COLUMN: Blowout

I don't believe in curses -- but I'm pretty sure westbound I-80 is my own personal version of the Annabelle doll.

One of my favorite pastimes is aimless driving. There's few problems in life that can't be sorted by an open road and a good Spotify playlist. Some people spend years learning how to align their chakras. I just get in the car.

It's rare for me to have a bad roadtrip experience. But whenever a friend and I have travelled together on I-80, bad things happen. We're now 0-for-4.

The first time was when we journeyed to a NASCAR race out in Newton. Afterwards, the line back to the interstate was long and stalled, so I decided to peel down the first gravel road that came along and blaze my own trail home. Sure enough, we somehow got lost in a floodplain and ended up halfway to Missouri before I figured out a way to cross the flooded river. The next year, we went back to Newton in just enough time for a freak rainstorm to cancel the race minutes after we arrived.

The last time we were on I-80, we were headed back from a funeral in Omaha. I was already dealing with a tailbone injury that made sitting in any prone position agony. We were ten minutes outside Omaha when the snow began to fall. The next two hours was spent more sliding than driving, white-knuckling through what quickly became an epic blizzard, while stopping at every rest area just to make sure my tailbone hadn't fully split in two.

That was the last time we attempted that particular stretch of road together -- until last weekend. I'd managed to score some great tickets to see Marc Maron in Iowa City and made a reservation at a fantastic dinner spot. We left just after the rains on Saturday. There were a few scary clouds still milling about, but the skies were sunny as we left the Quad Cities.

That lasted ten minutes. Suddenly, the rain was downpouring again and tornado watches were in full effect. Bravely, we soldiered on. That was when I challenged fate by bravely saying, "We're actually making pretty decent time."

Three minutes later, I found myself sandwiched inside a convoy of semi trucks. I was in the passing lane. Semi ahead of me. Semi behind me. Semi to the right of me. And, as if on cue, that's when my front tire chose to explode without warning at 70 mph. Strangely, I didn't freak out, and somehow managed to guide the car off the highway onto the world's narrowest shoulder. THEN I freaked out.

Don't for a second think I'm the kind of nerd who doesn't know how to change a tire. I'm not an idiot. But there IS a grey area between knowing HOW to do something and being ABLE to do it. I absolutely know how to do a chin-up, too, but that doesn't mean I'm CAPABLE of it. But being stuck on I-80 was enough of an incentive to give it the old college try.

If anyone says I've got junk in my trunk, that's an accurate assessment. Step one was clearing it out to get to the spare. Just as we'd cleaned the trunk out and my possessions were strewn about the roadside as if we were holding an impromptu interstate yard sale, THAT'S when the rain came back. In monsoon-like fashion. "Nope," I yelled. "Get back in the car."

Given enough time, I'm capable of changing a tire. But I'm ALSO capable of calling for help. I pay good money for roadside assistance, and I was most definitely on a roadside in need of assistance. My insurance provided me the number of a trusted local company, so I called them to put my mind at ease.

"Hi!" I said. "I'm stranded off I-80 with a blown tire and could use some help!"

"...No."

"I'm sorry," I asked, "What was that?"

"No. We don't do that."

Now, I'm no business major, but I would think if you had a business that specialized in roadside assistance, you should probably be willing and eager to occasionally assist people on a roadside. Clearly, I was mistaken.

"Well, we're stuck on the side of the interstate. Who do you suggest we call?"

"I don't what to tell you," my new friend said. "Don't you know how to change a tire?"

"YES, I KNOW HOW TO CHANGE A TIRE BUT NOT IN THE MIDDLE OF A DAMN MONSOON INCHES AWAY FROM RAINY INTERSTATE DEATH, YOU VILE MOUTHBREATHER," is what my brain said. What my voice said was, "Umm, well, never mind, I guess." My friend had a AAA card, so we tried that approach and spoke to a delightful robot who assured us that assistance would be headed our way in four hours.

We looked at each other and knew what had to be done. For the next twenty minutes, we kneeled in the rain, working together (which was mostly me yelling "truck!" every time we were about to get splashed), and somehow managed to get the spare mounted and the soggy contents of my trunk back in place.

Our dinner reservations were long gone, but we DID make the show with five minutes to spare, despite looking like a pair of wet dishrags. Afterwards, we skipped I-80 and elected to return home via U.S. 6 since you're not supposed to take the spare over 50 mph. That certainly wasn't an issue, because the fog that rolled in minutes after we left ensured a slow speed. It wasn't pretty Iowa fog, either. This was Scottish moors / Stephen King / 35 mph fog. It was a two-hour drive home.

I spent much of my Sunday enjoying the lobby of Tires Plus. It turns out my other tires were sketchy as well, so I now have a full new set. My car rides wonderfully, especially now that I've removed all the cumbersome weight of disposable income from my wallet. I might even be up for a roadtrip -- any direction but west.  

COLUMN: Elvis

As we all know, this week marks the anniversary of Elvis Presley's, umm, something-or-other. Truth be told, I haven't been paying attention, but I saw Priscilla on the Today show, so there must be something happening. [Pause for Google.] Yep, this week marks the 45th anniversary of Elvis' death (or, if you believe the Weekly World News, the 45th anniversary of him faking his death in order to live on the moon with JFK and Bigfoot.)

I've never understood the Elvis phenomenon. In my defense, I was only alive for 6 years of it. I've always found his vocals a little grating, his dance moves a little silly, and his weird facial expressions completely off-putting. I did enjoy touring Graceland, especially the Wal-Mart-sized gift shop where you can buy an Elvis table to play poker with Elvis cards while drinking from Elvis glasses on Elvis coasters until your Elvis clock tells you its time for bed.

I get it. Elvis was super important to a whole lot of people, and that even includes me. I've never been a fan, but if Elvis hadn't gotten all shook up in his blue suede shoes, the music of today might not exist -- up to and including the pretentious, sad, whiny stuff I listen to. Elvis was a force, and you've gotta respect him.

So I thought I'd give due props to the King this week by doing something I've never accomplished: sitting through one of his movies. From 1956-1969, Elvis made 31 feature films that are notoriously fun and campy. I've never made it through one. Today is the day. Let's do this.

00:14 - If there was any question which movie I was watching, it's cleared up fourteen seconds in. Elvis is already singing "Viva Las Vegas."

00:28 - When I was a kid, I thought the lyric was, "I got a whole lotta money that's ready to burn, so get those STEAKS up higher," as if Elvis had so much money he was using it for dinner kindling. (It's "stakes." Duh.)

02:34 - There's our guy. I assumed Elvis would be a card shark or something. Nope. He's a race car driver named Lucky, in town for the big Grand Prix. He's got a car, but no engine. This would be like me showing up to a DJ battle with no music. 

05:34 - Lucky's rival is an Italian with the amazing name of Elmo Mancini. He is fixing his car in a smoking jacket, because he is cool.

06:36 - Forget the race: they've spotted a girl. It's Ann-Margret. Elvis and Elmo are both smitten.

12:00 - The two rivals go looking for her in what can only be described as a swingin' montage to racism, where dancing girls strut their way through a medley of insensitive cultural stereotypes that would never fly today.

17:31 - They find her! She's the pool manager at their hotel. Elvis pulls out a guitar within seconds.

26:02 - Ann-Margret is a whole lotta something. Her go-go dancing is aggressive and confrontational. I think it's supposed to be sexy. She keeps making faces like she wants to murder people with her pelvis. Elvis should run.

29:43 - Instead, they go on a dream date, which involves, in order: skeet shooting, Moped riding, gunslinger cosplay, and water skiing, all before Elvis pilots a helicopter over the Hoover Dam, which I'm pretty sure is a federal crime without proper clearance. They are not shot down.

46:29 - Elvis and Ann get into a fight. She storms off. He wins her heart back -- by buying her a tree. I am very confused.

47:05 - Elmo: "Why don't we have a quiet dinner tonight in my suite?" Ann-Margret: "Oh, no, I couldn't. Not after the tree." WHAT IS HAPPENING?

1:04:00 - Despite her murderous go-go dancing, Ann-Margret loses the big hotel talent show to Elvis, who performs... "Viva Las Vegas." Again.

1:16:30 - Elvis gets his motor and it's time for the big race. For no explainable reason, all of the supporting characters follow in a spacious helicopter which is apparently fueled by magic.

1:22:20 - This Grand Prix takes place on city streets and rural highways with NO barriers or safety equipment whatsoever. In some shots, you can see oncoming traffic and pedestrians. This seems ill-advised.

1:23:05 - Elmo lost. And by lost, I mean he appears to be dead. Based on the crash footage they keep splicing in, I reckon over half the field has been decapitated.

1:23:29 - Elvis wins, pretty much by default, because he's one of the few remaining drivers whose head is still attached to his neck. It's clearly time for a song. That song is "Viva Las Vegas." Again.

1:23:40 - Lucky Elvis and Ann-Margret are wed! By my count, they have known each other for exactly 5 days. Then again, it IS Vegas.

So thanks, King. You still rule. I've learned much. Clearly, if I want to marry the woman of my dreams in 5 days, all I need is a sweet ride, a tree for gifting, and a song about the city I'm in which I can sing repeatedly. If anyone needs me, I'll be over there in the corner, working out the lyrics to "Yay Rock Island." 

COLUMN: Sexy Garlic

I don't think anyone can argue that our world hasn't loosened its morals over the years.

Not so long ago, TV networks refused to show Elvis from the waist down, in fear of moral terpitude running rampant on the streets. These days, you can walk down those same streets wearing a thong bikini listening to Cardi B's "WAP" on your way to the marijuana dispensary. The times have a'-changed.

By and large, I'm okay with it. I'm not one to get easily offended, I've been known to have a potty mouth, and even I can admit that "WAP" is kind of a bop. But sometimes, things come along so morally repehensible that even we most diehard defenders of the First Amendment go, "Okay, we gotta put a stop to this." Thankfully, we have South Korean watchdogs doing it for us.

This week, the Korean Peasant's League and Korean Women Peasants Association sprang into action to protect their citizens against a dangerous moral threat. Due to their urgent campaigning and pressure, Korean television recently stopped airing an ad that was leading the innocent down a dark and deviant path of wicked immorality. South Korea has immediately banned a television spot that "sexually objectifies garlic."

Immoral temptation awaits us around every bend -- up to and including our super-sexy kitchens.

By and large, I seldom worry about the risque nature of farm-to-table produce. But according to this watchdog group, the ad in question "has content of sexual expression that goes beyond sensationalism and damages the reputation of agricultural products." Because, as we all know, garlic is nothing without its wholesome and chaste reputation. 

If you're anything like me, your first thought was probably, "WHERE CAN I IMMEDIATELY AND WITHOUT DELAY VIEW THIS AD?" It's not easy. Pro tip: Do NOT Google "sexy garlic." There WILL be boobs, and some will be vampire boobs. There are seem to be people who delight in posting pics of garlic bulbs that look like butt cheeks. And yes, there are plentiful stock photos of sexy models licking garlic bread. Ain't technology grand?

I did eventually find the video. It's especially weird -- and NOT especially sexy. The ad promotes Hongsan garlic, a brand promised to be "very thick and hard." And the rest of the video is a woman sexy-flirting with a guy wearing a giant garlic mask. Its the kind of ad that the words "what the...?" were invented for.

Here's what bugs me more than the ad, though. The sexiness of grocery staples is a concept I have NEVER pondered, but I'm pretty sure garlic is about the least sexy food out there. I have proof.

This past Monday, I woke up PARCHED. Magic pixies had somehow crawled down my throat while I slept and set up a series of dehumidifiers. That's when I looked to my right and saw salvation. I would have squealed had my larynx not been made of sand. There on my bedside table sat a half bottle of water from the night before. I took a triumphant swig -- and nearly threw up.

You see, the night before, I'd made spaghetti for dinner. I didn't have any garlic bread -- but I had some bread and I had some garlic, so I improvised. It was delicious. But when I took a great big swig of that bottled water to discover IT now also tasted like last night's garlic bread? Well, that was just seismically gross. There's no worse way to roll into a Monday morning than making a beeline to your toothbrush while yelling, "Ew! Ew! Ew!"

I was running late, so I quickly buttered some toast with jam for the commute. I was halfway over the bridge when I took my first bite of what was inexplicably jam-and-garlic toast. That's when I learned a fun lesson: If you make garlic bread at home, you should NOT spread the garlic on the first slice of toast and then use the same knife to get butter out of the tub for the second slice. I had accidentally created a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not A Garlic Hellscape.

If garlic's as sexy as that Korean ad claims, then I must have looked like a supermodel as I spat out that strawberry garlic toast. I almost left the rest out for the birds, but I reckon they might even take a hard pass on that particular treat.

Sorry, Hongsan. It's gonna take more than your bizarre ad to convince me that garlic's the sexiest food -- especially in a world where kumquats exist.  

COLUMN: An Ode to Lynette

During my recent bout with COVID, I reached the phase where I was holding nightly pity party ragers in my house. After days of nothing but my cats and TV for company, I was officially feeling sorry for myself. I hit the wall of over-dramatic despair -- and when that happens, I do stupid things.

That's right, I signed up for online dating.

It became clear to me a few years back that I'd probably reached the end of my dating journey. I've had my time in the sun and some great relationships over the years. Most of my exes have remained among my closest friends, and if you think that's weird, I honestly think you're doing dating wrong. I wouldn't have dated them if I didn't want them in my life, and just because we might not be soulmates doesn't mean we don't enjoy each other's company from time to time.

But I kinda figured my glory days were behind me. As shocking as it may be, it appears most women are NOT attracted to chubby newspaper columnists who spend their nights glued to the TV and their weekends stuck in DJ booths. A basement full of record albums is NOT the aphrodisiac that it darn well should be. I'm fully aware that my quirks appeal to a VERY select demographic, and I'm pretty sure I've dated most of them by now.

BUT NO, say the online dating sites, your perfect match is but a click away! And on one fateful night last week with a head full of COVID, I actually believed them.

I started, stupidly, on Facebook. My social media feed usually consists of (a) people I don't care about sharing aspects of their life I don't care about, (b) people I DO care about sharing aspects of their life that make me horribly jealous, (c) me keeping tabs on everyone I've ever had a crush on ever, and (d) random people yelling about politics. Naturally, it's the perfect environment to go looking for love.

Facebook recently added a Dating feature, so why not? Like most dating sites, you need to create a profile. After spending fifteen minutes looking for the least-hideous selfie in my arsenal, the next step was to write a blurb. This is a brief paragraph that's supposed to sell yourself to the greater dating world. After much consideration and flu medication, I went with:

"Pop culture geek seeking someone who isn't a terrible human being. Bookworm? Nerdy? TV junkie? Socially awkward? We'd probably get along well."

I know -- it just screams, "I'm a catch," doesn't it? No pushing, ladies. The line forms to the left. From there, it was all up to the magic algorithms to start matching me with the ladies of my dreams. The first recommendation came within minutes.

I knew she was a keeper right away, considering her profile pic showed her struggling to contain a snarling pit bull. Yep, clearly my dream girl. And her profile included such romantic eloquence as, "You must have car because my license got took away" and "I smoke lots of weed -- it helps with my depression." Yes, Facebook, you've indeed found my soulmate. This was but the first in a cavalcade of horrible mis-matches, bachelorette upon bachelorette absolutely ill-suited for my weird dumb life.

I decided to narrow my matches using their interest questionnaire. Their list of questions is impressively specific. "Do you like road trips?" Okay, sure, I guess. "What's your favorite 80's song?" Ooh, I dunno -- maybe "Cars" by Gary Numan. "What's your favorite band?" That's easy: the somewhat obscure British band Ride. With this new information in place, I was sure to land a winner.

Within five minutes, the site sent me a new match: "Lynette." She's a 44-year-old long-haul trucker from Boise, Idaho who likes whiskey, darts, Donald Trump, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Ummmmm, what? No offense to sweet Lynette, but her profile reads more like a list of things I hate.

Then I saw it. "You and Lynette share a common interest of: GROUND-BASED TRANSPORTATION." Score one for the high-tech algorithms of online dating. I guess because I like road trips, the song "Cars," and the band Ride, Facebook just straight up assumed I have a trucker fetish. Awesome. 

Strangely, this wasn't enough for me to give up, so I also filled out a free profile on Match.com. Within a day, my profile was liked by four different people. Annnd that's about as far as your free profile gets you on Match.com. If I want to SEE those people or learn anything about them, I simply need to pay $44.95/month for presumably eternity. Thanks, but no thanks. Maybe I have four perfect soulmates at the other end of that paywall. I'm guessing odds are better that it's four more Lynettes looking for a bike ride to the Trump rally.

Love remains elusive -- but don't worry. I put that $44.95 to good use at the record store. A basement full of records might not woo the ladies, but what if it was a basement AND a closet AND a storage space? A fella can dream...