COLUMN: Twas 2.0

 

'Twas the month before Christmas, and all through the halls

Not a creature was stirring; they're all at the malls.

The stockings were hung by the chimney last week,

Even though it's November; I sure want to shriek.

Children everywhere nestle snug in their beds,

While visions of Fortnite toys dance in their heads;

And I with my checkbook, about to be fleeced,

Have yet to sit down for my Thanksgiving feast.

At cooking I'm still what they call a 'beginner',

Which explains tonight's Salisbury steak TV dinner.

In front of the TV, I plopped like a brute,

grabbed the remote and I took it off 'mute'.

I flipped past Netflix and ESPN

before settling in on a rerun of "Friends."

When, what to my wandering eyes should appear,

but ad after ad after ad... oh, dear.

As commercials flew by me so lively and quick,

I thought for a minute I was gonna be sick.

More rapid than eagles, the endorsements they came

Filling my head with a thousand brand names:

"Shop Wal-Mart! Watch Hallmark! Visit Bed, Bath, Beyond!

Shop Northpark! Shop Southpark!" Me? I just yawned.

Yuletide ads in November are such a pet peeve

I'd rather be lazy and not shop til Christmas Eve.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly

Cash flows from my hands in the blink of an eye.

I need presents for Mom, Dad, and my three cats so hairy,

And the gift exchange at work, which is always quite scary.

So even though Christmas is really not near,

Let's set up our trees and our plastic reindeer.

These greedy retailers are likely the reason

Why one day in December became a "holiday season."

These ads make me want to stomp, pout, cry, and yell,

But it's too late; we're already under their spell.

We buy all their toys, clothes, and perfumes so smelly,

And gift sets with miniature jars full of jelly.

So go wait in line; enjoy your Black Friday riot,

And buy Christmas sweets that'll ruin your diet,

Buy gift after gift 'til you hurt your bad back,

And wish you took to the mall a mule you could pack.

Christmas time is for families to be jolly and merry

Like an Afterschool Special or "Little House on the Prairie"

But we don't have time to go play in the snow,

We're too busy spending what's left of our dough.

See, the networks want us in a shopping mood

So they air holiday specials until we're all screwed.

Our shopping habits they try hard to hasten

It's November and I've already seen Rudolph in Claymation.

I suppose that I probably shouldn't complain

About this month-long holiday shopping campaign.

This Christmas bastardization doesn't give me any thrills;

But I work for a newspaper -- those ads pay my bills.

So I'll keep my yap shut and stop this lampoon,

Until one day Christmas sales start up mid-June.

And I say to you all with just a hint of fright,

"Merry Thanks-mas-O'ween, and to all a good night!"

(My first take on this originally appeared in our late great Iowa paper, The Leader, where I got my start back in 2004. It deserved a revamp with some tweaks. This will forever be dedicated to the great Brian Nelson, whose rhyming skills and booming voice in our hallways is missed to this day.) 

COLUMN: Bamazon

DISCLAIMER!

The following morality tale is a work of fiction. It is merely an imaginary anecdote to serve as a valuable lesson why one should never ever cheat the system. Any resemblance to any person, place, and/or newspaper columnist should be considered pure coincidence. This fictional story in no way constitutes or should be construed as an admission of guilt, wrongdoing, or liability by any party.

Once upon a time long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a smart youthful prince of a man who was beloved by all. Let's call him... Shawn.

About a year ago, Shawn was hanging out at his house watching TV with his friend, umm, "Felissa," who had been raving about a show that she wanted Shawn to check out. There was just one problem, and it made Shawn very, very sad.

The program in question was on a streaming service that Shawn didn't subscribe to. Let's call it, oh I dunno -- Bamazon Rhyme. This bummed Shawn out a great deal. You see, Shawn was a pop culture junkie. In fact, some townsfolk in the village went so far as to accuse Shawn of "wasting his life in front of the TV." Shawn didn't care. He wanted to see ALL the shows.

"No problem," said Felissa. "I can just log onto my account from here."

Within minutes, Felissa had synced her Bamazon account with Shawn's TV, and the two had a great afternoon channel-flipping and geeking out.

Time passed and Shawn forgot all about Bamazon Rhyme -- until the night Shawn happened to catch the Emmy Awards, where nearly every top prize went to something on Bamazon. Grr. If there's one thing Shawn hated, it was feeling like he was missing out on something special. But sadly, even though Shawn had few complaints with his station in life, he wasn't exactly rolling in expendable income. He already had subscriptions to Metflix, Hooloo, and Zpotify. He just couldn't afford Bamazon Rhyme.

But the lure of these award-winning shows simply proved too much. Here he was, sitting at home, while others were probably enjoying quality Bamazon programming like the Fabulous Ms. Faisel. How could he call himself a pop culture expert when he hadn't seen a single episode of Phleebag? That's when Shawn made a bad choice.

In a moment of pure pop culture weakness, Shawn may or may not have called his old friend Felissa up and asked to use her Bamazon Rhyme account.

Was this illegal in the fictional world in which Shawn and Felissa lived? Who's to say, other than perhaps a team of highly-paid entertainment lawyers? Bamazon Rhyme members get to stream on three different devices, and Felissa only used ONE. It might be legally fine for Shawn to temporarily lay claim to one of those extra devices with Felissa's permission. Shawn had to admit, though, that it was probably a grey area at best.

But Shawn had no time for internal debates about fairness and morality. He was too busy watching Phleebag. Hooray!

Several months passed. Shawn had only watched his bootleg Bamazon Rhyme shows for about a week before moving on to the next trendy show that came along. But last week, something tragic happened. There was a new novel he'd been looking forward to reading, so good ol' Shawn hopped onto Bamazon's website and quickly ordered the e-book.

Later that night, he opened up his Bamazon Kindle... but there was no book there. "What the...?" pondered Shawn. In his mind, he was already composing the indignant e-mail he'd fire off to Bamazon's tech support line in the morning. First, though, he logged onto the Bamazon website to make sure his credit card processed, and that's when he saw it.

"THANKS FOR YOUR PURCHASE, FELISSA!"

OMG. When Shawn used Felissa's account to watch Bamazon Rhyme months ago, it logged him onto Bamazon as HER and never logged her out. A really nice friend had done him a solid favor, and he had just repaid that favor by accidentally sending her a book -- worse yet, he had just unknowingly charged it to HER credit card! Shawn had made some awkward apologetic phone calls in his day, but never one like, "Hey, I just bought you a present! Umm... and you paid for it!"

Thankfully, Felissa was kind and forgiving and not too upset at her unwittingly purchased "gift." Thankfully it was a cheap fantasy novel and not something embarassing like "How To Talk To Women" or "Stop Picking Your Nose In 10 Easy Steps."

Moral of the story? Don't be a Shawn. Don't use your friends' streaming services. And if you DO, log out before you accidentally spend THEIR money. And whatever you do, you probably shouldn't write about it in a widely distributed newspaper column. Thankfully this was all a work of fiction and clearly never happened in the real world.

On a completely unrelated note, Dear You-Know-Who, my apologies again for you-know-what. I'll pay you back soon.

COLUMN: Rugby

It's time once again for another riveting installment of what I like to call "Shane Attempts To Understand Sports." Trust me, I'm about to give it a good try.

I've just never been one for the gridiron. Or the diamond. Or the court or the pitch or the rink or the field, for that matter.

Some people grew up on ESPN. I grew up on MTV. Some kids collected baseball cards. I collected records. Some kids spent Friday nights cheering their high school's basketball team to victory. I was a few doors away in the cafeteria, lugging in speakers and getting set up to DJ the after-game dance.

This is not to say I live an entirely sports-free existence. I'm pretty skilled at fair-weather fandom. I've breathed rarified Jordan air at the United Center. I was in the stands at Wrigley during Sosa's streak. I seldom miss a Super Bowl and I'm glued to the Olympics every four years. But if there isn't any regional or national pride luring me in, I usually can't be bothered.

Well, with one exception. I like NASCAR, and I'm tired of apologizing for it. Sure, it might represent most societal aspects I detest, but cars that go fast are cool, so sue me. On most Saturday nights, I'm DJing at some club until the wee hours. That usually means I wake up mid-day Sundays groggy and braindead. In those ugly Sunday moments, about the only thing my brain can successfully process is cars turning left for three solid hours.

Last Sunday, I woke up in my usual addled state of post-gig numbness. I flipped on the TV, but no race was on. That's because it was Saturday, not Sunday. (Told you my brain was addled.) Instead, I happened to have tuned in to the start of the final game of the 2019 Rugby World Cup.

"Well," I thought, "this could be a rare treat." Here was a perfect opportunity to see a sport I'd only glimpsed for fleeting moments while channel-flipping. And this wasn't just a chance to watch some rugby. This was a chance to watch the BEST rugby on Earth, right? This was the World Cup, and the last match of said World Cup. (Honestly, until last weekend, I didn't even know rugby HAD a World Cup.)

I sat there and watched the whole thing. And two hours later, I can safely report that I still have absolutely no idea what was happening. I'm somewhat convinced that the players didn't have any idea what was happening. I'm not even sure if the announcers were speaking English. I'm not even sure rugby is a sport.

I like to think I'm at least of average human intelligence. As the game/match/whatever its called went on, I assumed I'd eventually understand the gameplay. Nope. The more I watched, the less I understood. The less I understood, the madder I got. By the end of the game, players were celebrating and I was seething.

Rugby is sort of like football, in that there's a ball and you (sometimes?) use your feet. The field/pitch/whatever it's called looks footballish in nature, but with way fewer lines. Players attempt to score the rugby version of a touchdown, which is called a "try." This I like, because "good try, Brown," was really the only compliment I ever heard from any P.E. teacher (albeit often with an eyeroll.) If only we had been playing rugby, I would've been a hero!

So rugby is like football... mixed with a fair dose of Red Rover, keepaway, and "A Clockwork Orange" level of ultra-violence. If we had been playing rugby in P.E. class, I'd be no hero -- I'd be dead. Every rugby player looks like an MMA fighter. Just giant menacing dudes running full bore into one another. In most sports, when a player starts spitting blood, they're considerately and promptly led off the field. In rugby, they wipe it on their shirts like a bold fashion choice and just keep on keepin' on.

The teams try for a try (sigh) by running, kicking, and passing the ball downfield. Well, except they actually have to pass the ball UPfield, because you can only pass to a player that's behind you. The opponents, meanwhile, attempt to tackle the ball carrier -- and that's when things go entirely off the rails.

If a defender stops a ball carrier's progress, a bunch of players come together for a violent game of footsie called a "ruck." If the carrier keeps the ball in his hands, it gets even more violent and is appropriately called a "maul." If neither of those resolves the issue, someone yells for a "scrum" and all hell breaks loose. Basically, all the players dogpile into one another in an attempt to become WAY more intimate than necessary with the nether-regions of their smelly, bloody teammates. Based on the evidence I saw, I believe the objective of a scrum might be to successfully insert one's head entirely into the buttocks of the player in front of you. No offense to you rugby enthusiasts out there, but that's not the kind of try I'd ever care to try, thanks much. Eventually, the ball comes flying out of the middle of the fracas and play resumes as soon as the players gather up their missing teeth.

So, congratulations (spoiler alert) to the South Africa Springboks for (I think) beating the British team, who apparently have no name because nothing else makes sense in rugby, so why start now? The Springboks, by the way, are also called the Amabokoboko, because presumably that's the noise one makes when your teammate behind you successfully scrums.

Does anyone out there actually understand this game? I'd love someone to explain it to me. The crowd sure seemed to dig it. The announcers REALLY seemed to love it. I tried to understand all the tries, but it was too trying. Maybe it's a great game. Maybe it requires alcohol to appreciate. Or maybe I should just stick to spinning records and watching cars turn left. Go Springboks! (p.s. What's a springbok?)

COLUMN: QC Pizza

Dear Dispatch-Argus Guest Columnist Josh Boelter,

J'ACCUSE!

You, sir, are a heretic! A blasphemer! A very incorrect opinionator! Dare I say... you may even be a PIZZAIST.

But you're also a funny writer, and I laughed my way through your recent column, "Floppy Pizza... A QC Tragedy." Just, please, let us know where to forward the hate mail.

I've been blessed to own this little parcel of newspaper real estate for some years now, and I'm still learning as I go. When I was first given this outlet to spout my weekly nonsense, I was SUPER intimidated. I wasn't sure what to write about, how to approach it, or if anyone outside my friends and family would remotely appreciate anything I had to offer.

The first time I heard positive feedback from a reader, I was over the moon. The first time someone recognized me on the street, I felt like a rock star. Honestly, whenever anyone takes the time to read this column, it fills me with sincere gratitude and sheepish pride and I want to grab the nearest microphone and have a Sally Field "you like me... you really like me" moment.

But oh, how the tide can turn. A few years back, the Rock Island City Council was debating whether or not to allow residents to keep chickens within city limits. As in real chickens, not the Kentucky-fried variety. In my usual role as an allergy-riddled weenie with a well-established fear of nature, I decided to write a cutesy little anti-chicken column. As it turned out, the local pro-chicken contingency did NOT find it cutesy. People showed up at the office wanting me FIRED. My inbox flooded with hate mail. My house got egged. Someone covered my back steps in chicken poo.

There are some column waters not worth wading in and certain topics best left to poles longer than ten feet. Thankfully, most don't apply to me. I don't care about the Cubs OR the Cards. I hold no ill will toward Iowa drivers. I am relatively ambivalent about the fate of the county courthouse. And I know some things in the Quad Cities are sacred. Whitey's Ice Cream. Boetje's Mustard. Combine harvesters. And above all else, Quad City style pizza. Never criticize our pizza.

Don't feel bad, though, Josh -- once upon a time, I held a similar mindset.

It was September 1988. I was a young, sheltered, extremely naive high school graduate experiencing freshman orientation weekend at Augustana. With few exceptions, it was my first real weekend away from home. I was excited, terrified, intimidated, and guided only by a desire to fit in and make friends. At some point during that weekend, Augie threw a pizza party for the entire freshman class. Cool, I thought. In this crazy new world I found myself in, one thing I could cope with was pizza.

But instead of a slice, I was handed this weird strip of... what WAS it? It looked like a rectangle of pure cheese. How do you even eat this thing? Do I use a fork? THERE WERE NO FORKS. The only thing I could think to do was flop it over onto itself, shovel half of it into my mouth -- and almost retch at the weird sausage grit I'd never before experienced. I was clueless at living on my own. I didn't know how to cook food, I didn't know how to do laundry -- and now it was clear that either I or the Quad Cities didn't even know what pizza was.

I was a kid from the country experiencing city life for the first time ever. But most of my Augie friends were from Chicago. To them, Rock Island WAS the country, and I'd have to listen to them bemoan about being trapped in a town so hick it only had (gasp) THREE major shopping malls (sob!) You backwards "townies" took a lot of ribbing, as did your weird backwards rectangle pizza strips.

So much so, in fact, that I never touched the stuff again. Until, that is, I took a job at a plucky daily Moline newspaper, who once rewarded their hard-working staff with a pizza party. "YAY!" I thought, until I saw them bringing in boxes of weird rectangle pizza strips. Eww! Not townie pizza! But I was a new employee once again eager to fit in, so I grabbed a piece and this time I DID have a fork. "Okay," I told myself. "You'll just have to suffer through this. Don't think about how gross this weird pizza is. Just take a bite and try to get it down quickly." I steeled myself, grabbed a forkful of rectangle, begrudgingly stuck it in my mouth, and... and...

OMG. It was good. It wasn't just good, it was delicious. Wait, was this the best pizza I'd ever had in my life? How could I have ever found this gross? Thus began my love affair with Quad City style pizza. I'm Team Harris all the way, but any will do in a pinch. And now our beloved pizza strips are written about in major publications and considered a delicacy in Chicago.

Poor Josh has already seen some negative comments for daring to critique our pizza in his debut guest column. But you guys need to cut him some rectangular strips of slack. If you bothered to read past the headline, you'll find that Josh actually LIKES QC-style pizza. He's just new in town and doesn't understand why its cut into strips. But here's the thing, Josh. If you took a Harris Pizza and sliced it traditionally, it'd fall apart in a heartbeat. That delicate malted crust can't support a mountain of cheese and a metric ton of sausage. Just slide it onto a plate, grab a fork, and deal with it. It's way worth it.

No matter how you slice it, Quad City style pizza is a treasure. Maybe it's why I never left after college. Or maybe it takes becoming a townie to properly appreciate our townie pizza. It sure worked for me. So stick around for a while, Josh. You're a great writer and I look forward to more guest columns. Next time you're at the office, stop by my desk and let's do lunch. Your next rectangle's on me.