "unreasonable fear of bees in humans may have a detrimental effect on ecology," to which I say, "Sorry, ecology." I still want all bees to die. Look, I get it. Bees pollinate flowers and make honey. They're nature's little helpers who also occasionally inject us with venomous poison. But as far as I can see, there's no good argument for wasps. Wasps are just mean little attitude problems whose sole purpose is to make me act like a ninny and lose bladder control. Wasps are the worst.

I sent two texts. The first was to my friend Jason:

"Giant wasp nest on house. Will never sleep again. Their house now. Its been a good run. Goodbye forever."

The other was to my mommy.

"Wasps now own my house. Prepare bedroom, moving home. Buy cat litter."

Thankfully, Jason showed up before I could pack a suitcase. "Let me see this huuuuge nest," he said with an eyeroll until I pointed at it from the safety of my living room.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed. "You weren't kidding. That thing's huge!"

"I KNOW," I said, because, well, I knew.

"It's also vacant."

I crept around the house and steeled myself for another glimpse into my worst nightmare. Sure enough, the nest was empty. In fact, the bottom half of it was gone. All that was left were the desolate ruins of Wasptopia. I wasn't sure whether I felt relief or anger. The imminent threat was gone, but did I really spend 2018 as the unknowing landlord to hordes of my mortal enemy?

One thing was certain - this nest was getting evicted. The only thing I owned capable of reaching the nest was a feather duster with a telescoping handle, so if you happened to be driving through Rock Island and witnessed two weirdos playing the least manly game of aerial croquet imaginable, my sincere apologies. After a few misguided whacks, we brought it down.

And by "we" I mean Jason. I was cowering a half block away. Jason grabbed the nest and brought it over.

"See how cool it is? Look how much work they put into the creation of these things."

"Yes," I replied. "Behold this majestic and wondrous creation of nature. NOW BURN IT WITH FIRE."

I've had my fill of insects this season and it's only June. I've fought bagworms, gnats, wasps, and now tardy mayflies are coming around. Maybe it's a good thing I skipped the concert. I'm tired enough of bugs. The last thing I need are Beatles.

COLUMN: Bagworms

It's been a rough spring.

Record precipitation has ravaged the heartland with unspeakable flooding. We've seen neighborhoods evacuated, businesses shuttered, roads closed, and farmland devastated. I still have friends wading through toxic muck just to get to their front doors. They say there's "no such thing as bad press," but I'd reckon the folks who work at HESCO might have a different opinion. It's been (and continues to be) a big mess.

I'm lucky enough to reside on higher ground with a dry basement (knock on wood and/or concrete.) I haven't been completely unaffected by the floods of 2019, but once you see submerged cars and underwater basements, it's hard to complain about the extra eight minutes it currently takes me to get to work.

But I think we can all agree on the worst part of this year's flooding: THE STUPID GNATS.

When nature rained on us for a month straight, it seemed cruel. When the sun finally emerged but you still don't want to leave the house because of gnat swarms? Well, that's just sadistic. I can't open my back door without a half dozen of those winged wonders making it inside, and I don't need my geriatric cats attempting triple salchows trying to catch the microscopic monsters.

We'll beat the flood and we can beat gnats, too. I'm thinking either a DEET airdrop or a mass deployal of whatever creatures feast on gnats, unless said creatures are grosser than gnats (i.e. spiders need not apply.)

At great personal expense, I can proudly report that I've single-handedly lowered the local gnat population by five. That's the number I've accidentally inhaled and/or swallowed this week. That's 0.03 needless calories I've consumed in the name of gnat-destroying heroics. Remember that when you see me. I'm not chubby -- I'm a hero.

Unfortunately, gnats haven't been my only insect problem this year. Nature is coming at me full bore.

It was only days after I moved into my house that I first noticed the wee little volunteer evergreen sprouting up beside my house. I couldn't bring myself to pull it. I was trying to make a home, and so was this tree. A decade later, it's tall and proud. It's too close to the house, so I have trim it back every year, but it's part of my life. I was even excited to see little pine cones on it this winter.

Until, that is, a friend corrected me. "Dude, those are cocoons." Eww. Kinda gross, but maybe I helped bring a few more butterflies into the world. This spring, I spent a boring rainy day researching cocoons on the internet, and I'm glad I did. Turns out I wasn't making butterflies after all. I was making something way more disgusting. Eww, indeed.

If your life has been torn asunder by the floods of 2019, be thankful of one thing. No matter how bad things are, you're not an evergreen bagworm. It turns out my lucky tree's been infested by freeloading squatters with about the worst existence imaginable.

They start life as little wormy caterpillars who seek out delicious trees. Once a home/victim has been found, they eat the tree up, all the while crafting and lugging around a little bag made from tree bark, dirt, and silk. With bellies full, they hang the bag on the tree and crawl inside. If you're lucky enough to be a male bagworm, you emerge as a mouth-less moth with little time and one goal (hint: it involves the music of Barry White.) You might not have a mouth, but you DO have an "appendage" so impressive that you can land on another bag and impregnate the female without even stepping inside. You are what James Brown wrote "Sex Machine" about. But you have no mouth, so then you die.

Female bagworms don't get to be moths. They just chill inside the bag hoping for a gentleman caller before they die. If they were lucky enough to get lucky, their dead bodies could harbor up to 4,000 babies who eventually emerge and begin the process anew.

So if you're feeling down from the flood, at least be grateful you're not walking around building and carrying your own coffin before sealing yourself inside and hoping you get sexually violated so that one day your children will eat their way out of your carcass. That's horror-movie level terrifying, and this demented miracle of nature has been playing out some four feet away from where I watch bad TV every night.

The best way to curb a bagworm infestation is to pluck the bags from the tree before the next generation comes out to say hello. I went into immediate action -- specifically, the action of telling my lawn guy to get a-plucking. Hopefully we got them in time, but I need to monitor the tree for further signs of infestation.

That's what I was doing last week when I happened to look up into the face of pure evil. This was followed by me making a noise like "Gahhhhhk," turning pale white, and almost cold fainting. More on that next week, as Shane's Fun With Nature continues.

COLUMN: UFO Twister

I've never been a believer in making a "bucket list" of things I'd like to do before I die. I live in steadfast denial of the aging process, and any admission of life having an expiration date would be a clear concession to the grim reaper that I refuse to make.

That said, there's two things I've always yearned to see while I'm around. This weekend, I almost checked both off my list.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again because I'm quite possibly very stupid: I want to see a tornado with my own eyes.

They're deadly, yes. But tornados are also spell-binding. They seem to defy all laws of reason and physics. When we go about our day, we're used to the world behaving in a certain way. For instance, we can generally rely on the ground staying on the ground and the sky staying in the sky. But sometimes, the sky gets super angry that it has to stay in the sky and instead points a swirling finger of destruction at the ground to up-end our lives.

I've always been one of those idiots who wants to run TOWARDS a tornado, not away from them (DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, unless you want your home to be Oz.) I grew up in a house that was virtually tornado-proof, so maybe that's why I've always found them more fascinating than terrifying. My current house would probably come down with little more than a huff and a puff, but it hasn't stopped me watching every idiot storm chaser on Youtube with envy.

As much as I yearn to witness one, the reality of tornados is sobering and horrifying. A few years ago, I saw the damage firsthand to homes in Fruitland, IA and Washington, IL, and there are no words. My thoughts and sympathies go out to everyone in Kansas, Ohio, and obviously right here who've been affected by storms, floods, and this spring's historic outbreak of twisters. As I type this Thursday night, tornado warnings are popping off in Iowa for yet another round of damage and terror. If this is the new normal, it's a scary normal.

I almost had a front row seat. Occasionally in this column, I've poked fun at a certain regional meterologist who likes to call snow "white gold" and cheers on blizzards with enthusiasm. As it turns out, he's a great guy who's just an unapologetic weather geek. Every spring, he takes a pimped-out van on a week-long chase across Tornado Alley. This year, he invited me along for the ride. I desperately wanted to go, but schedules were tight and my only option would have been driving out and meeting up somewhere mid-chase that hopefully wasn't in the path of funnel. 

It wasn't to be. When you're storm chasing, the storms call the shots. This season, the storms called him to eastern Colorado, a bit far me to play catch-up. No storm chasing for me this year. Instead, I sought solace with friends at my favorite place in the world: Codfish Hollow. If you haven't been to the farm-turned-concert-venue in rural Muscatine, you're missing one of the greatest treasures we have.

There we were, standing in a field next to a rustic barn blaring decidedly NON-rustic rhythms, when my friend pointed and went, "What's THAT?"

"That" turned out to be the second thing I've always wanted to see. In the northern sky, three equidistant lights were evenly gliding from west to east, and three things became instantly clear: it was unidentified, it was flying, and it was an object. Missing my chance to see a tornado sucked, but a witnessing a UFO was the best consolation prize I could ask for.

It wasn't even a clear night. Only a few stars were visible, but these lights were almost as bright as the Big Dipper itself. Was it three objects or one BIG object (aka the mothership where they take the abducted for routine probing purposes)? I stood transfixed as they disappeared into the horizon before springing into professional journalist mode. Thankfully, my years at the newspaper taught me proper interviewing technique in times of crisis.

I approached a couple of potential witnesses and calmly asked, "OMIGOD DID YOU JUST SEE THE [EXPLETIVE] UFO IN THE [EXPLETIVE] SKY JUST NOW?!?!?!?!"

So, fellow Codfishians, if a chubby insane person accosted you this weekend with tales of aliens in the night sky, he did NOT, for the record, take too much brown acid. He really DID see a [EXPLETIVE] UFO in the [EXPLETIVE] sky.

And I did, for approximately 16 hours. Some of you spent last Monday with family and friends on a day of rememberance and togetherness. Others may have spent the day submitting field reports to MUFON, the Mutual UFO Network. That's where I discovered five other identical reports that night, from Iowa to Michigan, reporting the exact same sighting. Whatever I saw was big.

And it was. While we were dodging storms and firing up barbecues, Elon Musk and his SpaceX team were releasing sixty new broadband satellites to orbit Earth. Before the satellites were properly positioned, they were released low enough to be seen by the naked eye. The mass of lights nearly sent the Netherlands into a panic. By the time they orbited back over North America, you could only see three of them. I found video of the flyover from a SpaceX fan in Chicago, and it was exactly what we'd witnessed.

So our UFO wasn't actually a UFO, but it was a FO regardless, and a day with a FO is better than no FO, I always say. Maybe one day I'll see something truly unidentified in the night sky. Maybe one day I'll be able to go on a real storm chase. Until then, tornados and UFOs remain on the bucket list I'll never admit to making because I plan to live forever unless an alien or a twister gets me.