COLUMN: Best of 2022 - TV

Well, here we are at the end of the year, when we're supposed to look back and celebrate all the great events of 2022. There was, umm, let's see... well, that part wasn't so great. Oh, then there was that time when... oh yeah, that was pretty terrible, too.

Let's be honest. The past few years have been rough. Sometimes the best parts of 2022 involved IGNORING 2022, turning on the TV, and being taken away to fictional lands of other people's problems. 

Life may be a tad sucky in the 2020s, but television's never been better. I read a recent article that claimed our new golden age of TV may be winding down, and that's a bummer. Recent cutbacks at Netflix and HBO may be indicative of streaming having jumped the gun and invested too much in quality shows without paying attention to profits. There's a chance we may have been overly spoiled the past few years. So before good shows go the way of the dodo and we're left with nothing but America's Next Top Masked Chef Model Can Dance, let's celebrate some of the amazing TV fare that 2022's brought us. These are my picks for the five best shows of the year.

#5 - THE GREAT NORTH (Fox) - Ever since the pandemic hit, I've yearned for heartwarming TV fare. My usual tastes are a combination of snarky comedies and esoteric arthouse dramas, but when we were in lockdown and feeling hopeless, I didn't want jaded jokes or depressing realism. I mostly just wanted fluffy shows where people hugged each other a lot. Ted Lasso became my hero. The Great British Baking Show became my comfort food. Positivity is important. I just never thought I'd find it in a quirky animated sitcom from the Bob's Burgers team. Each week on "The Great North," the plucky Tobin family faces life in rural Alaska with togetherness, fortitude, and unpredictable jokes that land faster and harder than you'd expect. Add an outstanding voice cast of Will Forte, Jenny Slate, Paul Rust, and Nick Offerman at his most Offermanic, and you've got the feel-good show of 2022.

#4 - DERRY GIRLS (Channel 4 / Netflix) - This year also saw the third and final season of this global treasure of a show. "Derry Girls" was always funny, but taking a year off for the pandemic must have allowed creator Lisa McGee to fine-tune the writing, because this wonderful farewell of a season is SO next-level funny that I found myself hitting pause so I didn't miss anything over my own laughter. It's a giant love letter to friends, family, and growing up in the 90s in Northern Ireland. Its humor is only matched by its heart. "There's a part of me that doesn't really want to grow up," says lead character Erin in the final episode. I couldn't agree more, and I don't want to say goodbye to any of these characters.

#3 - STRANGER THINGS (Netflix) - 2022 featured a slew of acclaimed series at the height of their creativity and passion. Shows like "Better Call Saul" and "Barry" deserve every accolade thrown their way. BUT honestly, sometimes you just wanna put the heady stuff aside, make some popcorn, and watch kids fight aliens from a parallel dimension. Critics have never been especially kind to "Stranger Things," but has there been a show that's left a bigger dent in our pop culture landscape this year? "Chrissy, wake up!" memes flooded the internet all year, Metallica got a huge bump in sales, and the show's soundtrack even brought Kate Bush an unexpected #3 chart hit some 37 years after its original release. That's got to mean something. The Hawkins saga IS great television. Is "Stranger Things" going to win an Emmy for its nuanced writing and relevatory character studies? Nope. But will it be one of my favorite shows of all time? Absolutely. The Duffer Brothers have been able to perfectly straddle the line between teen adventure and sci-fi horror for four seasons now. When the fifth and final season drops next year, it'll be the talk of the globe.

#2 - LOS ESPOOKYS (HBO) - It came as a surprise to no one when HBO cancelled "Los Espookys" mere weeks after its second season debut. It's a miracle that something this weird even got two seasons in the first place. But what gloriously bonkers seasons they were. Created by SNL and Portlandia alum Fred Armisen and writer/co-stars Julio Torres and Ana Fabrega, "Los Espookys" is a surreal workplace comedy -- except the workplace is four friends who stage horror events (fake exorcisms, bloody Quinceneras, etc.) for fans of the macabre. Oh, and did I mention that the show is entirely in Spanish? And that one character works as a Shakira impersonator while another can talk to the moon and has a demon called Water's Shadow living inside his mind? It's bonkers in the very best of ways, and you can still see every episode on the HBO Max app. 

#1 - SEVERANCE (Apple TV) - I'll say it right now. "Severance" might just be my favorite TV show since "Twin Peaks." I've watched the first season three times now, and I'm about to embark on my fourth. Each viewing is like peeling back an onion and discovering a new layer. You can't do justice to a show like "Severance" in a quick blurb. In fact, it sounds downright stupid: "A dystopian tale where willing participants consent to a brain-altering medical procedure wherein their work and home lives can be separated into two distinct personas." On paper, it sounds ridiculous. On the screen, it's genius. Creator Dan Erickson has crafted a complex and tense thriller that also somehow manages to be a treatise on grief AND a meditation on workplace culture. The script is brought to life in the most claustrophobic of manners by director Ben Stiller (yep, THAT Ben Stiller) and a dizzyingly sparse visual aesthetic that makes me yearn for a visitor's pass to Lumon Industries just so I can experience it for myself. Above all, though, it's just downright deliciously weird, with twists and turns and even Christopher Walken thrown in for good measure. It's funny, unsettling, and downright horrifying (sometimes in the same scene.) It's the kind of show the internet was invented for - I guarantee there's people in chatrooms right now dissecting scenes. I should know, I'm one of them. It's the best show of the year by a country mile.

Happy New Year, all! And even if its not, here's hoping there's good TV to distract us from it.

COLUMN: Best of 2022 - Music

Everyone has their favorite part of the holiday season. Maybe it's sitting down for a delicious meal with family. Maybe it's the look on someone's face as they open gifts. Maybe it's the spirit of togetherness, love, and joy that brings us all together. 

Me? My favorite part of the holidays is right now, when I get a few precious inches of column space every year to pretend I'm an important entertainment critic and offer my picks for the best records of 2022.

In many ways, it was a turbulent and trying year, and pop culture can often reflect that in unpleasant ways. But there WERE a handful of records this year that redeemed our cultural landscape and proved that creativity still runs wild, waiting for its moment to shine. 2022 produced some serious bangers, from the sunshine dance bliss of Sofi Tukker's "Wet Tennis" to the seedy underbelly of Taylor Swift's "Midnights." There were triumphant returns from stalwarts like The Boo Radleys and Suede, and admirable debuts from new faces like Horsegirl and Yard Act. 

But five records really stood out for me as 2022's best:

#5 - Andy Bell - Flicker - As guitarist for Ride and bassist for Oasis, Andy Bell has soundtracked my life for decades. For his second proper solo album, Bell went the extra mile and dropped a double-album that takes a multitude of seemingly disjointed ideas and crafts them into a cohesive record that ruminates on the passage of time and coming to terms with yourself: "Now time's not on our side / See the flicker as a fire starts to burn / It's not enough / Burn down the world for me / Use a mirror to remember, and look back with something like love." Whether its an introspective acoustic instrumental or brilliant hooks coming through a psychedelic haze, "Flicker" contains some of Bell's finest work and secures his rightful place as one of indie's great songwriters. A triumph of a record and an absolute treat for long-time and new fans alike.

#4 - Wet Leg - Wet Leg - Seemingly coming out of nowhere (but actually hailing from the Isle of Wight), Wet Leg hit the ground running in 2021 with a handful of ridiculously catchy singles that perfectly embodied the fun and care-free bliss of jaded youth. Wet Leg reject any attempts to take themselves seriously, and swear in interviews that they're embarassed by all the fuss being made over them. After all, they're a band formed on a lark while sitting atop a Ferris wheel at a music festival. But people SHOULD take them seriously, because the pop hooks flow like caramel on their frenetic debut album. If it's all a schtick, it's a very GOOD schtick, and almost justifies the overexposure they've received this year. The million-dollar question will be whether they've got the ability to convert this one magical musical moment into a triumphant career or if it's all just one brilliant flash in the pan -- but if it's destined to be just a fleeting firework, it's one of those shells that burns in a dozen colors and ends with a surprise explosion. 

#3 - Let's Eat Grandma - Two Ribbons - In 2016, I declared the debut album of Norwich duo Let's Eat Grandma to be the best record of the year, and rightly so. At the time, it was incomprehensible how a pair of young teenagers could have possibly crafted an amateur album so captivatingly weird and otherworldly in their bedrooms (often using non-traditional toy instruments.) At the time, the duo of Rosa Walton and Jenny Hollingworth explained their creative success as having been best friends from age four and operating on a shared wavelength. A few years down the road, and that friendship has now been tested. Hollingsworth lost her boyfriend to a rare form of cancer, while Walton moved to London and suffered a nervous breakdown. The tracks for Two Ribbons were written separately and contain lyrics of loss and failed friendship. Their charming ethereal kookiness might not be as pronounced as their earlier records, but this newfound lyrical honesty and depth serves the duo well, and the resulting record is an emotional synthpop rollercoaster and yet another triumph from a collaborative team that never seems to fail.   

#2 - Pale Blue Eyes - Souvenir - It was a couple months ago when my friend Stuart texted me a simple Youtube link with a text message that simply said, "!!!!!" That link ended up being to "Honeybear," the achingly beautiful centerpiece of the debut record from Pale Blue Eyes, a band that had previously been 100% off my radar. It was so captivating that I ordered the entire record on the spot. Hailing from a home studio in the small market town of Totnes in southern England, Pale Blue Eyes have somehow managed to fuse the best bits of vintage indiepop together into a modern masterpiece that wears its influences proudly but doesn't just sound like a 1980s nostalgia trip. The result is breathy dreampop atop quirky synths, Krautrock rhythms, and angular guitar lines clearly inspired by classic alternative bands like The Cure and New Order. I'd love a peek at their record collections, because I have a feeling they share a lot with mine. Far and away, they're my favorite discovery of 2022. "!!!!!," indeed. 

#1 - Alvvays - Blue Rev - Usually my favorite record of the year has to be some pretentious beast of an album trying desperately to make an artistic statement. This year, the accolade simply goes to a great band who just put out their greatest album. Alvvays (pronounced "always") are a Canadian indiepop band fronted by Molly Rankin, daughter of the late John Rankin, fiddler for the acclaimed Celtic folk band The Rankin Family. Until now, Alvvays were known for intelligent jangle-pop pierced by Rankin's resonant and languid vocals. When Blue Rev first arrived, I threw it on in the car, expecting a nice little slice of smartly dour pop bliss. But at exactly six seconds into the lead track "Pharmacist," the guitars explode out of the gate into a dizzying circular shoegaze epiphany that literally made me stop and replay the song a good half-dozen times as I drove around dumbfounded. The record simply soars and soars again, with pop hooks meeting sonic grandeur at every turn, but still with the signature underproduction that's always made Alvvays charming and homey. It's the kind of record that has at least five or six spots where I forget to breathe because I don't want to miss a second of its fuzzy grace. It's not an album that's going to change the world, but it's one that still captivates even after the umpteenth listen, and it's easily the best thing I've heard this year.

Next week, let's talk TV.           

COLUMN: Christmas Flu

Every year, I have but one holiday mission: to do my very best to find that elusive yuletide spirit. It really IS the most wonderful time of the year, and I yearn to recapture that Christmas magic I felt as a kid. Without fail, I will annually commit to the absurdly idealized Hallmark version of Christmas wherein everyone exudes happiness and love, true love could be waiting around every snowy corner, and all the world needs is some tinsel and twinkly lights to make everyone's problems go away forever. All you need to do is find a little Christmas magic.

This year, however, I've given up. The Grinch has won. There's no holiday magic to be found, people are pretty much horrible, and the tinsel and twinkly lights are just covering up the dark and glum reality of December. Fa la la la la. Perhaps the Constanzas had it right. Maybe Festivus is the holiday for me. If nothing else, it's high time I gave the Airing of Grievances a try.

It all started two weekends ago. I needed to pick up a few gifts, and what better activity than retail therapy to find that Christmas magic? I picked up my best friend and together we set off in search of holiday adventure. Earlier that day, another friend had texted that the Made Market at the Bend XPO was a haven for parental gift ideas, so we headed thataways. We walked in the door, and sure enough, the place was PACKED. Holiday crafts and a hundred potential gift ideas for Mom and Dad were everywhere! Most impressive, though, was the hustle and bustle of people running around all over the expo center. 

"Are you guys here for the market?" a helpful girl at the front table inquired.

"Yep," I replied in a voice that, dare I say it, was both holly and jolly.

"Too bad," she replied. "We just closed."

I had no idea it only lasted until 3 p.m. It turns out the hustle and bustle we were seeing were all the vendors quickly tearing down their booths. Sorry, mom. We spent the rest of the afternoon hitting up the downtowns of Moline and Leclaire, but gifts for mom and dad were still eluding me. No worries, the best was yet to come. I had a plan. 

Anyone who's ever seen a Hallmark Christmas movie knows that if you want to find Christmas magic and maybe even have a meet-cute with your soulmate, all you need to do is find an outdoor night-time Christmas market after dark. It's literally a factory for Christmas magic. That's why I was heading for the Davenport Freight House Christkindlmarkt with purpose and intent.

"That's weird," my friend suddenly said. "What's with all the people?"

Sure enough, we were miles from downtown but there were small crowds gathering along the roadside in places where crowds tend not to gather, especially in the December cold. "It's almost like they're... trainspotting or something." We looked at each other with instant realization. "CHRISTMAS TRAIN!"

Every year, Canadian Pacific rolls holiday-themed trains across North America adorned with Christmas lights. At select stops, the train rolls to a halt, the cars open up, and musicians jump out for surreal quick holiday concerts. It's fun and a great fundraiser for food banks. But as we drove along the highway, it quickly became clear that as we were aiming for downtown Davenport, so was the holiday train. And so, too, were thousands of other Quad Citians. 

You know the 1.5 minutes it usually takes to get across downtown Davenport? Thanks to holiday train traffic, it was more like 1.5 hours. Instead of romanticizing the holiday crowds, I quickly wanted to murder them. Pedestrians were just absent-mindedly strolling in front of traffic, cars were honking and getting exasperated, and Christmas magic was literally evaporating in front of my eyes. By the time we found parking (which I'm pretty sure was in Bettendorf) and hoofed it to the Christkindlmarkt, the band aboard the holiday train was hitting its last notes and the 2.3 kajillion people in attendance all converged upon the market en masse.

Suddenly things were less Hallmark-y and more Outbreak-y, as my mind flashed to newscasters warning of the "tripledemic" as I was bumping elbows with hordes of sniffling, snotty strangers. Add to that some overly-aggressive vendors ("HAVE YOU EVER HELD A REAL IOWA PORK CHOP IN YOUR HANDS, SON?") and suddenly the only place I wanted to be was HOME.

My spirit may have been dampened that night, but my yearning for Christmas magic carried on. The next day, I talked my friend into heading for the Christmas celebrations at Bishop Hill, and we spent the afternoon browsing handmade goods, baked deliciousness, and little stuffed Swedish gnomes that are supposed to lend a hand with chores -- but thus far, the one I bought just sits on my shelf like a lazy good-for-nothing. Oh, and if you happen to hear locals tell tale of a couple city slickers who accidentally bumped a table causing a model train to derail and emit sparks and almost burn down the most historic building in town, I'm sure they're talking about someone else.

But I'm happy to announce that the next morning, I woke to discover I'd caught Christmas magic. Oh, wait, no, that wasn't Christmas magic. Instead, what I caught was H1N1 swine flu. By mid-day, I was bedridden with a fever of almost 103. I spent the rest of last week scouring the Quad Cities for that most elusive Christmas gift of all: Tamiflu. I'll spare you the lectures, but seriously, get a flu shot. You don't want this. It was so gross in so many exciting and festive ways. And since I spent most of that bedridden week binge-watching Hallmark movies, I'm pretty sure I will now forever associate Christmas romance with nausea.

So apologies for my humbuggery, but Christmas magic is lost this year and the world is terrible. Or maybe that's just what Santa WANTS me to think. Please refrain from sending three ghosts my way, but if anyone has any Christmas magic to spare, I'm fresh out.  

COLUMN: Instafest

Ah, finally -- it's December. 'Tis the season for chestnuts roasting on open fires, Jack Frost nipping at your nose, and music geeks fighting across the battlefields of social media.

December is a great time to be an obsessive music fan. It's that magical month when you can pretend you're a critic and sit around figuring out all your favorite records of the year. Back in the day, I used to keep a mixtape in my car filled with my favorite songs of the year, in hopes of getting to explain my picks in lengthy detail to any of my friends unfortunate enough to ask for a Yuletide ride. 

In the modern era, though, we don't need mixtapes. Nowadays, music nerds can post their picks to social media and spend the entire month bickering with one another over their assorted merits. It's a grand and glorious time to be a geek. This year, though, a new app has thrown a ridiculous monkey wrench of silliness into our annual squabbles.

Instafest.app is a gloriously pointless time-waster that looks at your Spotify listening history and uses that information to curate a professional-looking flyer for an imaginary three-day music festival based entirely on your personal listening habits. The bands performing at your phony fest, and the order in which they're appearing, are all based on your Spotify plays and which artists you've listened to the most. It's the kind of thing music nerds drool over, and the results have been pretty epic. 

Take my friend Sharon, for instance. Her dream festival line-up includes a resurrected Prince showing up to throw down a set. That'd be pretty awesome. I'm guessing if Prince came back from the dead to headline a festival, tickets for that shindig might be hard to come by. But the BEST part about SharonFest? Prince isn't even headlining. As it turns out, the ghost of Prince, alongside the ghosts of David Bowie and Freddie Mercury, are all turning up to SharonFest to OPEN for the big headliner -- who is, you guessed it, 70s teen-pop idol Shaun Cassidy.

There's no lying to Instafest, that's what makes it so great. Music snobs like me pride ourselves on telling the universe that our favorite artists are weird esoteric bands that only a handful of music critics and record store clerks have even heard of. We don't tell anyone that we secretly get in our cars and blare Shaun Cassidy and Britney Spears when no one's looking. But on these Instafest line-ups, there's no hiding your secret shames. If you secretly listen to a bucketload of Nickelback, they're gonna be headlining your imaginary festival for all to see. 

For example, let's look at ShaneFest, the imaginary festival that Instafest curated for me based on my Spotify history. Out of all the countless musical acts on Earth, ShaneFest is being opened on the first day by... Bananarama. Clearly ShaneFest is going to have to invest in loads of security, because the crowd rush would be intense as fans try not to miss a second of Keren, Sara, and Siobhan breaking into "Cruel Summer." And yes, fellow nerds, I'm well aware that Siobhan left the group in 1988, but if it's MY imaginary festival, it's most definitely MY imaginary Bananarama original line-up reunion.

Day Two is where ShaneFest takes a turn for the odd. We start with the Northern Ireland pop-punk band Ash, and then go straight into a much-anticipated reunion set from 80s coffeeshop-soul heroes The Style Council. I'm pretty sure the Style Council were the second band to take the stage at the legendary Live-Aid festival, so kudos to the ShaneFest organizers for paying homage. After their polite set of catchy tunes, it's straight on to the industrial metal fury of Ministry. Style Council songs have choruses like, "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me or my world." Ministry songs have choruses like, "I'm chewing on glass and eating my fingers / Stigmata!!!! / You've run out of lies!!!!" This should be a smooth transition.

And what do Ministry fans clamor for right after their favorite band? Why, the jazzy noodling and clever wordplay of Steely Dan, obviously. Then it's back to more obscure indiepop for the rest of the day, until we get 80s indie darlings The Smiths to reunite at the end of the day. Note: If you know nothing about The Smiths, know this: They HATE each other. I mean, HATE each other. Pigs will fly and hell will freeze before The Smiths ever reunite. But they're doing it at ShaneFest, in order to open for the Trash Can Sinatras, a fairly obscure Scottish band often unfairly derided by critics for being, you guessed it, derivative of The Smiths.

On the third and final day of ShaneFest, I'll probably have to stop the show for a bit to explain to the crowd of indie fans why Chicago are taking the stage mid-day (my dad listened to them ALL the time.) Then, naturally, it's time for the Monkees. I'm hoping the SharonFest rules of resurrection are in play here as well, otherwise it's sadly going to be poor Micky Dolenz on stage by himself singing, "Hey, hey, I'm a Monkee," so I'm hoping I get to conjure up Davy, Pete, and Mike. They're opening for R.E.M., who are in turn opening for My Bloody Valentine. It's a banger of a day, people.

I'd certainly go to ShaneFest. I realize not everyone might appreciate the Pet Shop Boys opening for Weezer, but it's not called EveryoneFest, is it? Like all the other music nerds out there, I posted my fake festival flyer online, and within hours, I had numerous friends saying they'd certainly attend. In fact, two of the bands on the fake lineup even commented and said they'd be thrilled to be there. Weirder yet, 48 hours after I posted my silly fake festival line-up, two of my fake headliners (Ride and The Charlatans) announced a REAL joint double-headlining U.S. tour. Clearly, it must've been my fest that gave them the idea. I guess we'll know for sure if Bananarama or Steely Dan turn up.

Find out your own ridiculous festival lineup at Instafest.app. Another one of my friends just did it and his fest has the Beatles opening up for Kanye West, so hurry and make your fake fest quick, because I'm pretty sure THAT line-up might just herald the Apocalypse.

COLUMN: Grocery Shopping

I try to be an optimist, I swear. I'd like to think that the world is innately good, our lives somehow matter, and our very existence is making a difference towards the betterment of mankind. I don't like to give in to cynical thoughts and assume that we're beyond hope and essentially floating through space on a planet-shaped dumpster fire of pointlessness. But some weeks, I'm just not sure.

Pro tip: If you're wanting to keep those rose-colored glasses of optimism firmly planted on your face, avoid the grocery store at all costs.

Since the pandemic, I've been using one of those phone-app shopping services for my groceries. I started out of an abundance of caution, but I've stuck with it out of an abundance of laziness. It's just so nice to sit at home, punch in my shopping list, and have someone bring groceries straight to my door. Does it cost a little more? Yep. But I've done the math and I'm saving money in the long run. Sure, I'm paying a little more for delivery fees and tips, but I'm also spending way less on ridiculous impulse buys. I've literally walked into grocery stores on a specific mission to purchase toilet paper only to leave an hour later with a cart full of groceries I didn't need and then a realization three hours later that I forgot the toilet paper. A $5 delivery fee isn't so bad when it's saving me from a cupboard of junk food.

But last week was a dofferent story. I was tied up during the day and didn't have the opportunity to place an online order. I didn't want to make somebody shop for me after dark, and I'm fully capable of driving my lazy fanny to the store. So I hopped in the car for a fun adventure I'm hoping to never repeat.

I walked through the doors almost eager to remember what grocery shopping felt like. Then I remembered. It felt like... a LOT of people. The store was crowded. Like, REALLY crowded. People were everywhere. I took three steps before an unmasked fellow coughed pretty much directly into my face. Fantastic. I grabbed a shopping cart that rolled about 15 yards before its front wheel went into a seizure so violent that the entire aisle stopped and stared at me. Everything was off to a smashing start.

One of my first stops was to the deli counter, where my plan was to buy some lunch meat for sandwiches. It took the clerk roughly a minute and a half to acknowledge my existence.

"Umm... can I help you?"

"Yeah, thanks," I said. "I need about three quarters of a pound of ham, please."

The clerk looked at me. The clerk looked at the ham. The clerk looked at me. The clerk looked at the ham. Wheels were turning.

"Umm," he said. "Sorry, I don't do math. What is that in numbers?"

I'm not writing this column to make fun of people with terrible math skills. I'm one of those people. It's perfectly okay to be bad at math. My 8th grade algebra teacher lied to my face -- I have NEVER needed any of the skills from that class in my life ever, not once. I'm terrible at math, but I can at least figure out what three-quarters of a pound is. 

"It's .75 pounds." He plunked some ham onto the scale and it came out to .4 lbs. "Is that more or less than .75?"

I could probably turn this column into a scathing indictment of our public school system. I could go on about the ridiculousness of a human being asking ME for math help. I could ponder how someone who "doesn't do math" to the extent that they don't know 4 from 7 is somehow playing an integral role in MY personal food chain. Instead, I'll just skip to the end.

After getting coughed on, run over, and unable to find half the stuff on my list, I made it to the checkout. Just one woman in front of me with not many items. Whew. Then I heard her.

"Ohhhh no, no, no you don't!"

Apparently a cake mix had just scanned at a price higher than the sales flyer she was clutching. "You're trying to RIP ME OFF! MANAGER! NOW!"

There wasn't a manager nearby, or perhaps anywhere in the entire building from what I could see. The overcharge? Thirty cents. But it was enough to send her on a roll, shouting about injustice and capitalism to the winds. I was about ready to hand her thirty cents from my pocket when the cashier looked at the sales flyer and immediately caught the problem.

"Ma'am, look, it's the brownie mix that's on sale. This is the Funfetti mix, it's different."

The poor thing looked like she'd been stabbed in the heart. She huffed, she puffed, and then she bellowed with the full fiery intensity of Howard Beale on a bender.

"FUNFETTI... IS... BROWNIES!"

It was Academy Award-worthy emoting, I swear to you. I almost started applauding. I'm pretty sure the clerk may have just given up and handed her the Funfetti for free just to get her out of the store. I certainly wouldn't have blamed her. 

If you want to believe that the world is NOT a terrible place, don't go grocery shopping. If you want to hold onto hope that future generations will know the difference between 4 and 7, don't go grocery shopping. If you believe in your heart of hearts than Funfetti is brownies, don't go grocery shopping. If you want an ACTUAL pro tip, PLEASE go grocery shopping. For me. I beg of you. I don't want to go back. Ever.

COLUMN: Tasteless Candy

On today's episode of "Fun With Science," we celebrate those new and exciting discoveries that make our world a better place. Yes, we can all rest assured that the future is in great hands. Our society's brightest minds are out there right now, hard at work unlocking the secrets of the universe and solving the great problems that have plagued our fragile Earth for centuries.

Take, for instance, a team of Japanese scientists, who recently tackled a problem we've long yearned to solve: Is it possible to take something that is fun and then use science to completely remove all the fun from it?

The answer, it turns out, is yes. It is absolutely possible.

Just ask Lawson, one of Japan's largest convenience store chains. They just unveiled a new sensation sweeping Japan by storm: "Aji no Shinai Ame." This loosely translates to, you guessed it: Tasteless Candy. Science has cracked the code and finally figured out how to make a hard candy that tastes like -- nothing. And stores are selling out.

According to the packaging, Aji no Shinai Ame consists of polydextrose (a sugar substitute) and erythritol (an organic sugar substitute). And that's it. Just two compounds in a clear hard candy that looks like a cough drop but tastes like -- nothing. No flavor whatsoever. Just a piece of nothing that tastes like nothing and slowly dissolves into nothing in your mouth.

Clearly, this is the scientific breakthrough we've all been yearning for. How many times have you put a piece of candy in your mouth and thought, "Wow, I sure wish this candy didn't taste like candy! If only I could enjoy the pleasure of eating candy without that icky candy flavor!" Finally. Thanks, science. Famine? Disease? Pestilence? Those problems can wait. We're WAY too busy making candy taste like nothing.

When I was a little kid, I can remember my parents buying me a bag of marbles with one simple common-sense rule: DON'T PUT THE MARBLES IN YOUR MOUTH, YOU COULD CHOKE TO DEATH. And of course, what's the one thing you want to do when you're specifically told that you can't? That's right, at the first available opportunity that presented itself, I put one of those bad boys directly in my mouth to taste that sweet forbidden nothingness. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, KIDS. Mostly because it's gross. I spit the marble out immediately. And then I washed it because I'm not a heathen. And then I never put a marble in my mouth again because my curiosity was forever satisfied.

But I'm pretty sure that's what nothing tasted like. I didn't like it as a marble, and I bet I won't like it as a cough drop, either. But I kinda wanna try one. 

What doesn't surprise me, though, is that this new culinary sensation comes from Japan. No offense to my friends in the land of the rising sun, but I've had a fair share of your candies, and in many instances, I would've preferred one that tasted like nothing.

Now, I'm fully aware it's simply a cultural difference at play. Don't think for a second that I'm making light of Japanese cuisine -- if I could install a teppanyaki grill in my kitchen, I would. But our candies and snacks are WAY different. I have a friend who moved to Japan a few years ago and occasionally sends us boxes of Japanese junk food. They range from amazing to amazingly demented.

In Japan, you can buy potato-flavored Kit-Kats. Or soy sauce Kit-Kats. Or corn-flavored Kit Kats. He once sent us a bag of Sprite-flavored Cheetos, and they were coated in fizzy candy like Pop Rocks that explode in your mouth like carbonated soda. Their chips are commonly shrimp-flavored. It wouldn't surprise me if they had shrimp that were potato-chip flavored. 

But turnabout is fair play, and American food can be equally weird to people living overseas. I'll never forget when my friend came back for a visit with his Japanese wife in tow, and she looked on with abject horror as I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which is about as normal in Japan as a corn-flavored Kit-Kat is over here. So I guess to each culture their own, and if spending your hard-earned yen on a candy that tastes like nothing is what you fancy, have at it.

In fact, if you're a fan of the candy that tastes like nothing, let me know. I can cut you a great deal on a 70-minute blank CD -- wait, did I say blank CD? I meant to say "a new and exciting cultural milestone adancement." I call it "silent music," and it'll soon be all the rage. Taste the emptiness, and then enjoy the silence.

COLUMN: Jolene

Well, the midterms are finally over. Wow, what a crazy night. I still can't believe that [CANDIDATE] won! At least we can all agree that the country is in [MOST LIKELY TERRIBLE] shape, eh?

Okay, okay. I'm writing this on Monday night. I currently have no idea how anything panned out because it hasn't happened yet. At this point, all I can do is speculate based on how well we handled the LAST election. Ergo, I can only assume that by the time you're reading this, we've descended into tribal feudalism and are about to use your daily newspaper for torch kindling. Anything's possible in 2022. You could tell me that President Kanye just appointed Judge Reinhold to the Supreme Court and I'd go, "Yep, that tracks."

I'm guessing that whatever happened Tuesday, some people are now exceptionally happy, others are exceptionally mad, and ALL of us are probably sick of reading about it by now. Hence, I'm going to use this week's coveted bit of newsprint to focus on that which is good, that which is uplifting, and that which proves our society is worthy of redemption.

Obviously, I'm referring to last weekend's Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony, where the infamous annual all-star jam ascended to new levels of wonderful insanity. Folks, we live in a universe where there was an all-star group performance of "Jolene" featuring Dolly Parton, Pat Benatar, Duran Duran, Eurythmics, and Judas Priest. Playing together. At once. If that's not a sign of the Apocalypse, I dunno what is. But it's exactly the kind of mindless ridiculousness we all need right now.

I'm a card-carrying music geek, and if there's one thing that gets our types riled up, it's the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Every year when the shortlist of nominees is unveiled, Twitter explodes into pointless arguments. "So-And-So deserves to get in this year!" "Are you crazy? So-And-So is THE WORST BAND THAT'S EVER EXISTED IN THE HISTORY OF TIME, EVER!"

Then there's the invariable infighting over what exactly "rock & roll" even IS. The Rock Hall now includes R&B, country, pop, electronic, metal, and hip-hop artists, and some people can't cope with that. Eddie Trunk is a famous DJ, and you can guarantee tuning in annually to hear Eddie get offended anytime some rapper gets nominated for the Rock Hall while the unheralded genius of, I dunno, Don Dokken or Kip Winger once again gets overlooked. As much as I love to hate-listen to Eddie Trunk wax poetic about hair metal, he's got a point. But why argue about semantics?

The Rock Hall serves a purpose, and that purpose is mainly to let us geeks argue about it. I like that the Rock Hall lets in artists of all genres, because how else could we have cringe-worthy jams where the inductees are forced to awkwardly collaborate together in a ridiculous spectacle? The 2020 ceremony was cancelled because of the pandemic, and I still hold a grudge against COVID for costing us the chance to hear a nightmarish Depeche Mode / Doobie Brothers collaboration. I was personally hoping for "Your Own Personal Jesus Is Just Alright With Me."    

All-star jams weren't always appalling, though -- just ask 2004. That's the year the induction ceremony featured an all-star tribute to George Harrison. The idea was simple: get Tom Petty, Steve Winwood, and ELO's Jeff Lynne onstage to run through the Beatles' classic, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." It was a solid yet perfunctory cover -- until halfway through, when out casually struts Prince, who then proceeds to spend the next three minutes burning the place to the ground with pure molten swagger.

Prince's guitar did not gently weep. It screamed in ecstasy. Jeff Lynne looked bewildered. Tom Petty looked downright scared. When I watch it to this day, I sometimes forget to breathe. It's THAT good. And as soon as Prince had appeased the gods of funk and melted everyone's faces clean off, he takes his guitar off and throws it haphazardly into the air. Go watch the tape. As God is my witness, YOU NEVER SEE THE GUITAR LAND. It's as if Prince threw the guitar clean up to heaven where Harrison himself caught it. Prince didn't even wait for the applause. He just cooly strolled offstage into the purple funk of night. It might be the most perfect musical moment ever captured on film. It will never be topped, but that doesn't stop the Rock Hall from trying every year.

I have no idea how this week's election turned out, but maybe the next generation will do a better job than we did. And if they don't, we can sleep soundly knowing that sometime in the distant future, they'll probably be forced to suffer through a future all-star jam wherein Harry Styles, Lil Wayne, and Slipknot will awkwardly cover "All You Need Is Love."

Then again, like I said, I have no idea what the future holds. It's only Monday. I'm presently sitting on a baker's dozen Powerball tickets. I could be a multi-billionaire by the time you people read this -- in which case, you won't have to worry about that Harry Styles/Lil Wayne/Slipknot collaboration. They'll be too busy performing it on my yacht instead.

COLUMN: Two Weddings and No Funerals

Wow, it's officially November. I feel like I blinked and missed most of autumn. Before we know it, pumpkin spice lattes and hoodies will make way for gingerbread and heavy winter coats. And just as fast as it began, the fall wedding season is already over.

As regular readers know, when I'm not playing with cats (or writing about playing with cats,) you can usually find me behind the DJ booth at area bars and nightclubs, doing my best to help the Quad Cities shake its collective booty. Ever since I went to my first party and realized my favorite seat was the one closest to the stereo, I've been that dorky DJ guy. It's a legacy I'm perfectly cool with.

While I like to spin records at bars and clubs and parties, I've never thrown my hat fully into the sexy and glamorous world of DJing weddings. This is probably dumb, because good wedding DJs can make a decent living. But let's be honest -- weddings are hard work, and DJing them can be a thankless, high-pressure job. Speakers are HEAVY. Brides are DEMANDING. I much prefer clubs where I can just stroll in with some tunes and if someone wants to hear a song that's dumb, I can tell them no.

But inevitably, at least once a year, someone I know will ask me to DJ their wedding. And I will say yes, because I'm a sucker. Last month, I DJed two weddings and that's probably plenty for 2022. If you're my friend and you've found your true love, do me a favor and wait a few months before you pop the question. I need to rest.

Wedding #1 was a friend and former co-worker who asked me ages ago to play some records at her reception. I hadn't soundtracked a wedding since the pandemic, so it sounded fun -- and it most definitely was. It was not, however, without its challenges. They're a Greek family, so vintage Greek folk music had to be procured on short notice. As it turns out, most vintage Greek folk music is NOT commercially available in the U.S., but I managed to track down every request through cunning, sleuthing, and more than one trip to some of the darker alleyways of the internet that are best left unmentioned (but if your name is Thanasis Papakonstantinou, I'm pretty sure I owe you 99 cents.) I also had to spend several hours swapping my usual unedited club playlists for more family-friendly fare that wouldn't send your great-aunt Edna running from the reception hall and writing you out of her will.

I also didn't realize the wedding would fall on the same weekend as a COVID-rescheduled concert in Chicago that I'd bought an over-priced ticket for back in 2019 before it was postponed. A responsible human being probably would have taken the loss and rain-checked the concert. I am NOT that responsible human being.

Instead, I drove to lakefront Chicago on a Friday night, whooped it up at the concert, got home at 3:45 a.m., and had to set up at the church just hours later. Not the wisest of decisions, but it all worked out in the end. The wedding was flawless, the family was wonderful, and if all Greek weddings have THAT kind of a food spread, I'll DJ any that come my way provided you throw a plate at me and NOT on the floor.

Wedding #2 was three weeks later and an event years in the making. Two of my closest friends finally took the plunge, and I couldn't have been happier to be a part of it. Come to think of it, I don't think I was ever asked to DJ the reception. They were just telling me about the layout of the reception venue one day, and simply said, "...and over in the other corner is where YOU'LL be." It might just be assumed at this point that if you're friends with me, I'll be providing the soundtrack to all of your major life events without question.

Secretly, I was a bit afraid of how it'd go. The bride is one of my closest friends from college, and her now-husband is the owner of my favorite record store. This meant that the demographic of the attendees were a 50/50 split between (a) some of my favorite people on Earth, and (b) the upper elite of hard-to-please Quad City music snobs (a club in which I am a proud member.) But thankfully their rules were simple ("if you play 'Celebration' or 'Hokey Pokey,' I will end you.") The night was a giant love-fest full of smiles, people I hadn't seen in ages, and ample amounts of 80s new wave jams.

In fact, it was SUCH a great night that it didn't even send me into the downward spiral of self-loathing and jealousy I was half-expecting. I mean, what's the point of attending a wedding if you can't make it all about YOURSELF and spend the night reflecting on your own poor life choices? "Welcome to the reception. Please dance to this festive classic, 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me' by The Smiths. Up next, it's The Cure's 'Disintegration' on repeat for 4 hours. Life has no meaning. They'll be cutting the cake soon. Mazel tov."  

This month has almost made me want to DJ more weddings. Heck, it's almost made me want to get married myself. To that point, an etiquette question for the nuptially-savvy among you: Is it in any way acceptable for one to DJ one's OWN reception? If so, I'm in -- provided there's any takers out there. Must love cats.     

COLUMN: Midnights

It's that time of year of again. Yes, that glorious week when we can forget our woes, ignore our differences, and heal our nation's great divide. Finally, we as a people can come together and focus on that which really matters in life.

That's right, the new Taylor Swift album is out. Our long national crisis is at an end. We made it, people. Who's running for office? The economy's doing what? There's a virus? Who cares -- have you SEEN the video for "Anti-Hero" yet?  

Based on this week's news coverage, you'd think the world came to a stop at midnight on Friday when the album dropped -- and it nearly DID. So many people were trying to listen to Taylor Swift's record at the same time that it nearly broke the internet. Spotify clocked 184.7 million streams on the day of its release -- and it would have been more had the site not crashed from overuse.

This isn't exactly new for Taylor Swift -- many of the sales and streaming records she broke last weekend were her own. One out of every 50 CD's bought on Earth is a Taylor Swift record. But the hype behind her new album didn't just break the internet -- it almost broke my patience.

I am a Taylor Swift fan. In MY circles, this is something akin to social suicide. I used to be one of those snobby jerks behind the counter at your favorite record store, smirking as I silently judged your inferior tastes in music. I'm not supposed to like Taylor Swift. I'm supposed to like bands with unpronouncable names that no one's ever heard of because their albums are only sold from the backs of beat-up Volkswagens parked behind seedy clubs. Taylor Swift isn't hipster approved.

Me? I couldn't care less. I have all her records, I've seen her live on multiple occasions, and I even (SQUEEEEEEE!) got backstage and met her once. I give props to any pop artist who writes most of their own material, and it's truly impressive how she can switch genres with ease. After spending the past few years dabbling with indie-folk, "Midnights" is all about dark synths and moody energy. It'll sell a million copies. Oops, it already did.

I'm a fan of Taylor Swift, but I might be at my limit for her marketing team. Nobody knows how to roll out a new record quite like Team Taylor. Every album launch is preceded by cryptic videos, pics, and clues designed to build hype and get chatrooms fired up. It's kinda like Q-Anon, just without all that pesky child-sacrifice stuff. By the time her albums actually drop, her fans ("Swifties") are already whipped up into a buying frenzy.

Here's where the true brilliance happens. "Midnights" came out on Friday in 20 different formats. Collect all 4 different CD covers! Collect all 4 vinyl covers! Get the autographed versions online! Don't forget the cassette! And oh, hey, there's exclusive versions at Target with 3 bonus tracks! Oh, and for all those people who rushed out and bought it at midnight? Sorry -- three hours later, she released a "3 a.m." version of the album with 7 additional songs and the only way to get them is to buy it AGAIN.

Taylor Swift has the most devoted fans in the world, and you know there's Swifties out there procuring all 20 different versions. I'm just surprised she stopped at twenty. Where's the limited edition 8-track? Why not release a special edition of "Midnights" only available on player piano reels that can only be played from special Taylor Swift pianos available in 8 different types of wood. Collect 'em all!

"Midnights" is less than a week old, and the hype machine is already revving up for her NEXT album. It's been all but confirmed that her next project will be a re-recorded version of one of her classic records, but which one? Well, if you watch her new video, there's a scene in an elevator -- and if you freeze-frame it, the elevator buttons are colored in a precise order that corresponds to the color of her dresses from each of her previous eleven album covers. She presses the button for the third floor, and Swifties think it's a direct sign that her next album will be a re-release of her third record, "Speak Now." Sadly, they're probably right.

But I may have stumbled onto something even more revealing. Write out all the lyrics to "Midnights" and assign each letter a corresponding numeric value. Add them up and then divide by number of cats Taylor owns and multiply that by the house number of her childhood home. Then subtract the # of boyfriends she's ever written songs about and divide THAT by Jake Gyllenhall's social security number. Then convert the total back into letters and YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT SPELLS!

(Okay, I have no idea what it spells, but shh! I just wanted to give Swifties something to do this weekend. I have a feeling some of them are awfully lonely people... like me.)

COLUMN: Cat Documentary

Channel-surfing through Netflix recently, I stumbled upon a documentary called "Inside the Mind of a Cat." It's an hour-long excuse to watch cute cat videos while world-reknowned cat behaviorists try to answer questions like: What are cats thinking? Are cats intelligent? Do our cats love us?

I learned a great deal from this show. Primarily, I learned that "cat behaviorist" is my new dream job and a racket I'm up for joining. It looks like they get paid a decent amount of money to hang out with cats and come up with new and exciting ways to state the obvious: cats are weird.

NO ONE can tell what cats are thinking. I'm pretty sure cats don't know what cats are thinking. I sometimes wonder if cats are even capable of thinking.

I have two cats who are gracious enough to allow me to share their house. Isobel is about to turn 19. Being a geriatric cat, one might assume she's full of wisdom and grace. Nope. She's every as bit as doofy as she was the day I adopted her. My other cat was a neighborhood stray who casually walked through my door one day like, "Oh, hi. I live here now. Food, please." 

By and large, my cats are pretty boring, and I'm cool with it. Izzy's old and prefers snuggling to playing. If I dangle a toy in front of the other one, she just looks at me like, "Get real, dude. I lived outside chasing REAL mice for years. Don't insult my intelligence."

Are my cats smart? It's up for debate. Are they weird? Absolutely.

Isobel has never touched human food in 19 years, not even milk or tuna. All she wants is standard Cat Chow, which she methodically removes from the bowl one piece at a time and politely eats. She's a dainty girl -- until yesterday.

Last night, I made pasta and paired it with a baguette and a small plate of olive oil, parmesan, and cracked pepper for dipping. I took everything to the table and went back for some water. I turned around in JUST enough time to see Izzy diving headfirst into the dipping plate. By the time I could even react, she turned to me with a face COVERED in olive oil and just sauntered off like this WASN'T the weirdest thing she'd done in years. She then spent the next hour in oily cat heaven, trying to lick her own face off while purring louder than I've heard in years. Positively inexplicable, but I figure she's made it to 19, so she's earned the right to dive headfirst into whatever she fancies.

As for my OTHER cat, purring and meowing aren't in her wheelhouse. When she wants something, she opts to make ghoulish noises that fall somewhere between squeaks, gasps, rasps, and wheezes. Imagine if Gizmo from Gremlins was a chain smoker, and you'd be close. I once asked my vet, "is this cat broken?" "Nope," she reassured me, "she just has a VERY unique meow." She's a perfectly normal, affectionate cat who just happens to sound like a demon. 

But then an odd thing happened. She jumped onto my lap one day, looked me square in the eye, and let out a perfectly normal meow. "Umm," I exclaimed in open-mouthed shock. "You can meow?" She looked at me again and meowed like a normal cat. Then she barfed all over my lap. All this time, I thought there was something physically wrong that made her sound like a demon. Nope, she CHOOSES to make those noises. If you come over and my cat meows at you pleasantly, you are about to be vomited on. She only sounds like a normal cat right before she pukes. 

I'm typing this from my couch. Six feet away, my cats are sitting on opposite sides of the living room, cold staring at me. It's as if their brains are in the OFF position. They've been at it for fifteen minutes now, and it's officially become awkward. I have no idea what they want. Food, water, and litter are provided. I have offered skritches to no avail.

The only thing I can surmise is that they're judging me. Perhaps my cats are world-reknowned human behaviorists. Maybe when I'm at work, they're off giving lectures to other cats about whether or not humans are capable of love.

"When you allow your human to eat, make them work for their food. If you don't, your human could become overweight and have difficulty navigating through tight spaces. Next slide, please. In this image, you see our overweight human. He is neither stalking prey nor marking his territory. Instead, this poor creature spends most evenings lying in a prone position, struggling to sharpen his claws on a scratching post he calls a 'Microsoft Surface Pro.' He doesn't even make normal human sounds. He usually just giggles and in a high-pitched squeak refers to us as his 'widdy biddy kitties.' Humans are weird."

COLUMN: Negative Ads

Whenever a challenge comes along, my usual coping strategy is to count down the minutes until it's behind me. If deadlines or responsibilities loom, I simply think, "Hey, only 4 more hours until this is over and done." "Only 3 hours left until I can breathe freely." "Only one nightmarish hour to go." Compartmentalizing chores and challenges into timed exercises makes everything seem more conquerable. Life might suck now, but it's going to suck a lot less in the near future.

To that end, I'm happy to report that we only have roughly 34,980 minutes until the midterm elections are over and campaign ads disappear for a while. With grit and perseverance, we can make it, people. 

We're presently in that sweet spot of the midterm build-up where we're being assaulted by campaign pitches on all fronts. They interrupt my TV shows, overrun my airwaves, clog up my internet, and take up precious space in my mailbox every day.

I am in NO WAY anti-advertising. How can I be? Those ads are in our papers and on our websites, too. They help keep our business afloat and pay my bills. I might be a little biased, sure, but political ads serve great purpose -- I WANT candidates to market themselves to me.

Without campaign ads and the amazing political coverage in your favorite local newspaper (cough), we might not have any idea who to vote for. And when we're all uninformed, we clearly have to do the next best thing and vote for the candidates with the silliest names. Don't believe me? Just think about U.S. presidents. Have we ever elected a John Smith or a Mike Jones? Nope, not while there's Millard Fillmores and Grover Clevelands to vote for. If political ads and news went away, we'd be inaugurating President Seymour Butts in no time, trust me.    

My problem isn't with the abundance of political ads out there. I'm just weary of their content. The only thing I'm learning about local candidates is how utterly terrible their opponents are. It's just negative ad after negative ad right now. If each of these ads is to believed, the entire political field must be full of terrible nightmare people who barely deserve to walk among us, let alone govern us. Every time I turn on the TV, there's some ominous voice telling me Candidate X wants to tax me into poverty or Candidate Y wants to take away my rights. Candidate Z is "BAD FOR IOWA, BAD FOR GOVERNMENT!" I don't even live in Iowa, but it's starting to feel like the state's very survival hangs in the balance of November's ballot. 

Here's the thing, though. I don't want to sound like I'm flexing (if so, it's a pretty weak flex,) but I personally know a few of the candidates running for election this cycle. And guess what? None of them are terrible nightmare people. I might not agree with their politics, but they're far from a menace to our society. I can't speak for everyone on the ballot, but the ones I know are all fairly nice folks who genuinely want to make a difference. Yet every night, I get to hear ominous voices telling me they CAN'T BE TRUSTED. 

Elections should be about positivity and optimism for the future. It shouldn't be about scaring people to the polls. In fairness, a lot of the negative ads aren't coming from the candidates themselves. They usually come from PACs with a vested interest -- that's why even the ominous voices often have to quietly issue a disclaimer at the end like, "Paid for the by the Committee for People's Justice of America's Freedom Liberties" or whatever. It all just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Until, that is, I recently discovered what's going on in Brazil.

If you thought OUR political propaganda was bad, check out what's happening down there. Brazil is currently in a heated presidential run-off race. In recent days, viral videos have accused one candidate of being a Satanist. His opponent, meanwhile, has fallen victim to a widely circulated video where an old interview was edited out-of-context to infer that he's a cannibal. That's right -- in Brazil, the negative ads are more like, "Don't vote for Candidate X, he eats people." "Oh yeah? Well, Candidate Y worships the devil!" It's as if their only PAC is Q-Anon.

Things are so bad, in fact, that one candidate actually had to post a five-point statement on Facebook refuting that he regularly speaks to Satan and did NOT, in fact, cut a deal with the devil for the presidency. I can only presume the voices in HIS ads are EXTRA ominous.

So we haven't sunk to THOSE kind of depths yet, but give it time. There's still three weeks before midterms, so anything's possible. I saw a dude still proudly walking around today in a Q-Anon shirt, so never underestimate the power of stupidity. Read up on the candidates, ignore the negativity, and make educated choices at the polls based on facts instead of ominous voices.

With any luck, it'll all be over in about 34,975 minutes.  

COLUMN: New Order

Breaking News: Contrary to what my brain routinely tells me, I am NOT 25 years old.

I miss my twenties. When I was a free-spirited youngin', I was constantly on the go. I can't tell you how many nights I'd leave work at 6 p.m., hop in my car, drive three hours to a 10 p.m. concert in Chicago, get back home around 4 a.m., and somehow be back at work the next morning. 

If I tried that kind of nonsense today, I'd die. And I know this because I pretty much just tried it.

Back in 2019, New Order and the Pet Shop Boys announced a dual headlining U.S. concert tour. Those two groups were almost single-handedly responsible for shaping my teenaged musical tastes, so I owed it to myself to catch them live. Then COVID hit, and all bets were off. The tour was postponed and rescheduled multiple times before finally settling on this weekend, and there was much rejoicing. Well, except from me. It turned out the rescheduled Chicago date fell on the same weekend as a friend's wedding I'd agreed to DJ. But the wedding was on a Saturday and the concert was on a Friday, soooo it's possible, right? Here's how it played out:

11 a.m. Friday - I depart the Quad Cities driving solo to the north Chicago suburbs to grab my friend Stuart. The plan is to buzz downtown, enjoy the concert, drop Stuart home, and head back to the QC. The show starts promptly at 7, so it should end around 10 p.m., putting me home by, what, 1 a.m.? That's not TOO bad, right?

12 noon - I should be excited about the concert. Instead, I'm just worried about the wedding tomorrow. I have to set up at 11 a.m. Do I have all the right music picked out? What if I sleep thru my alarm? What if my car breaks down? This is irresponsible, Brown. 

1:30 p.m. - For no good reason, "A Horse With No Name" by America has popped into my head. In an attempt to dislodge it, I am now listening to America's Greatest Hits. I'm confident I am the ONLY person driving to a concert of seminal counter-culture musical icons while listening to 70s soft rock. I'm way cooler than someone who listens to America. I click off the album and fire up my Spotify roadtrip playlist I created for such an occasion. It contains 6500 songs of all genres, styles, and cultures, and is a living testament to my superior cutting-edge musical tastes. I hit random shuffle, and the first song it plays is... "A Horse With No Name." 

2:00 p.m. - I stop for a stretch at the Belvidere tollway oasis. Multiple fast food options await me, but I instead opt for a chicken shawarma wrap from a food cart vendor. It is utterly delicious. And also utterly stupid, because I'm well aware of what happens when my stomach meets food it's not used to. I cross my fingers and wonder if there's Imodium in my glovebox. There is not.

4:00 p.m. - Having made it to my friend's house in the suburbs, we depart on a leisurely bumper-to-bumper rush hour voyage to the concert venue. The show is downtown at the Huntington Bank Pavillion, right along the lake on the former site of Meigs Field. Stuart has secured us a prime parking spot in a pay lot conveniently located 1.6 miles from the venue. My feet are never going to speak to me again.

7:00 p.m. - We make it to the show. It is amazing -- except all I can focus on is the wedding, the rental gear, the drive home, and the fact that it is NOT starting promptly at 7.

10:40 p.m. - Every song gives me chills. Or maybe it's just the bitter cold wind blowing in from the lake. New Order mean more to me than most bands. Their posters still adorn my bedroom. I hang on every word from frontman Bernard Sumner, awaiting some sagely counter-culture nugget that will justify my roadtrip and reaffirm my musical superiority. "Thank you, Chicago," he says, leaving the stage. "We love your pizza!"

11:15 p.m. - My feet are DONE. There's no way I can make it back to the car. "Leave me here to die," I tell Stuart. Instead, we hail what can only be described as a disco rickshaw covered in LED lights and blaring New Order songs from massive speakers. I'm convinced it's a feverdream, but it is not. It costs a fortune to ride this embarassing contraption back to the car, but it is worth every penny and eyeroll from strangers.

12:45 a.m. - My original estimate had me getting home about now. Instead, I am just now leaving the suburbs.

1:20 a.m. - "This was dumb," I tell myself. "GROOOOOOINK," agrees the chicken shawarma wrap from somewhere in my small intestine. Once again, I visit the scenic and exciting Belvidere toll plaza. Dinner this time are bottles of Frappucino and Imodium.

2:45 a.m. - In an effort to drive me completely insane, semi drivers along I-88 have spaced themselves just far enough apart that I can't ever use my brights. That's okay, because fog has rolled in. I see imaginary deer every 2-3 miles. It is a miserable drive home. I become convinced that the Quad Cities has somehow moved further away from Chicago while I've been up here. 

I got just after 4 a.m. In the words of Danny Glover, I am definitely too old for this you-know-what. Somehow, I woke up at 9 the next morning (well, the SAME morning,) and made it to the wedding powered on sheer willpower and the maximum recommended dosage of Advil. It is somehow a resounding success by most accounts. Lesson learned. I am no longer 25, no matter what my brain thinks. If I had to do it all over again, clearly I would do the mature thing and... oh, who am I kidding? I would DEFINITELY do it all over again. New Order rule.  

COLUMN: Wasp

I'm terrible at multi-tasking.

When my "to-do" list piles up, I prefer to check things off in order, focusing on one task at a time. That's not happening this week, and it's driving me bonkers. Multi-tasking isn't in my nature -- and nature is what put a stop to it today.

I was hoping to check a few things off that list over my lunch hour. I left the office with my mind in twelve different places. I was so focused on multi-tasking that I barely noticed it was chilly out. "Brr," I thought absent-mindedly as I rolled my window up. It was the best decision I'd made all week.

At the next stoplight, it happened. I looked to my left in just enough time to hear a tiny "thwap" as a wasp the size of Mothra smacked into the window I had JUST rolled up.

There are many things I hate in life, but few so much as wasps, bees, or any stinging insect. I'm allergic, they all CLEARLY know this, and thus they live to torment me. I am a fully grown adult male who acts like a complete ninny whenever a bee comes near me. Scratch that, ninnies surely act more rationally than me. Bees are horrible, vile creatures that need to be wiped off the map. I realize this would disrupt the food chain and likely end the human race, but it's well worth the dying knowledge that the bees were finally defeated.

But today was a rare situation. There I was, inches from the most irrational fear in my life, yet safely behind glass. Perhaps I could use this surprise opportunity to carefully study the wasp, marvel at its complex biology, and attempt to better understand and appreciate such a majestic creature. 

Or perhaps I could made a noise like "ahhhhhhtplf!" while recoiling in horror and almost rear-ending the car in front of me. Who's to say for certain?

"You ARE the weakest link, goodbye!" I yelled as the light turned green and I drove off. But my new friend didn't leave. He clung to that window, staring me down with his beady little wasp eyes. I thought he'd fly off at the next light. Instead, he started banging his blood-thirsty head against the glass Jackie Chan-style like he wanted in. 

I crossed the Centennial Bridge. The winds were brisk. The river had whitecaps. And yet, despite his wings flapping around in the breeze, my new friend clung to the window relentlessly. This was the Tom Cruise of wasps, and his impossible mission was clearly to sting my face off. 

I pulled up at my house and this little minion of the damned was still attached to the window staring me down. I tried pounding the glass, yelling at it, and even opening and closing the car door real quick in hopes of getting it to fly off. No dice. Clearly, the only one having a worse day than me at this point was the wasp. He was probably just looking for food. Instead, he got a face full of window and an all-expense trip across state lines. "Just fly off, dude," I begged. Instead, the wasp casually walked to the base of the window and started to squeeze through the seal at the bottom.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. In reality, the poor wasp was probably trying to get somewhere dark and quiet to regroup. In MY mind, he was descending INTO the car door so he could more easily climb round the other side, squeeze in the car, and obviously sting my face off. There was no more multi-tasking in my future today. My to-do list now had but one singular, homicidal vision. I quickly assessed the situation and decided there was only one mature and well-thought-out option.

Eight minutes later, I was on the interstate, laughing like a madman while pushing the boundaries of the posted speed limit AND my car's acceleration. If I got pulled over, I would simply explain to the nice officer that NO, I couldn't roll down my window, and by then the wasp would've stung HIS face off and it'd be a non-issue. In the hurricane-force winds I was now creating, the wasp crawled out of view and I could only hope been eventually whisked away to the hellish plane from whence he came. I was now a good seven miles from work, but it was worth it.

I returned to the office feeling strangely accomplished for someone who'd precisely done NOTHING on his to-do list. Hopefully none of my co-workers witnessed me leaping like a fat ninja from my car, still half-expecting the wasp to be clutching the side of my car, holding an axe and yelling, "Heeeere's Johnny!" Its out there somewhere now, likely hellbent on vengeance, and now it knows where I live AND work. Buying a can of Raid just became top priority on my to-do list.

COLUMN: Anniversary

I don't often use this platform for personal favors, but I need everyone to chip in on this one.

Right now, I need you all to turn to the south, give a hearty wave, and send well wishes in the direction of my parents. This week, they're celebrating fifty years of wedded bliss. This is no easy task, considering much of that time was spent with yours truly as the pesky third wheel in their romantic fairy tale. I'm told gold is the traditional 50th anniversary present, and that makes sense -- anyone who's had to be MY on-call support team for fifty years deserves gold medals at the very least.

My parents are difficult to shop for. But I've recently discovered that the only thing more challenging than shopping for mom or dad is shopping for mom AND my dad at the same time. They're tough enough to shop for on their own -- but to find an anniversary present that would tickle BOTH of them is straight-up impossible. I eventually gave up and went with the ultimate cop-out: his & hers gift cards. Lame, I know. But now they can both get what they want, and I can stop scrolling through retail websites going, "Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope."

Based on the "Great 50th Anniversary Gifts" I found online, it appears that once you've been married for a half century, all sense of good taste must just fly out the window. Most of the offerings fell into the realm of what I'd classify as "cutesy" -- and if there's one adjective my dad has no patience for, it's cutesy. A gold-covered rose? He'd roll his eyes and possibly give me a lecture on money management. A golden plate that looks like something Hulk Hogan would strap on after winning Wrestlemania? Hard pass. Waterford crystal etched with their anniversary date? We all learned long ago that the Brown household is not a place for fragile breakables.  

Every site seems to think the ideal gift for my folks would be a gold picture frame that plays their favorite song anytime someone walks past -- sort of an upscale version of that singing fish that was all the rage for 2.7 seconds a decade ago. THIS is supposed to be the ideal gift for the people that raised me? Sounds like instant torture to me. Whatever song that gets loaded into that frame would quickly be NOBODY'S favorite song after the eleventieth time you hear it in a day. I'm pretty sure you don't see those Billy Bass fish anymore because they've all been angrily tossed into dumpsters by their exasperated owners who now spend their days neurotically rocking back and forth while muttering "taaake me to the riiiiver" through clenched teeth.

Besides, I'm not sure if there's even a sweet spot where my parents' music tastes mesh. Dad likes Santana and Chicago. Mom likes Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond. I kid you not, they once picked me up in the car while jamming out to a CD of John Philip Sousa military marches. I suppose maybe that's what I could load that picture frame up with? Every time they get up to use the bathroom, it could blare "The Stars and Stripes Forever." After all, there's no better way to celebrate a golden anniversary than by taking a patriotic potty break.

Gift sites also recommended I buy them a golden wine decanter (they don't drink.) One site suggested I get them a gift certificate to their favorite restaurant (they don't eat out.) Another said I should buy tickets to their favorite getaway (which I'm pretty sure is their living room.) My dad likes military weapons and war movies. My mom likes to tape the Today show and watch it back during the day. Unless one of these sites sells a cannon that inexplicably shoots out Hoda Kotb and Al Roker, I don't know if there IS a gift that both of them will enjoy.

I struck out in the gift department, but I struck it rich in the parent department. I wouldn't be the weirdo I am today without their love, support, guidance, and gas money all these years. Whenever anybody has ever asked me what I want to be in life, I've never known what to say. But the honest truth? All I've ever aspired to be is as happy as they are. They're the gold standard of human beings.   

I don't know what it's like to be married for one year, let alone fifty. There are days I can barely stand co-habitating with a cat, let alone another human being. But they've somehow made it work, which in turn has made ME work. They taught me how to behave, how to learn, how to laugh, and how to love. There's no golden plate or decanter that can equal how grateful and lucky I am to have such awesome parents.

You'll probably never meet them. They like their quiet little life (well, as quiet as it can be when I'm their son.) I tend to live a little louder, which is why I wanna shout my gratitude from the rooftops. So raise a glass and toast my parents: impossible to shop for, impossible not to love. Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad! 

COLUMN: Cruise

Working at the intersection of two of Davenport's busiest streets, I often get to see interesting things on my way in and out of the office. The one thing I did NOT expect to see, though, was a European cruise liner.

Yep, the QC is officially a tourist destination -- a Swiss company is now offering scenic cruises up and down the Mississippi, with frequent stops at ports along the way -- including the one directly across the street from our office. If you haven't caught the boat in action yet, it is definitely worth gawking at.

I suppose this would be the part where a REAL journalist would tell you interesting facts about the vessel. All I know is that it's honkin' BIG and can fit 386 passengers in its 193 staterooms. Based on the interior photos I've seen and the water-cooler gossip I've overheard from my real journalist pals who got a tour, it's super fancy and luxurious, seemlessly blending Norweigan decor with Mississippi River heritage. From what I've been able to glimpse from our parking lot, it looks to be one seriously pimped-out ride.

This is a wonderful development for our area. It's always fun to show off our neck of the woods to visitors, and every time it docks, buses pull up to take those tourism dollars straight to our best shops and attractions. This is a huge win for the Quad Cities.

I'll be honest, though. When I first learned we were becoming a stop for the Mississippi River's own Love Boat, my first instinct was to laugh and ask, "WHY??"

Don't get me wrong -- I love the Quad Cities. I love our people, our charm, our quirks, and our occasional Skybridges that connect nothing to nothing. But I've never really thought of the Quad Cities as a vacation hotspot. The Quad Cities is HOME. It's where we live and work and raise families and cats. It's what we leave to GO on vacation, not where people COME for vacation, right?

When I daydream about my ideal getaway, I'm driving through the European countryside, soaking up culture and majestic sights (obviously BEFORE I get in a head-on collison because I'd never get the hang of driving on the left side.) But could it be possible there's some European sitting around in the Alps daydreaming about the Quad Cities? "Oh, how I yearn for a breathtaking corn field! Woe is me, for my views of the horizon are constantly blocked by all these ugly mountains and hideous castles! Curses, fresh pasta and fine wine for dinner AGAIN? What I wouldn't give for a loose-meat sandwich and a taco pizza!"

Those people MUST exist, because they pay good money for the Mississippi River cruise experience. Even the smallest stateroom costs a measurable percentage of my annual income, and that's just to cruise from St. Paul to St. Louis -- a trip I could probably drive in a day for under $100. But if there's folks out there with disposable income, there's certainly no better place to dispose of it than here in our local communities. Welcome to the QC, friends.

They're already filling up bookings for next fall. This gives us a full year to make trinkets and souvenirs, people. If I start practicing now, I'm pretty sure I could be whittling some decent miniature butter cows by this time next year. My best friend went on a Carribean cruise a few years back. At every single port of call, he said there was always at least one guy with a trained monkey selling pictures. I'm fresh out of monkeys, but I have a couple cats that are marginally friendly at least 20% of the time. Ooh, wait, how hard is it to leash squirrels?

I kid -- mostly because I'm jealous. That boat looks amazing, and I'd love to waste a week just chilling on the river. It sounds like it's way more than just eating and shopping (even though eating and shopping would suit me just fine.) During the cruise, they give lectures and presentations on the river's history, and there are multiple field trips to farms and businesses to gain some appreciation and learn a thing or two about life along her mighty banks.

That goes for ME, too. I learned we shouldn't ever take the Quad Cities for granted. To you and I, it might be just be home. But watch our hometowns through the eyes of a tourist, oohing and aahing at things we ignore every day. I think nothing of the fact that I commute to work daily across one of the few 360-degree swing-span bridges in existence over one of the most storied rivers in the world. I once got ANNOYED because I had to shoo a bald eagle off the roof of my car. 

Take a lesson from our new cruising friends, step back, and appreciate the wonder of life in the Quad Cities. Who can blame tourists for wanting to come here? It IS, after all, the home of award-winning columnist Shane Brown. And if you ask him nice enough, he might even take a picture with you -- for the right price.

COLUMN: Obe Ata Dindin

I should really stop watching cooking shows on TV. They put bad thoughts in my head -- specifically, the thought that I can cook.

When the pandemic was in full swing, I reached a phase where if I didn't find a new hobby, I was gonna lose it. Somehow I settled on teaching myself how to cook. This was partially born out of boredom and partially out of necessity -- let's be honest, there's only so many times you can ask Instacart to bring you Lunchables and frozen pizza before they start judging you. Perhaps that stove thingamajig in the kitchen served more than an ornamental, decorative purpose?

I broke out some cookbooks. I bought an air fryer and an InstantPot. I've watched so many Youtube videos that my "Recommended" feed thinks I'm a master chef. It's been a couple years now, and while I'm far from a culinary genius, I CAN make a handful of meals that aren't entirely terrible. I've even made a couple things I'm not ashamed to share with friends.

That brings us to last week. Have you seen the series on HBO Max where celebrity chefs teach recipes to pop icon Selena Gomez? She and I appear to be roughly at the same skill level in the kitchen, so I've been strangely entertained by the show. One recipe in particular looked like something I might be able to pull off. The guest that week was Kwame Onwuachi, who I'd rooted for on Top Chef. True to form, he spent much of the episode unashamedly trying (and succeeding!) at getting Selena's digits. But somewhere in-between the flirting, the meal they made looked fabolous. Onwuachi called it "Sunday supper" -- chicken and rice stewed with obe ata dindin, Nigeria's red mother sauce that you simmer all day long. 

I can cook chicken. I can cook rice. I think I'm capable of simmering. This should be no problem, right? Labor Day was the first opportunity I had to spend a whole afternoon in the kitchen, so I thought I'd give it a shot.

The hardest part was procuring the ingredients. My neighborhood grocery doesn't stock Scotch bonnet peppers, Jamaican curry powder, or whatever "Maggi cubes" are. Thankfully, the World Food Market in East Moline had everything I needed, except for perhaps Pepto-Bismol once my Midwestern gastrointestinal tract got a load of this stuff. Ingredients in hand, I headed to the kitchen.

1:30 p.m. I have diced tomatoes, onions, and peppers. With steady gloved hands, I carefully added the Scotch bonnet pepper and curry powder as if handling uranium. Then, in an attempt to ward myself of both vampires AND any girl who might ever want to kiss me ever again, FOURTEEN cloves of garlic. Blend until smooth.

2:00 p.m. I'm pretty sure "Maggi cubes" are just bouillon, but I don't read Arabic and there isn't a bit of English on this packaging. I'm supposed to add EIGHT of them -- but I'd also like to make it to dessert without having a stroke, and I reckon that's a LOT of salt. Weirder yet, I just found ANOTHER video where Chef Kwame makes the SAME dish but only uses TWO of those cubes, so what do I do? Even WEIRDER, in his videos, the Maggi cubes are square. When I opened MINE, they were rectangular. Does this mean they're more potent? I had no idea how to tell, so I randomly chucked three of them in and hoped for the best. 

2:30 p.m. The sauce has been simmering an hour, so let's taste. Wow, it's surprisingly delicious and not too spicy.

4:00 p.m. Another taste test. Mmmm, it's... THE SPICIEST THING I'VE EVER PUT INTO MY MOUTH. Like, we're talking face-flushed, run-for-the-milk, Scotch-bonnets-should-be-outlawed kinda heat. Uh oh. I'm worried Kwame lied when he said, "It's just the right amount of heat." The right amount to put you in a coma, maybe.

4:30 p.m. I am now searing chicken in a Dutch oven. Searing is the technical term for when you attempt to brown the chicken but instead burn all your arm hairs off with oil splatters. Note to self: when this is over, find a less painful hobby.

5:00 p.m. Friends have arrived. The verdict is that "it smells good." I worry they're smelling cinged arm hair. Cooking oil is EVERYWHERE. My friend suggests I buy a splatter guard, which reminds me that I own one. Duh.

5:15 p.m. My friend tries to help clean up the oil splatter on the kitchen floor with a paper towel. Instead, it turns my kitchen into a well-polished skating rink that even my cats can't get a good footing on.   

5:30 p.m. I have added the sauce to both the chicken and the rice and we're in the stewing phase. My friends say they're hungry. I promise nothing and remind them I have the number to Pizza Hut on speed dial.

5:45 p.m. Chef Kwame suggests deep-fried plantains as a side dish. I'm fresh out of arm hair, so I opt to throw them into the air fryer.

6:00 p.m. Everything finishes cooking at the same time as if I know what I'm doing. Weirder yet, it all looks and tastes AMAZING. As promised, it's not too spicy (I must've had a pepper seed in that earlier taste-test.) My friends are duly impressed. I am a culinary master. Also, I am never doing this again.

All told, it was a pretty satisfying meal -- and all I had to sacrifice was six hours of prep, two hours of clean-up, much of my dignity, a t-shirt that will never be white again, and most of my arm hair.

Worth it. Now somebody come up with an InstantPot version so I don't have to work so hard next time.