COLUMN: Quarantine Party, Pt. 2

Well, here we are. Yet another missive from the International House of Fear, Paranoia, and Exceptionally Good Music — otherwise known as MY place, lockdown style. My thoughts are about as disjointed as the world at large, so forgive me if this column sways from here to there at the drop of a well-sanitized hat.

Day Five. That was officially when cabin fever set in for me. Being an only child who grew up in the country far away from anyone else my age, I've always been rather skilled at chilling out by myself. I'm normally an indoors person as well, so the thought of a few days of rest and relaxation at the crib didn't bug me too much. In a way, this social distancing stuff is fairly ideal for me — except for the nagging fact that anyone or anything I touch could be toxic, so fun times. I have friends and it sucks not to see them, but I also have a phone and know how to use it. I'm good with social distancing.

Total quarantine, though? That took five days for me to officially be sick of. That's the afternoon I reached my fill of staring at the same four walls (or, more realistically, the same one television screen.) I stood up, stepped outside my door to remind myself there really WAS a world out there, and walked around the block. It felt good. Really good, honestly. It also felt a tad bit apocalyptic, as I didn't see ONE other human being outside. We ARE still allowed outdoors, right?

How paranoid am I? Well, considering how just a few minutes ago I used a sanitary wipe to sanitize my container of sanitary wipes, I'd say I've pretty much crossed the threshold into pure anxiety disorder. There isn't a container of food in my house that hasn't been wiped down with some toxin-killing substance that's probably toxic in its own right. This is not the ideal way to live.

Public Shout-Out No. 1: My friend Dianna Saelens. Dianna works for the Rock Island/Milan School District and is one of those essential people on the front lines of helping families and their kids deal with staying-in-place. She's also done all my grocery shopping for the past week because I'm a big scaredy-wimp. It's completely unnecessary and appreciated beyond belief, and she deserves a great big hug, which I fully intend to deliver sometime, say, mid-August or so.

Public Shout-Out No. 2: All the area musicians out there, but especially Chuck Murphy, who's been holding nightly solo gigs and chats from his garage that have been keeping many of us sane. There's a ton of musicians like Chuck out there who are currently gig-less and income-less. MANY of them are on the internet right now doing shows for free and taking online donations. If you get some time, and that's one thing we all seem to have an abundance of at the moment, be sure to check them out and support them if you can. Art has no quarantine.

Public Shout-Out No. 3: All the DJs. Have you ever wanted to hit a club but were too afraid you wouldn't fit in? Ever curious what this "EDM" thing is your kids talk about? When you lock a music nerd in their home with no toys except a record collection and a live stream, it turns out magic happens. MANY of our best club and bedroom mixmasters are hitting the internet nightly to entertain us with nonstop beats and fun. Get on Facebook and find them. Rachel Hagen, aka DJ K Yung; Joshua "DJBuddha" Smith; and all the gang at the QC EDM Facebook group are just SOME of the local talent serving up dance floor decadence almost nightly. You can even stream some of my quarantine mixes at mixcloud.com/shane-brown11 if you're so inclined. Tune in and dance like no one's watching you, because for once, no one is.

Which is more than can be said for me. I've long been gifted at finding new and exciting ways to make a total fool of myself in public. It turns out this holds true even when I'm trapped in my house. As you guys may have guessed, I'm opting to burn some vacation time through this crisis and hunker down at Shane HQ for a bit. But earlier today, our office held an employee webinar to unveil some new tech we're implementing to help our advertisers. I didn't want to miss out, so I logged on using the a company laptop they loaned me while I'm out of the office.

I had yet to use this computer, and it turns out it didn't have the right software for a webinar. This meant I had to fiddle around, quickly install the right program and get logged into the webinar with no time to spare. For a half-hour or so, I was online with some 70 other employees from different papers across the country. The webinar was informative and should allow our employment advertisers to reach even more job-seekers, so yay!

But then the webinar ended. That's when I minimized the screenshare window and saw the OTHER window I hadn't noticed before — a window displaying everyone who was in the meeting, including me. What I DIDN'T know was the new laptop I was using had a VIDEO CAMERA on it. A camera that was ON and broadcasting the whole time. So imagine if you will a professional webinar full of professional salespeople in professional attire in their professional offices — and then one dude sprawled out on his couch in a ratty t-shirt and unshowered hair, laying there munching on Pop-Tarts while cats crawled over him the whole time. You can take a guess as to which one I was. It is frankly only by divine miracle that I was wearing pants.

So if nothing else, take solace that our sales team in Bismarck, N.D., now likely thinks the sales team in the Quad-Cities is officially a bunch of freaky-deakies. And they probably wouldn't be wrong. But if we've got to be stuck at home, why not do it in style? Plus I have Pop-Tarts and they don't, so nanny-nanny boo-boo.

Stay safe, all. Best wishes and bountiful supplies of toilet paper to you all.

COLUMN: Quarantine Party, Pt. 1

It's a rough time to be the guy who normally writes silly columns. There's not a whole lot of silly in the world right now.

Like many of you, I'm hunkered down at home for the foreseeable future. For the time being, it's just me and my cats trying to stave off an army of microscopic invaders. For all I know, they've already crashed the party. As fast as this pandemic's moving, by the time this column runs, it wouldn't surprise me if the virus had sprouted teeth and a hunger for human kneecaps. Anything's possible at this point.

But inside the fear and the worry and the stress, there are lessons to be learned. For instance, I've learned two important things over the past week: 1) I am an old fuddy-duddy; and 2) People, at least many of us, are quite stupid.

I'm well aware that I'm a giant nerdy man-boy who can't make eye contact for more than a second. But the Shane I've created in my brain is a hip, somewhat happening, occasionally counter-culture voice bringing together the generations with wit, insight, and a radiating coolness respected by one and all. At least that's what I tell myself.

But last weekend, I wasn't cool. I wasn't happening. Saturday night, the only hip bone in my body was the one I was using to quickly pivot 6 feet away from you.

I moonlight on the weekends, working as a DJ at dance clubs. It's not just a hobby; it's a life choice. It is the air that I breathe. But last weekend, it was also the air that HUNDREDS of other people breathed, and that's where the fear kicked in.

There's nothing I love more than spinning records, but I have to be honest — I didn't want to work on Saturday night. Important people with lab coats had been on my television for days telling everyone to stay home. But I also didn't want to lose my job, so I had to be there.

No worries, I told myself. Experts and governors were telling people to stay in. Surely crowds would be thin, and common sense would prevail, no? No, indeed. Saturday night, our club was at government-sanctioned capacity from the moment I walked in to the moment I left. The dance floor was awash with people less than 6 inches apart, let alone 6 feet. Absolutely no one seemed to care about the looming crisis.

I, on the other hand, was a wreck. I'm the guy in the DJ booth who's supposed to be making the party happen. Just like Alicia Bridges, I love the nightlife and I like to boogie on the disco raHAAAAAOHHHYAY. I am all in when it comes to DJ-ing. But that night, I was mixing more hand sanitizer than records. At one point, I pulled out my phone, took a picture of the epic dance floor carnage I had single-handedly created with my blazing beats, and then immediately sent that photo to my mother with a text that said, "What are today's kids THINKING?" I hate to say it, but I may be becoming (gasp!) mature.

I'm sure some of you probably blame the bars and clubs for staying open on St. Pat's weekend despite the warnings on TV. I don't. I've worked in clubs for decades. The people who own those joints, and especially the people who work tirelessly in them, depend on that income. I don't blame them for staying open. But the people who packed those clubs? That was just foolish.

But part of me understands. I was a twentysomething once, and twentysomethings think they're invincible. I spent a good chunk of my 20s as a rave promoter. I was the guy responsible for your kids wearing baggy pants and staying out till sunup dancing to house music. One unlucky cop once drew the short straw of having to break up one of our parties at 4 a.m., only to be met by a snotty know-it-all Shane, who pulled out a copy of the Rock Island code book and demanded to know which ordinances we were breaking. Sometimes you really DO have to fight for your right to party.

But it was just the beginning of the cavalcade of lunacy we've seen over the past week. On Sunday, I went to a store and saw a dad dragging his open-mouthed, coughing child by the hand and scolding, "Don't touch anything! You're SO sick!" On Monday, people were jostling to grab a roll in the toilet paper aisles. By Tuesday, some shelves were bare.

And now we've come to this — biological house arrest. Much of our country has now been put in time-out because we don't know how not to breathe on one another. People are finally starting to get it. Or so I thought until I went on Facebook.

I only made it through the first 20 or so posts on my feed. Four of those 20 were people saying, "I'm soOoOoO bored! Who wants to come hang out?" THAT'S NOT THE POINT OF SOCIAL DISTANCING. IT ISN'T SOCIAL DISTANCING WHEN YOU'RE INVITING PEOPLE OVER. If you're incapable of spending a single day in your home alone, then you have way bigger problems than a virus, friends. People were excited when an app came out that lets you watch Netflix at the same time your friends are watching Netflix, and a little window pops up on your computer so you can chat about the Netflix you're watching simultaneously.

Maybe it's the only child in me speaking, but come on, people. You call it social distancing, I call it a typical weeknight. Work on a project. Read a book. Watch a movie. Play a video game. Pet a cat. Or, if you're like me, reorganize your mp3 directories so when you can resume DJ-ing again, you will tear up the dance floor with the grace, poise, and finesse of the twentysomething you still yearn to be.

I don't have the answers. I'm just like you, housebound and full of worry. But if we all do our part, we'll see the other side of this. In the meantime, I have a wicked DJ set planned for my cats tonight.

COLUMN: Doomsday Prepping

The way I see it, there's two options.

(1) We freak out, go into doomsday prep mode, hoard food and supplies, don face masks, and isolate ourselves in biocontainment bubbles for the rest of time.

or

(2) We take common sense precautions like washing our hands, staying off cruise ships, and trying super hard not to ingest the spittle of strangers.

The scary thing? I honestly don't know which of these is the right answer. This coronavirus has me spooked.

I'm fully aware that I have hypochondrial tendencies. If I read enough horrifying news stories, I'll eventually buy into the terror wholesale. I'm purposely limiting my scope of knowledge on the outbreak, lest I start building a bunker. 

I'd like to think that humanity is smart enough to beat this thing with patience, an abundance of caution, and a whole lot of Lysol. But I also know how gross people are.

We've all seen co-workers show up at the office when they should be home in bed. We've all seen people cough and hack without covering their mouths. On the weekends, I DJ at dance clubs and routinely find myself on the receiving end of spittle showers from drunken clubgoers leaning in to request terrible music. If I die because some ill moron wants to hear "The Cha Cha Slide," then I know one moron about to be haunted by a VERY angry ghost.

People are disgusting. I should know -- I'm one of them. I've come to work sick before. I habitually chew on pens that are probably petri dishes of germs. The other night, I was leaving work and the glare from the setting sun revealed a kajillion dried droplets of my own spittle on my windshield. I'd had an allergy fit a few days prior and the resulting sneezefest unknowingly coated my car. Eww.

Let's face it, we as a species are nasty. Our bodies shed skin and ooze sweat. There are millionaires in our world whose entire fortunes were made selling goop that we smear on our underarms to stop us from smelling. We buy boxes and rolls of tissue just to dispose of our own ick. Could we be the most disgusting species of all? Nope. Those fears were alleviated today when I came home at just the right time to (a) watch a cat vomit, (b) run upstairs for paper towels, and (c) return to find the vomit magically gone and an entirely DIFFERENT cat walking away. I'm not asking questions. 

As for the plague currently sweeping mankind, for now I'm opting to follow the guidelines we've all been hearing: wash your hands until your skin falls off and try super hard not to touch your face.

You know what I've learned while trying super hard not to touch my face? ALL I WANT TO DO IS TOUCH MY FACE. It might as well be the top line of my resume. Current occupation? PROFESSIONAL FACE-TOUCHER. Until this week, I had no idea how often I groped my own face until I'm suddenly told not to. My nose constantly itches. My ear constantly itches. I can't hold a pen without wanting to shove it in my mouth. I seriously just took a break after typing that sentence to go wash my hands JUST so I could rub my nose and then wash my hands AGAIN. If this is the new normal, I'm not a fan.

Thankfully, I'm not the only one. Last week, the citizens of Santa Clara County in California listened as the director of their Health Department gave an important speech about virus prevention. "Today, start working on not touching your face," she said, "because one main way viruses spread is when you touch your own mouth, nose, or eyes." Without missing a beat, she then immediately licked her finger to turn the page of her prepared remarks. Priceless.

I haven't gone full hermit yet, but I'll admit to a teeny bit of over-spending at the grocer. I went in for some weekly essentials, but the paranoid part of my brain told me I should probably stock up. You know, just in case. Maybe some emergency chili rations in case I need to cover my house in Saran Wrap and cut ties with the outside world for a few weeks. I've got some vacation time to burn. Way to think with your head, Shane.

When it comes to hoarding for a disaster, I'm kind of a disaster. I stocked up, alrighty. And now, in the event of a global pandemic, I can rest easy knowing I have a couple extra boxes of Cheez-Its, some potato salad that expires in four days, and a healthy supply of Tuna Helper (which would have been smart had I remembered to buy tuna.) I did pick up non-perishable fixins for chili, though, so yay for me. Of course, that just put me in the mood for chili and I made it within two hours of getting home. It's gone already. So much for emergency rations.

In these paranoid times, I DID find one surefire trick to avoid other shoppers: Simply have a full-blown seasonal allergy fit while standing in the medical supplies aisle. Trust me, people literally RUN away, no matter how much you reassure them. "I don't... (ACHOO!)... have the Corona.. (ACHOO!) virus. I swear (ACHOO!)" I tried to cover my mouth, but I also didn't want to germ up my hands, so I kept awkwardly sneezing into my elbow. Apologies, fellow shoppers, if you went to stock up on sundries last week and instead came face-to-toxin with a sneezing madman who appeared to be jubilantly dabbing in celebration of his own spittle. It was, in fact, just an idiot with hay fever trying to remember where his elbow was located. 

If anyone needs me, I'll be at home. Please don't visit -- unless you have a clean bill of health and a clean bowl of chili. No, you can't have my Cheez-Its.    

COLUMN: Beekeeping

They say knowledge is power. Sometimes NOT knowing is more powerful.

We live in the information age. Knowledge comes to us on a multitude of silver platters. News channels are available to me at the push of a remote. This newspaper is brought to my front door every morning. Computers sit by the ready. If I want to know something, I can literally just yell a question to the open air and a sultry voice named Alexa will try to answer. It's a brilliant time to be alive -- except when it's terrifying.

The other night, I was putting off sleep in favor of random internet surfing. I'd made my usual pit stops on social media and Youtube, and by all accounts, it was an uneventful trip down the information superhighway. Then I took it one click too far. I followed a link on Facebook that made it hard to fall asleep that night. After all, how can one possibly relax after the most intense white-knuckle thrill ride in all of the Quad Cities? That's right -- I watched an online replay of a Rock Island City Council meeting.

Truth be told, government meetings are often less exciting than watching paint dry. Whether you agree or disagree with their decisions, God bless our local alderpeople for thanklessly sludging through the red tape of bureaucracy on our collective behalf. How our reporters can even cover these things without nodding off is beyond me. But as boring as council meetings may be, watching them fills me with a sense of civic pride. I care about my community, and it makes me feel proactive watching our government in action -- even if said action is mind-numbing votes on applications for special use permits to locate B-3 enterprises in areas not zoned B-3. Riveting stuff.

But just as I was about to drift off to pleasant dreams of seconded motions and special use permits aplenty, the council got to Item 20 on their agenda: An ordinance establishing urban bee-keeping for city residents. Umm... is it too late to table this motion for discussion?

Let's get one thing straight: I am in no hurry to repeat Chickengate. Once upon a time, Rock Island passed an ordinance allowing urban chicken-keeping. At the time, I thought it a fine idea to write a column in which I MAY have accused chickens of being smelly, noisy, and mean. The local and shockingly well-organized pro-poultry contingency was unamused. Angry chicken lovers showed up at our office and I came home to an egged door and a poo-covered porch. Lesson learned. They could pass an ordinance to keep man-eating bears in city limits and I'd remain silent.

But bees? Come on, people. We may have our differences, but I think we can all agree that bees are a menace that have plagued our fragile earth for far too long. And now you want to put up bee condos in backyards? TO THE PICKETS, EVERYONE! Who's with me? Anyone? Bueller??

Sigh. You can save your speeches, I know the drill. Bees are a vital and endangered part of our ecosystem. Pollinators are responsible for 1 in 3 bites of food we eat, and one honeybee can visit more than 2,000 flowers in a single day. Bees are nature's little friends and our best insect friends in all the land -- and sorry, but I still want to kill all of them dead.

I have an irrational fear of bees. And the best part of an irrational fear is that it's NOT RATIONAL -- so you can't placate me with rational arguments about the merits of our bee buddies. I will still act like a ninny if one flies near me. A hornet once flew onto my shirt while I was at a drive-thru window. I thought I handled the situation with poise, strength, and bravery. The fast-food employees almost called 911 because they thought the fat guy in the drive-thru lane was having a stroke (true story.) Apparantly the only noise I made while paralyzed with fear was "Gffffrrraaaaaa" until it finally flew away.

My apiphobia (thanks, Alexa) is somewhat grounded in reality. When I was little, I stepped on a hive and got stung three times. Were it not for my dad breaking multiple traffic laws racing me to the hospital, I might not "bee" here today. There's a good chance I've since outgrown my allergy to bee stings, but I'm in no hurry to find out. Bees might be YOUR friends, but they're definitely not mine.

Our ecosystem could be in tatters if bee populations keep declining, but I have faith in science. If we can figure out how to put both peanut butter AND jelly into one squeeze jar, we can surely find a non-stinging, non-Shane-killing means of pollinating our crops. And where are all these urban crops in need of urban bees? City folk don't need bees to tend their crops. They want bees because they think it's cool to harvest honey. Well, I harvest honey, too -- just up the street at Hy-Vee, from friendly cashiers who won't sting me to death. 

I was a little distracted by the hives I was getting at the thought of hives in my neighborhood, so I didn't catch who the pro-bee enthusiast was who spoke to the council in favor of urban beekeeping, but he had a nice speech about how modern bees have been bred to be honeymakers and a non-threat to humans. Well, I have a friend who raises bees (but has the good sense to do it in the country.) He's the biggest bee supporter I know, and his honey is admittedly delicious, but ask him how many DOZEN times he's been stung by his little friends. Bees don't give up their precious golden vomit without a fight -- and I don't want to get caught in the crosshairs.

My protest is pointless. The ordinance passed, but kudos to Alderman Jenni Swanson, a fellow allergy sufferer, for being the lone "nay" vote. At least if your neighbor wants to raise bees, there's now city regulations in place, classes to take, and safety precautions to be made. You even have to inform all your neighbors.

But if you're a neighbor of mine and you're setting up hives anywhere near me, please don't inform me. Just fake my signature, unless you want to see a grown man make a VERY high-pitched noise and have a panic attack in front of your eyes. Sometimes it's better to NOT know things.