COLUMN: Calm

It's been almost two months since I decided to spice up my summer by suffering a heart attack. I'm in no real hurry to have another one, so I've been trying my hardest to turn over a new leaf. Obviously, diet and exercise are key here, but I also can't help but wonder if stress may have played a role.

I never thought of myself as an especially stress-filled person. I don't lie in bed EVERY night tossing and turning with worry -- only some of the nights. I'm not easily triggered, and I only fly off the handle on special occasions. Emotionally, I've always thought I was fairly even-keeled. But I've spent the past couple months taking stock of my life, and I might be a little more stressed out than previously thought.

I love my job, but it's fueled by the constant pressure of deadlines and goals. On the weekends, I hang out in DJ booths trying to bring a party soundtrack to a crowd of people who could turn on you the minute you play the wrong song. I worry about my family and friends. I worry about finances. I worry about my health. I worry about worrying too much. I do an okay job at presenting myself as somewhat cool and collected, but maybe I'm a neurotic mess on the inside?

While I'm pretty sure my heart attack was brought on mostly by the fun sins of gluttony and sloth, I'd also like to take this time of lifestyle change to remove stress from my life where possible. I'm just not exactly sure how to do it. There's loads of books on the subject. There's countless podcasts and self-help websites devoted to relieving stress. I could try yoga or meditation. I could find religion. I could practice my breathing. I could ask a nice doctor for some happy pills.

Instead, I bought a virtual reality headset.

Oh, who am I kidding? I already owned one. Yes, I'm a fully grown adult who has the toys of a teenager. I think I've used it a good half-dozen times. The headsets are fun, but they look ridiculous, and if I'm being totally honest, it kinda makes me motion-sick. Also, it's a little unnerving to put on a pair of goggles and suddenly lose all connection to the real world. What if I'm sitting there with my headset playing virtual tennis while my kitchen catches fire or my home gets invaded by knife-wielding bandits? That'd be the all-time most embarassing way to get mugged. Worst of all, what if a girl were to ever see me in this ridiculous get-up? For these reasons, my virtual reality headset has spent more time gathering dust than power-ups.

But recently, I've been reading about these trendy stress-relieving apps and games for VR headsets. So I dusted off the ol' Oculus, downloaded a popular app that promotes calmness and serenity, and transported myself to a virtual reality where surely all of the stress in my life would just melt away.

These apps promise you a guided voyage to serenity. In full disclosure, the ones I tried just make you float around non-threatening virtual worlds while hokey new age music plays and you're somehow supposed to find tranquil inner peace. I don't get it. Here's a play-by-play of what my brain saw, felt, and experienced that afternoon:

Ooookay, so I've started the app and I appear to be... moving? Floating? Wait, am I flying? I'm totally flying. HOW am I flying? I can't see my body. Do I have wings? Nope, no wings. I think I'm just your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill, gravity-defying flying human. 

This doesn't seem stress-relieving -- this seems dangerous. How far is down? WHOA. It is a LOOOOONG ways down. Unless I'm made out of rubber or pillows, I don't think I'd survive a fall from this altitude. I feel sick.

Where even am I? In the distance, I can see a stalagmite. I think I'm in a cave. Yep, it's a big virtual cave. Great, nothing scary about that. I'm flying in a cave... just like a peaceful, serene, rabid bat. But here's the weird part. There doesn't appear to be any escape. Each way I turn, there's a cave wall way off in the distance. But I don't see a single door, window, vent, tunnel, or shaft.  

Oh, God. How much air is left in this subterranean prison? Am I going to virtually die? Wait, do I even need air? Does my weird floating non-existent body even have lungs? Maybe air isn't needed. Maybe I'm a ghost. 

The BIG question, though, is that my virtual cave is also playing some seriously hippie-dippie new age music. I'm pretty sure I just heard a pan flute. Let me fly around the perimeter real quick and... nope, no sign of Enya or Zamfir or Yanni anywhere. Yet the music remains. Somewhere in this cave, there must an impressive virtual speaker system. The cave appears to be at least ten stories tall, yet there's not even a hint of an echo. I wonder if these stalagmites are made of acoustic sound-dampening foam. I want to meet this cave's audio engineer.

But there's no time for that, because I'm currently being swarmed by virtual butterflies gingerly flappig around. GROSS. If there's virtual butterflies, that means there's virtual caterpillars crawling around somewhere, not to mention the potential now exists for VIRTUAL BEES. Did I hear a buzz? I'll just fly around as quickly as possible to outrun all this digusting virtual nature. Also, did anyone check and make sure these butterflies aren't poisonous? We're in a virtual world of limitless possibility. For all we know about these magical butterflies, they could have fangs and talons and lay eggs inside your brain. 

And that is how I spent my first session with a stress-relieving calmness app: wondering what it would feel like to have your brains slowly eaten by fanged cave butterfly larvae while listening to pan flute.

On second thought, I think I'll just stick with the happy pills.

COLUMN: Janos Disco

Last week, I wrote about how much fun it is to get in your car and drive far away from the Quad-Cities. THIS week, I should probably be fair and tell you about a couple upcoming events that are fun to do IN the Quad-Cities. Will these events be a hoot? I can't guarantee it, but I'll go with a confident "most likely!" Is this little more than shameless self-promotion for events directly involving me and/or my friends? Maybe. Is that kind of unfair? Perhaps. But do I have a newspaper column and you don't? Nanny nanny boo boo.

This weekend is the return of Alternating Currents, the Quad-Cities' annual music, arts, and comedy festival -- 30+ venues around town will be hosting over 100 live performances in one weekend. The air will be exploding in rarified sound for the next couple days, including some don't-miss performances. Friday night brings Chicago's Smoking Popes to town, a band who rocketed to acclaim after their song "Need You Around" was featured in the movie Clueless. The Made Indie Market AND the Beaux Arts Fair will be happening in conjunction with the festival. Floatzilla will be launching from Main Street Landing, soundtracked by my buddy DJ Buddha. There's a great band called Dendrons playing inside Ragged Records on Saturday. Download the Alternating Currents app for all the details and the full schedule.

But of course, my favorite part of Alternating Currents is the annual Silent Disco happening overhead on the Davenport Skybridge this weekend. That's right, they'll be turning our favorite bridge to nowhere into the world's quietest dance party. If you haven't been to a silent disco, they're ridiculous and fun. Each night, three DJs will be spinning all the records they can muster from 9-11 p.m. But they won't be amplified. There's nary a speaker to be found.

Instead, everyone who shows up at the event gets a pair of glowing headphones. Instead of powering a speaker, the DJs will instead be broadcasting directly to your wireless headphones. The phones allow you to easily switch between the three DJ feeds, so if there's a tune you don't like, you can just click over to a different DJ. Put the headphones on and beats will be flying all night. Take the headphones OFF and the Skybridge will be as quiet as a library. 

And yep, as you may have guessed, yours truly is scheduled to be one of those DJs on Saturday night. This will be my third year engaged in quiet battle atop the Skybridge, and it's never failed to be a silly good time. Come down, shake a tail feather, and bask in the awkwardness of watching me interact with other humans. It's a swell time.

But if you don't come out to see ME on Saturday, you should DEFINITELY head out next Thursday the 24th in support of one of the greatest human beings to ever reside in these fair cities. If you're lucky in life, you may get to know some people who are innately good. But if you're EXTRA lucky in life -- like, four-leaf clover and winning the Lotto kinda lucky -- you might get to know a few people who are truly great. 

Janos Horvath is one such great person. John (to his friends, and Janos to his closer friends) is nothing if not a Quad-City mainstay. You might know him from his many roles onstage with Circa '21's Children's Theatre over the years. Or you might know him from his wife Jen's store -- she runs Fred & Ethel's 50's Antiques in Rock Island.

But most likely, you probably know John from his many years behind the bar at an assortment of Rock Island watering holes (Blue Cat, RIBCO, and his current home at Radikal Effect Brewerks.) But Janos Horvath is no simple bartender. Some say he's the consummate bartender. In fact, he's won "Best Bartender in the QC" so many times he eventually took himself out of the running just to give others a chance at glory. Never without a smile, never without a great one-liner, never without the ability to pour the perfect shamrock atop your pint of Guinness. 

The thing about John is that he genuinely cares about pretty much everybody. He's the guy who never forgets to send you a birthday greeting even if you haven't seen him in years. The guy who remembers everyone's favorite drinks, favorite bands, and favorite topics of conversation. He's one of those guys who's always there for you, whether you're a close friend or a literal stranger off the street. And now we need to be there for him.

John's had a lousy summer. Back in April, he fell ill with what turned out to be a rare spine-eating infection. He's endured hospital stays, a lengthy surgery to fix his back, intense rounds of antibiotics, and he's currently in isolation while his immune system tries to rebuild itself. He hasn't been able to work since April, and his medical bills are mounting.

That's why on Thursday, Radikal Effect Brewerks is hosting John's Backbreaker Bash from 4-8 p.m. 30% of all bar sales that evening will go towards Janos, not to mention some bonus stuff like caricatures, hot sauce, food from Peaceful Palate, and a slew of raffle baskets with all proceeds going to our friend John. 

So there's my pitch. This week is yours to do with as you will. You can do what I did LAST week and flee the QC looking for adventure. But if you stick around, you could see some great bands, dance in silence, help one of the best people in town, and maybe say hi to an awkward newspaper columnist along the way. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the weekend.

COLUMN: Musical Roulette

As long-time readers may know, one of my favorite hobbies in the Quad Cities is getting in the car and leaving them. While I'm certainly a fan of our river communities, I'm also a fan of long, epic aimless drives with no plans, no maps, and no particular destination. As long as there's an open road, a full tank of gas, and a well-crafted music playlist, I can waste entire weekends pointlessly driving around the midwest.

I love the Quad Cities, but the music snob in me lives by a few simple sagely credos, such as: "Always try to be wherever Limp Bizkit isn't." Saturday was a fantastic day to flee the scene of a pending musical crime, so I called my best friend and thankfully he was equally bored. We've been getting lost in the country for over 30 years now, and Saturday would be no exception. The only downside? We've both lived here so long that in order for the both of us to get good and properly lost, we need to drive a considerable distance away from the Quad Cities.

On Saturday, we pointed the car north and headed towards the Driftless Area of southern Wisconsin. If you're going to drive about aimlessly, you might as well do it somewhere with steep hills, forested ridges, deep river valleys, and roads so twisty-turny you might need a compass to keep yourself sorted. Southern Wisconsin backroads are not for amateurs.

As soon as we cleared Dubuque, we turned down the first gravel road we could find. Just where this magical road might take us was anyone's guess. Perhaps a land of wonder, of excitement, of newfound adventure where I could...

Nope. It took us to Dickeyville. I'm pretty sure 80% of the Wisconsin roadtrips I've ever been on have somehow wound up in Dickeyville. I know this because it's home to the Dickeyville Grotto, a Catholic shrine built one pebble at a time by one Father Matthias Wernerus between 1924 and 1930. As far as weird roadside attractions go, the Grotto is pretty great. But I've seen it a kajillion times and wanted something new, fresh, and exciting. Then I saw the sign.

I've certainly spent quality time at the grotto before, but never while a rummage sale was happening on site. And much to my delight, they had a massive selection of utterly terrible second-hand CDs. I'm a music junkie and I didn't even recognize half these artists. That's when I hatched my own dare: I would spend four hard-earned dollars on the weirdest, most random CDs in this collection -- and no matter where the day took us or where we ended up, we had to listen to these four discs in their entirety. It would be a beautiful relaxing country drive -- all while playing a dangerous game of music roulette.

Up first was the gem "Rugolovations" by Pete Rugolo.  I'd never heard of my man Pete before, but anyone with the guts to name his album "Rugolovations" is aces in my book. Also, based on the cover art, Pete also wears the highest waisted pants in recorded human history. I'm pretty sure his belt is at nipple height. It's a brave look. If only it were as brave a sound. Instead, Pete comes off more like a second-rate Henry Mancini and the whole record is like the soundtrack to a bad 60s spy movie, which doesn't exactly scream "Wisconsin." One song yelled, "everybody mambo!" For the record, we did not.

The second album was "Phantasys" by one Danny Wright. Nothing against Danny. He looks wholesome and earnest in the inner sleeve. But this was pretty much an hour of a random guy tinkling light jazz noodling on a piano. Remember the piano players they used to have at Younkers back in the day? Imagine that, but for, like, an hour. Sorry, Danny. Hard pass.

Third was Woody Herman and the Thundering Herds, "1945-1947." Now, Herman was a respected bandleader of some reknown, and I bet ol' Woody lit up some pretty good shindigs back in the 1940s, especially if you wanted some solid big band clarinet in your life. I can, however, safely attest this is NOT the music you want blaring while you drive past an attractive bachelorette party in downtown Galena, unless your goal is to have them all stare at you like you're a complete lunatic. 6 out of 10 only because there's a song called "Your Father's Moustache." 

And the final selection we saved for dark, because it was "The Parting Tide" by the new age band ominously named Nightnoise. I was hoping it would be moody, vaguely creepy background music for late night ambience. Instead, it was basically Discount-Mart Enya. There were pan flutes aplenty (or at least one Casio keyboard set to "pan flute" mode.) There was Gaelic singing that I can only presume was about hobbits, because this was definitely music for midday at the Shire and decidedly NOT the kind of thing designed to soundtrack Cordova, IL at 11 p.m.  

Having survived music roulette, it was back to my usual Spotify playlist ("Songs That Do Not Suck") for the final push home. Some of you might prefer Pete, Danny, Woody, and Nightnoise to my bizarre playlist that can jump from Debbie Gibson to Einsturdenze Neubaten at the drop of a hat. All in all, though, music roulette added a new and exciting dimension to the aimless driving experience, and I can't recommend it enough next time you pass a rummage sale with an "eclectic" selection. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go listen to ANYTHING so I can get "Your Father's Moustache" out of my head.   

COLUMN: Crotchenator

Thanks to my doctor-ordered new life as a healthy person, I have officially become a gym rat -- except it's less of a gym and more like a structured cardiac rehabilitation program at the hospital. I've never spent quality time in a proper gym, but I reckon it's pretty similar. Multiple times a week, I get to roll in, exercise for an hour, and try my best to avoid the legions of hotties who now want to check out my buff new form.

Okay, maybe the last part hasn't happened yet, but I'm not saying it couldn't. I've been at it for a couple weeks now, and I've already lost a respectable chunk of weight. I had to go buy a new belt -- and I'm already down to the last hole on THAT one. I'm a heck of a long way from being a skinny head-turner, but I honestly feel pretty good about my progress thus far.

The rehab program has a host of different exercise machines, but I've been focusing mainly on three.

The first is a seated elliptical exerciser that I lovingly call the Crotchenator 2000. I'm not exactly sure which specific muscles its meant to work out, but it kinda feels like its primary mission is to stretch portions of the human anatomy that are best left unstretched. It works your arms and legs, but it feels like your legs come up WAY higher than necessary. I kinda hated it at first, but it might be my favorite machine there.

From the Crotchenator, I usually move to the Arm Death-o-matic. It looks like an escapee from the 1950s, complete with weird clicks and clacks, like a mid-century modern torture device or something. It's a tabletop machine that's little more than a set of bike pedals, except you pedal with your hands instead of your feet. For the first couple minutes, it's kinda fun. For the other eighteen, it's borderline inhumane. My arm muscles (I have those?) start crying out, my face gets flushed, and sweat drips from my every pore. If the goal of exercising is to look fit and handsome, I'm pretty sure this machine does the opposite, because I look like a wreck when I'm through. But anything that feels this unpleasant MUST be fantastic for you, so viva torture, I guess.

After all that, I've been ending my sessions with a brisk walk on the treadmill. I like the treadmills they have there, because they're big and comfy and have massive arm railings that feel like safety overkill. Plus, you get to put a little safety clip on your shirt to ensure that if you pass out and go flying off the back of the machine, at least it will shut itself off as you're hurtling towards your doom. This is good, because I'd hate for my death to needlessly waste electricity. Also, I've found that I get weird vertigo and a touch of motion sickness while on the treadmill, which is honestly the exact distraction I need to take my mind off how much I hate power walking.      

With every session, I've been adding more and more resistance to the machines, and I've actually noticed the results. I've got more strength in my arms than I've had in a long time. I feel a little lighter on my feet. This past weekend, I went to the suburbs and spent the afternoon wandering around Ikea without my feet aching. Maybe there's something to this exercise stuff after all.

I just can't get cocky about it. 

In full disclosure, I actually do own a pretty nice exercise bike in my basement that I bought years ago on a whim. It's gotten a ton of use over the years -- as a very expensive clothes hanger. But this weekend, I took those clothes down and decided it was high time to put that thing to work.

I was doing a load of laundry at the time, so while I was waiting for the dryer, I figured I might as well pedal a few calories away. I plugged the machine in and it sprang to life, asking me to select a setting. The dryer had about twenty minutes to go, so I chose a setting called "20 Minute Quick Calorie Burn."

The first "lap" was pleasant, with about one minute on resistance level 3. But after that one minute, the resistance jumped from a comfortable 3 to a challenging 7. Another minute later, it ramped up to a 9 before shifting to resistance level 11. I didn't even known there WAS a level 11. I thought it maxed out at 10. Almost instantly, I was sweating through my clothes and pushing things WAY too hard. After that, it backed down, but only to level 7 before climbing again. By the second time it reached level 11, I was wheezing and realized my fragile heart was beating out of my chest, so I packed it in. One ambulance ride this summer was quite sufficient, thanks.

So I don't think I need worry about turning into King of the Jocks quite yet. I'm seeing improvement, but I guess it's baby steps. Let's be honest, there are probably babies out there in better shape than me right now. My workouts are helping, but my "20 Minute Quick Calorie Burn" was more like "9 Minutes of Agony and Almost-Vomiting." I'm not quitting, though. In fact, I'm heading to the basement now for some polite Level 3 pleasure cycling. If this column makes it to press, assume that I survived.