COLUMN: Insomnia

Because life just isn't fun without challenges, I've picked up a new hobby this week: insomnia. I've given it a chance, but I've got to say that so far, I don't get the appeal.

I'd like to blame it on science somehow. Perhaps the drop in barometric pressure causes restlessness. I don't know if that's a fact. I also don't know if the barometric pressure has dropped. Come to think of it, I don't really even understand how barometric pressure works. But it sounds impressive, right? Maybe it's the fact that we're on the precipice of the summer solstice. When it doesn't get dark until 9 p.m., going to bed shortly afterwards feels like I'm being cheated out of my evenings somehow. It's disruptive to my circadian rhythms. (See? I'm dropping mad science terms all over the place like a proper intellectual.)

I'm just desperate to blame this on anything or anyone other than myself. Truth be told, I'm pretty sure I know exactly why I've had trouble getting to sleep lately. For one, I need to stop drinking caffeinated soda after dark -- that's just dumb. I also know a lot of the blame falls on my side hustle as a weekend DJ. During the week, I try to live a somewhat respectable schedule of getting to bed by midnight and getting up around 7 a.m. On the weekends, though, I'm spinning records until 2 a.m., which means I don't usually get to bed until 4 a.m. or later -- and then wake up at the crack of noon wondering where my weekend went. When I was in my twenties, that lifestyle was easy to master. These days, it's a little more taxing. 

But honestly, I'm trying my best not to divulge the REAL reason for my sleeplessness, which has less to do with circadian rhythms and owes more to me staying up til the wee hours watching ridiculous videos on TikTok. I'll get in bed, tuck myself in, realize I'm super bored, and grab my phone. 97 videos later, I'll look at the clock and realize it's 1:30 a.m. and then lay there worrying about how many brain cells I've just lost watching utter nonsense.

Thankfully, though, the internet has an answer for sleepless nights, and that answer is Spotify. Specifically, the ever-growing and ever-popular category on Spotify simply called "sleep." Just scroll past pop, rock, and country -- you'll find it towards the end of their genre list. Inside this category are a number of carefully curated playlists with the sole aim of lulling you to sleep. I'm deeply fascinated by it. Perusing Spotify playlists might honestly be my new favorite hobby.

I've written about some of these Spotify sleep playlists before, but I never really took a deep dive. The last time, I was captivated by my discovery of five distinct playlists -- the ones labelled "white noise" (214 "songs" of pure static fuzz), "pink noise" (196 tracks of slightly deeper static fuzz), "brown noise" (230 tracks of even lower pitched static fuzz), "black noise" (essentially the soundtrack to the lobby of Hell,) and "green noise," which is identical to pink noise except they superimpose sounds of frogs and cicadas and such over the top of it.

Somehow this is supposed to make me sleepy. Instead it just makes me giggle. It all just kinda sounds like the interior of an airplane cabin to me, except that it must not, because there's a separate playlist called "airplane cabin noise." They ALL sound the same to me. Either my ears are off or there's a scam afoot here. Either way, I applaud whoever earns an honest living by recording static and marketing it as a magical sleep aid. I bet that dude sleeps soundly every night.

Every one of these playlists has over 100 tracks that are each roughly around five minutes long. I've rapidly discovered that the only thing more off-putting than listening to five minutes of static is the one second of silence that plays as it changes tracks. I tried lulling myself to sleep in static-filled bliss the other night, but every time that second of silence hit, it felt like I could suddenly hear my own soul and my eyes immediately popped open. What happened? Did I die? Did the plane crash?  

The other trendy sleep sound that the new-age-iers amongst us swear by are "binaural beats." It's an auditory illusion that occurs when you play separate tones of slightly different frequencies to each ear at the same time. The human brain can't process the different tones together, so it instead perceives the noise as a combined third tone. Supposedly, this can induce a semi-hypnotic state of relaxation and tranquility. I've found it can also induce a semi-gross state of nausea. Plus, the effect only happens when you're listening through headphones, otherwise it just sounds like your cat is having a lie-down on a Casio keyboard. 

Speaking of Casio keyboards, that's pretty much what Spotify's "lo-fi sleep" playlist sounds like. Or there's the "sleepy piano" playlist, which sounds like you're trying to catch a catnap inside a Von Maur -- as opposed to "calming nature music," which sounds like someone let birds into the Von Maur. "Floating in space" is a neat playlist if you refrain from thinking that you'd die within about five seconds in the vacuum of space. And if you think the "train sounds" playlist is relaxing, you might have problems way deeper than insomnia.

Personally, the one sleep playlist I like is called "gloomcore," described by Spotify as "wandering the forest as the fog floats through the trees." I dig it -- but I dig it a little TOO much, because instead of sleeping, I prefer to just lay there and groove out to the gloomy bliss. 

Do the sleep playlists work? Well, you be the judge -- it's presently 1:30 a.m. and I'm currently listening to the "Deep Sleep" playlist while writing a column about listening to the "Deep Sleep" playlist at 1:30 a.m. Mission unaccomplished. But I'm not giving up on it yet -- after all, what else do I have better to do in the middle of the night? I mean, other than sleep.

COLUMN: Joro

I promise you it isn't my goal to turn this column into your new home for all things small and icky, but the hits keep coming.

A couple weeks ago, I told the tale of my backyard being invaded by a swarm of honeybees, which was pretty much my worst nightmare come to life. Last week, I mentioned how an aimless country drive took us straight into the heart of the great cicada uprising of 2024. For someone who hates bugs and insects and all manner of creepy-crawlies, I've certainly been devoting a lot of column inches to them.

I had plans to take things in a different direction this week, I swear. This one wasn't my fault. I blame TMZ.

People give TMZ a lot of grief. They are, after all, the "news" outlet that hangs outside of airports and restaurants in hopes of ambushing whatever celebrity might attempt to exist within their proximity. There's nothing quite as cringy as watching paparazzi painfully trying to get soundbytes from famous people by hurling inane questions at them. "J-Lo!" they'll scream in desperation. "Where's your wedding ring? Why did you cancel your tour? What do you think about the Trump verdict? How should we solve the crisis in Gaza?"

Paparazzi are the scum that live between the toes of other pondscum. I feel terrible for celebrities when they're hounded by paparazzi everywhere they go. People give Taylor Swift occasional grief for being so omnipresent, but can you imagine, even for a split second, living her life? She's literally a prisoner of her own fame. Taylor Swift can't step one foot outside her house (whichever of her many houses she happens to be in) without an onslaught of flashbulbs and idiots yelling inane stuff. It's truly a miracle she hasn't gone completely lost the plot, built an amusement park in her backyard, and tried to buy the elephant man's bones at this point.

TMZ are terrible -- but so, apparently, am I. As much as I despise the culture they perpetuate, I'm JUST shallow and vapid enough to obsess over the culture they cover. The TMZ app sits on my phone right next to CNN's like it's a major news source. I hate TMZ, yet there's a part of me that will always root for them. Whenever they get the jump on "real" news networks and scoop some breaking news, I can't help but cheer for the underdog, even if this particular underdog is covered in slime.

But most of the time, TMZ's breaking news bulletins are nothing but sensationalistic twaddle -- which brings me to their alert I just got on my phone:

"GIANT VENOMOUS FLYING SPIDERS INVADING ANY DAY NOW."

Welp, there's one I didn't have on my bingo card.

Honestly, though, given the decade we're living in, it kinda tracks, right? We've survived a global pandemic, an insurrection, Korean boybands, and whatever Jojo Siwa's turned into. I suppose it's simply high time we added giant venomous flying spiders to the list.

It's actually kind of horrifying. A few years, some Asian joro spiders must've hitched a ride on some shipping containers, landed on our shores, and set up shop down in Georgia back in 2010. Since then, the invasive arachnids have begun spreading across the U.S. If you haven't seen a joro spider, they can grow to the size of a human hand and have leg spans of four inches. Their webs are massive and sticky. And if that's not gross enough, when joro spiders feel like relocating, they weave their webs into the shape of balloons and just go paragliding in the summer breeze until they presumably fly directly into my face and test the efficacy of my heart medicine. Fun times.

The GOOD news is that TMZ is over-hyping and clickbaiting the headline somewhat. While joro spiders are indeed starting to colonize our continent, they're still a ways away from the Midwest. They're currently making their way up the east coast and even into Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee. They're likely coming our way, but not for a bit. And while these spiders ARE venomous, they usually prefer sinking their tiny teeth into other insects and NOT people. I just read an article that said their teeth are so small, they might not even be able to puncture human skin -- and if they DID, it would be no worse than a bee sting.

(Note to the general press and mainstream media: When you're trying to minimize the danger of something, don't compare it to a bee sting. Some of us are deathly allergic to bee stings. Just sayin'.)

When it comes to spiders, I generally have a "live and let live" philosophy, unless they're the scary and/or deadly type. If you're a spider and you want to set up shop in a distant corner of my property where you will never bother me and I will never walk into your web, have at it. Enjoy feasting on all the other bugs I hate. But if you decide to move that party INDOORS and encroach on MY turf, I am not responsible for whatever actions myself or a rolled-up newspaper may do. Last week, a spider decided the best place to build a new home would be my bathtub. I may have displaced him to a new home -- in Davy Jones' locker. 

The other night, my home security alarm starting blaring in the middle of the night to let me know there was an intruder on my front porch. That intruder turned out to be a tiny spider trying to build a web directly ON my doorbell camera. When I pulled up the surveillance video, it looked like there was an eight-foot multi-legged monster waiting patiently on the porch to sell me life insurance or something. If you were driving around at 2 a.m. and saw a guy flicking a broom around desperately, it was just me doing some spontaneous 2 a.m. arachnid gentrification.

None of this bodes well for the future, but it's okay, because neither does anything else in the news. Last week, it was cicadas. This week it's flying spiders. Next week, we'll probably have man-eating millipedes free-roaming our neighborhoods. But don't worry, when the great millipede invasion takes hold, I'm sure our leaders will come together and figure out a way to blame each other for everything. As for me, I'm putting a moratorium on bug columns for the foreseeable future. If you need me, I'll be out buying cases of Raid.

COLUMN: Memorial Day

We kick off every work week here with a staff meeting. Usually, they're pretty fun. Well, maybe not the work-ier parts of it, or the fact that it usually happens two minutes after I clock in on a Monday morning. It's tough for my brain to get into first gear on a Monday morning, let alone full-throttle work mode. Each week, we gather around our conference table and I don't have the heart, stamina, or caffeine levels required to tell these good people that I'm still technically asleep until 10 a.m. or whenever that first cup of coffee decides to kick in. 

Every one of these meetings begins with a Pandora's box of a question that often stresses me out: "What did YOU do this weekend, Shane?" As the guy with the reputation for writing silly columns and trying to find laughter in the mundane, I feel like I should always be armed and ready with a good weekend tale. But more often than not, my weekends aren't especially story-worthy. I often feel like I'm letting my colleagues down.

But THIS week? Thanks to the holiday, we didn't have our meeting until Tuesday. I had three full days for weekend shenanigans to accumulate. I should have been locked and loaded with solid material, plot twists, and sordid tales to regale the masses. As we went around the room, everyone had exciting stories. People went home to their families. One went to a wedding, some went fishing, one drove all the way to Nebraska and back. Eventually, all eyes turned my way and that dreaded question was directed at me.

"How was YOUR weekend, Shane?" Defeated, I could only respond, "...I got nothing." Boring weekends stink, but boring THREE-DAY weekends are nearly unforgivable. Here's an honest recap of mine:

Friday night, I was in my usual spot, rocking my side hustle behind the DJ decks at a popular Davenport night spot. I've spun enough records over Memorial Day weekend to know that Friday is usually the quiet night, so I was expecting a tame crowd and a relaxing evening. Instead, I walked into a club already packed with freshly-minted college graduates -- and a fair share of their parents. 

I knew I was in trouble ten minutes in, when a nice lady outside our usual demographic came up and kindly asked if I could play some Seals & Crofts. Err, that's not exactly our usual format -- or preferred decade. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a Seals & Crofts hater. Last weekend, I DJed a yacht rock party and busted out "Summer Breeze" with glee. But at a downtown dance club on a Friday night that's known for hip-hop and house music? Even if Seals & Crofts had been DJing, THEY wouldn't have played Seals & Crofts.

"That one might be tough," I said apologetically. "Let me see if I brought it." (I already knew I hadn't.) I was worried this particular parent wasn't going to be very thrilled with my musical offerings that night. I don't think it'd fly if I'd said, "Well, if you like 'Summer Breeze' by Seals & Crofts, I bet you'll just love 'Slut Me Out' by NLE Choppa!" I ended up compromising with some ABBA, one of the only bands that can unite multiple generations in singalongs and bellbottom dreams. And I swear to you, I looked up a half hour later to see that same kindly lady in the center of my dancefloor, busting some moves to Drake's "Rich Baby Daddy."

Saturday was a friend's son's high school graduation party, which went swimmingly. I brought tunes and my services weren't even required. Instead, it was a relaxing afternoon with friends and good food. It was probably the first graduation party I'd attended since my own, and it was fun to sit around and watch dozens of high school kids completely ignore us and focus on the things that matter most: gossip and laughter. "Did you HEAR what so-and-so said to so-and-so," I heard two of them whisper to while walking away giggling. I miss those days. I guess we still have gossip amongst my generation, but it's usually more like, "Ooh, did you hear about so-and-so? Yeah, he died."

Sunday I didn't even leave the house. I almost didn't even bathe. Instead, I sat on my couch like a bump on a log, watching a rain-delayed Indianapolis 500 followed by a rain-shortened Coca-Cola 600. What did you do this weekend, Shane? Well, at one point, I shifted my weight from my right buttock to my left, that was pretty exciting. Perhaps you'd like to hear the play-by-play on the two hours I spent updating the firmware on my DJ controller? Good times, my friends.

On Memorial Day itself, my best friend and I filled my car up with gas and just start driving in hopes of finding something interesting. Sometimes these aimless drives take us to exotic destinations of adventure and exploration. Monday's drive instead took us to... northern Missouri. Know what happens in northern Missouri on Memorial Day? Not much. We drove around for a bit and headed home before we risked Monday becoming Tuesday.

That said, we did stumble upon a small town cemetery proudly decked out in flags, and we saw families paying visits and honoring loved ones -- a sobering reminder that this holiday isn't called "Bonus Fun Day." It made me extra grateful that my military veteran parents are both still here and around when I need them.

The other cool thing about traveling a couple hours south is that we drove straight into the apex of cicada Brood XIX, and they did NOT disappoint. We saw a woods absolutely teeming with the little (well, little-ISH) buggers, and their undulating chorus was ear-splitting, impressive, and a little bit icky. "What a majestic display of nature," I said. "Now let's leave before one of them majestically flies into my face."

So I dunno. Maybe my weekend wasn't as boring as I thought. It just filled an entire newspaper column, so it must be worth something. It won't win a Pulitzer or likely even hold anyone's attention around a conference table of small talk, but I'm grateful to have lived it, even if it wasn't the most exciting one on record. Here's hoping I get many more chances for a do-over.

COLUMN: Swarm!

I am many things -- brave is not one of them.

If you ever want to see me act like a complete and utter ninny, just put me anywhere in the vicinity of insects and watch the comedy magic play out before your eyes. If some gross bug even makes a move like it MIGHT want to crawl on me, I go from behaving like a fully-functioning adult to a panicked toddler in the blink of an eye. Wait, I take that back. I've seen panicked toddlers who handle insect encounters better than me.

This seems like perfectly justifiable rational behavior to me. I mean, they're called "creepy crawlies" for a reason. No one ever calls insects "cuddly crawlies." I've never looked at a bug and thought, "aww, how cute" -- and if you ever have, zoom in with your camera phone and take a good hard look at the prehistoric fanged nightmare factory you're gushing over. Bugs are tiny little horrifying monsters.

But I knew what was coming this year. The news has been giving us plenty of warning. 2024 marks the twin emergence of not one, but TWO different broods of periodic cicadas. These hulking beasts spend 13-17 years living underground (where they belong) before crawling to the surface, shedding their exoskeletons, and partying it up for a month of naked cicada debauchery before having the common decency to die -- all so their offspring can do it all over again 13-17 years later. Gross.

I was braced and ready for cicadas. As it turns out, they're the least of my problems this spring.

Last week, I took a rare and well-deserved day off to sneak down to Peoria with some friends for a concert. Having elected myself driver, I figured I'd take advantage of the beautiful morning by pulling my car into the backyard and giving it a good clean for the benefit of friends who would soon be piling in. It was a gorgeous morning, but I found it kind of annoying that one of my neighbors was running a high-pitched weed whacker that was seriously interfering in my ability to low-key rock out to the tunes bumping from my car stereo.

When I stepped out of the car, the shrill noise was even worse. I looked around to figure out where it was coming from, but didn't see anyone out and about. That's because I was looking AROUND. I should have been looking UP. 

It wasn't a weed whacker making that racket. Just feet above my head, the sky was full... of bees. Not just a few bees. Not even what I would call "a lot of bees." We're talking horror movie levels of bees, a "where-are-his-glasses-Thomas-J-can't-see-without-his-glasses" amount of bees. I'd reckon at least 3,000 in all. I didn't know there were that many bees in all of Rock Island, let alone one backyard. 3,000 bees is beyond my brain's capacity for rational thought. All I could think to do (as if "thinking" was an option) was dive into my car, roll up every window, and have a panic attack. 

In full disclosure, I lied earlier. I don't hate insects. I only really truly hate bees. The problem is that when any other insect dares come near me, I err on the side of caution, assume it's a bee, and act accordingly (specifically, like a ninny.) My mother once had to physically restrain me from tuck-and-rolling out of a moving car on the interstate because a bee flew in the window. I am super allergic, I am super petrified, and I assume no responsibilities for my actions when a bee comes near me. It's my worst phobia.

"But Shane," you say, "bees are nature's miracle! Without them, we would..." blah blah blah. Yes, I know. No, I don't care. Kill them all with fire, I say. And here, on this fine afternoon, they must have overheard me -- and they were here for revenge. I watched in horror as they worked to assemble what I assumed to be a massive hive in my backyard walnut tree.

Only later, when I gathered enough courage to run full bore back into the house, did I learn what I was actually dealing with. I grabbed my phone and called the first number I found after Googling "bee removal Quad Cities." I'm glad that number was Adam Ziegler's. He's an amateur backyard beekeeper and a kind soul who talked me off the ledge. I also suspect he might be clinically insane, because he seems to actually LIKE these flying death-bringers, but I won't judge. After I sent him a pic of the horrors I was witnessing, he let me know precisely what I was dealing with -- a swarm. 

The structure I was seeing in the walnut tree wasn't a hive -- it was just bees on bees on bees, gathering around their queen while scouts were out looking for new build-to-suit hive real estate. Let's hope it's nowhere near here. "They'll likely be gone within an hour or two," he reassured me.

I had no idea bees were prone to this sort of caravan lifestyle, but apparently it's pretty common. "This time of year in our region is known as swarm season," Adam explained. "The warmth and conditions have been great for trees and flowers to bloom, giving the bees plenty of resources to grow and expand."

"As a colony produces more and more bees with these abundant resources, something is triggered in the hive to start feeding young larvae extra nutrition in the form of 'royal jelly.' This gives the female larvae enough extra proteins and fats and carbs to develop into a queen bee. When the queen bee hatches, parts of the colony abscond with the new queen and become a swarm."

"Neat," I replied. "Now come kill them."

Except I didn't say that, because I'm not a monster. While it would warm my heart to no end watching these bees meet a most painful demise, I understand their importance in the world, which is why I purposely Googled "bee removal" instead of "bee extermination." Sadly, Adam was on his way out of town, but he reassured me the swarm was likely just making a pit stop in my yard, and he was right. Two hours later, they all took off in horrifying tandem to become what I can only hope is now Someone Else's Problem.

If that someone is you, Adam's your guy. I was super thankful for his advice and cool lesson, even if it was like listening to someone recap the world's scariest horror flick. He's looking for a swarm to re-home, so if you've got one, check out his website at https://zigsbees.adamziegler.com/. In the meantime, if you need me, I'm pretty sure I'll be indoors until first frost. 

COLUMN: Northern Lights

This story begins in 1992. It was my senior year of college, 32 years ago this very week. I'd learned a lot at school, but nothing quite as important as THIS realization: If I rolled up to a party with a couple crates of records, people were often willing to PAY me to play them. This strange little skill proved very valuable living on a meager collegiate budget.

So when a sorority called to see if I'd DJ their end-of-year formal, I was all in. I figured I'd worry about the logistical problems later -- like how the formal was in Cedar Rapids and I owned NO sound gear or a vehicle big enough to cart said non-existent gear halfway across Iowa.

But where there's a will, there's a way. So when the formal rolled around, I enlisted the help of two close friends. The three of us convoyed to Cedar Rapids in separate cars filled to the brim with our respective home stereos, which we then wired together into a makeshift PA system. Shockingly, it all worked out fairly well. I still have pics from that formal, and it was a good time.

The one thing we DIDN'T procure, however, were hotel rooms for the night. So after the shindig wound down and we got everything packed back into our tiny cars, we decided to hit the road and make the return convoy back to the Quad Cities in the pitch middle of the night. My friend Jeff was in the lead car, my roommate (whose name, confusingly, was also Shane) was in the middle, and I was bringing up the rear. That's when the night went wonky.

Somewhere halfway between Iowa City and Davenport, OtherShane had a tire blowout. Thankfully, he managed to pull his car off the road safely and I followed suit. Jeff, meanwhile, didn't notice a thing and kept right on driving, so that's the last you'll hear of him in this story, "How the Two Shanes Found Themselves on the Side of I-80 at 4 a.m. Attempting to Change a Tire." 

"Dude," OtherShane said to me while struggling with his tire jack in the ditch. "A little help here?"

Except I didn't respond. I was frozen, eyes glued to the north. OtherShane, rapidly losing his patience, stood up and saw it, too. "Whoa." There, along the horizon, bluish-green hues danced in the sky. For the first time in my life, I was seeing the aurora borealis.

"This is amazing," I said, pulling out my phone to take some pics. Except I didn't, because it was 1992, and camera phones didn't exist. All I could do was stare in awe -- for approximately 8 seconds, before OtherShane said, "Cool, now help me change this tire, you idiot."

That was my only encounter with nature's most elusive beauty. Eight seconds of spectacle. By the time we had the spare on his car, they were gone. I've harbored a grudge over that night for decades, wishing I could go back and see those ethereal lights, even for just eight more seconds.

At least once a year, there's some meteorologist on TV telling us a geomagnetic storm is headed our way that might cause the Northern Lights to appear this far south. Every time it happens, I get excited. Every time, I've been disappointed. Invariably, clouds will always roll in or the predicted storm just won't be enough to bring the auroras down to Illinois. One time, a meteorologist was SO confident we were in for a show that we drove all the way to a light pollution-free zone in Wisconsin, convinced we were about to witness wonders. When we got there and looked up, all we saw was blackness. 

So when those predictions were issued again last weekend, I rolled my eyes. Besides, I had a DJ gig that night. But as I was in the club trying to make dancefloor magic, I started getting texts from friends. I started seeing posts on Facebook, first from Europe and soon from people in Illinois. This particular geomagnetic storm didn't disappoint. Auroras were dancing in the skies above the Midwest, and I was stuck indoors. Sigh.

At 2 a.m., I left the club, half elated from owning yet another dancefloor for the night, but half dejected by what I missed in order to do it. I was heading home, literally at the apex of the Centennial Bridge, when a strange glimmer caught my eye in the rearview mirror -- but it wasn't another car catching up to me. It was the sky itself, bathed in an amber hue bright enough to see from the middle of town. Had the bridge lights not been turned off to assist bird migration last weekend, I might not have even noticed.

I was bone tired, but it didn't matter. I hit Illinois and immediately turned the car around. An hour later, I was some 15 miles north of Davenport along the darkest piece of rural real estate I could find, by myself at 3 a.m. Once again, I was pulled over on the side of the road -- but this time, there was no tire to change. It was just me, myself, and dancing skies -- and whatever was making that creepy howling noise, but let's not think about that.

Cross one off the bucket list. It only took a few extra decades, but I finally had a front-row view of the aurora borealis, right here in River City. I even had a camera phone, so I was able to record it for posterity. It was cool.

Like, literally cool. It was honestly pretty chilly, I was in the middle of nowhere without a single other human knowing my whereabouts, and I swear whatever was howling was getting closer. I didn't want this story to end with "and-that's-how-I-was-eaten-by-a-chupacabra," so I waved goodbye to the wavy skies and headed home. It wasn't the end of the magic, though.

Seconds later, while still on my way back to civilization, I suddenly watched a fiery green light fall from the skies and presumably land ahead of me somewhere. I still have no earthly idea what that light was. It didn't look like a meteorite. It looked much closer, like someone had shot off a bottle rocket -- but it was almost 4 a.m., I was surrounded by corn fields, and there were no signs of life anywhere. I probably should've investigated more, but I've seen how "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" ends (spoiler: not well for anyone,) so I kept driving. I'm happy that life still holds some mystery.

Do I have anything profound to say about my night with the Northern Lights? Nah. While a rare occurrence this far south of the pole, anyone that night who didn't live under clouds or light pollution could've seen the same show I did -- but what a show it was. Now if someone could send over some coffee, that'd be swell -- for some reason, I'm suuuuper tired this week.

COLUMN: Met Gala

When I was a kid, there were only two things I wanted to be when I grew up: rich and famous.

I didn't care how. Maybe I'd be an amazing actor. Maybe I'd write a best-seller. Maybe I'd write a song the whole world would sing along to. Honestly, it didn't matter. I just wanted money and fame and all the delicious trappings that come with it.  

Often, I'd daydream about my future celebrity lifestyle -- I squarely blame Richie Rich comic books. Mostly I'd just think about the basic stuff, like how many servants I'd have, where my mansions would be located, and how much gold they'd be filled with. My friends and I would even sketch out floor plans of our future mansions in our Trapper Keepers, and then spend our lunch hours slurping down chocolate milk while arguing over who had the best designs.

I never really knew what I wanted on the main floors of my dream mansions. I didn't have any extremely wealthy friends, so I didn't have much to go on. I just remember always designating one room as the "conservatory," despite not knowing what a conservatory was. I just knew it from the board game "Clue," and it sounded fancy. I just figured I needed one in case Colonel Mustard ever came round for a visit and fancied committing some atrocities with a candlestick.

The focus of our dream mansion floor plans, though, was always below ground. My mansions were kinda boring up top, but lurking underneath? Well, they all pretty much resembled the underground lairs of your standard Bond villains. You know, delightful accoutrements like pits lined with spikes. Pools full of sharks and piranha. Multiple bowling alleys. The giant warehouse room where Indy stashed the Ark of the Covenant. One of them even had an escape tunnel that bore through the core of the Earth and came out in China. As underground lairs go, mine were pretty sweet.

I'm not sure why pre-teen me thought celebrity status always required an underground lair, but it seemed a crucial element in any mansion I'd sketch out. I'm not sure if my celebrity plans included world domination by brute force (which might explain the missile silos my mansions were usually equipped with.) Maybe I was just planning to be such a reclusive kajillionaire that I needed a house capable of fending off a full-scale invasion. Maybe I just thought it would be a great way to impress the ladies (because, as we all know, if there's one thing chicks dig, it's a sub-sub-sub-basement video arcade surrounded by snake pits.)

But the older and wiser I get, the happier I become that I never achieved my desired levels of fame. I'm pretty sure being a celebrity might be miserable.

This morning, I watched highlights from Monday's Met Gala -- and if you're unfamiliar, the highlights consist of little more than watching famous people standing around being famous. The Met Gala is New York's premiere annual fashion event. It's literally just a dinner party -- except that it's $75,000 per plate and you have to show up looking like Christian Dior vomited on a peacock.

Beyond that, no one actually knows what the Met Gala is, unless you're one of the katrillionaires lucky enough to be invited by Vogue editor Anna Wintour to fork over $75K of your own money to get through the doors. We lower life forms aren't allowed inside. We simply get to watch the celebrities walk in and out, a task which appears to require a team of stylists, jewelry worth more than the GNP of some struggling nations, and a massive security detail to ensure none of that jewelry walks off in a different direction.

It sounds positively awful and just so out of step with our tumultous world. I get no joy out of dressing spiffy. To me, putting on a suit is every bit as awkward and unnatural as a Halloween costume. If I'm paying $75,000 for a meal, you'd better believe I'd show up in jeans and a comfy t-shirt and not be in constant fear that a cufflink which costs more than I make in a year might fall into my soup. The food there might be amazing, but I reckon I'd be every bit as content with a $15 burger from Floyd's.

Meanwhile, I'd be so stressed about coming up with non-idiotic celebrity small talk that I'd be in a constant state of near-stroke. No pressure there, right? You're only trying to make idle chit-chat with the likes of Rihanna and Beyonce. If you forced me to attend this event, reporters wouldn't be asking me, "Who are you wearing?" I'd be flop-sweating so hard that their only questions would be, "Whose pool did you just fall into? Do you need medical attention?"

If you look at photos from the Met Gala, absolutely no one looks happy. Every attendee poses looking stoic and serious. Maybe that just goes hand-in-hand with trying to look glamorous, but I'm not convinced. I'm pretty sure it's just a relatively miserable time and a duty to attend in order to keep being the "it" girl or "it" boy. Maybe I'm wrong and it's all tremendous fun, but something tells me I'll never know.

I don't think I'm destined for fame or fortune or personal invites from Anna Wintour. My options for achieving celeb status are running out. I have a hard enough time acting like myself, let alone someone else. I'm not going to write a best-seller because I'd rather keep writing stupid stories about my cats here every week. I'm too old to become a rock star, and besides, I'm pretty sure playing records is more fun than making them. I fear I'm just going to have to be content with my relative anonymity, average human income, and mere one-level basement embarassingly free of shark pits. Sigh.

If anyone needs me, I'll be in my conservatory. (And no, I still have no idea what a conservatory is.) 

COLUMN: Well, Hello Dolly.

I don't believe in fate -- at least, I don't THINK I do. I'm no longer 100% certain, and now I'm afraid to fully upset her, should she exist.

I'm no horror movie buff, so I confess I've only seen a few clips of the "Final Destination" film series. I might be wrong, but I think every movie starts with some kind of horrifying calamity wherein a group of friends somehow manage to cheat death and miraculously avoid a terrible fate. This causes Death, or Fate, or whatever supernatural force-du-jour that controls our destinies, to spend the rest of the movie slowly killing them all in retribution via a series of freakish accidents that certainly can't be coincidental. As I understand the film franchise, it's mostly just a nifty way to spend your money watching teenagers get gruesomely slaughtered while making you too scared to leave home without fear that anyone and anything could send you to an early grave. Sounds like a great time.

Except now I'm worried I'm in the next installment. I may have cheated death a couple days ago. Let's hope he doesn't hold a grudge.

I was heading back to the office from lunch and about to cross the Centennial Bridge downtown. Anyone who travels this route knows that 15th St. in Rock Island is presently a slalom course of potholes, construction crews and roadwork. As I made the turn onto 15th St., I found myself behind a rickety old hauling truck that appeared to also be heading towards Davenport. On any normal day, I wouldn't have given this truck a second's thought. Usually when I'm in my car, my brain's thinking about work, or thinking about this column, or thinking about absolutely nothing whilst internally rocking out to whatever's thumping out my stereo.

But on THIS particular afternoon, things registered with me for a change. This truck was in such bad shape, I'm pretty sure a stiff wind could've torn it apart like a clown car at a circus. We were on flat ground and this truck was already belching black smoke and making a terrible racket. In two blocks, it would be heading up the bridge incline, and likely doing so in a first-gear, Little-Engine-That-Could sort of scenario. I figured it was in my best interest to change lanes. Spoiler alert: it was.

Roughly four seconds later, that truck hit a pothole. It did NOT fall apart like a clown car. Instead, the back door of the truck burst open, and before I could even register an "eep!", a two-wheeled metal moving dolly came flying out the back, crashing to the ground below. Had it happened four seconds prior, I'm pretty sure it would have landed directly on my front windshield.

I'm no expert in physics, nor am I qualified to speak on the structural integrity and fortitude of the windshields provided by the Hyundai Motor Company. Ergo, I can't definitively state as to whether or not that falling dolly would have taken my head off. I'm fairly confident, however, that it would've stung a bit at the very least.

Thankfully, the car that had been behind me before I changed lanes was still far enough back to slam on his brakes and avoid calamity, and credit to everyone behind HIM for not causing a pile-up. The driver of the truck, meanwhile, was perfectly oblivious to the fact that his life's possessions were tumbling down 15th St., so I honked and waved and clued him in before he left a trail of detritus across the Mississippi River.

Adter that, there was nothing left to do but continue back to work while having a mild freakout at just how close my lunch hour almost became my curtain call. If you were one of the half dozen friends and family I called in a panic, breathlessly chanting "HI-I-ALMOST-JUST-DIED," I apologize -- my adrenaline system was in full control at that point. But it WAS pretty darn scary, and I was pretty darn lucky that I didn't end up the proud owner of a slightly used Korean pancake.

In a way, I feel cheated. If you can call this a near-death experience, I thought they were supposed to be transformative events. I didn't have a spiritual awakening. My life didn't flash before my eyes. I'm pretty sure all I did was go a little bug-eyed and make a noise like, "Whoooarpf!" That's not the kind of meaningful closing act people write books about. I've never seen "whoooarpf" on anyone's list of famous last words.

Maybe I'm blowing this whole episode out of proportion. Maybe the dolly would have just dented my car and caused me to have a very bad day. But honestly, it's just another notch in these less-than-terrific past few months. I've lost friends I cared about. I had MY first major health scare. This past year has put things into a perspective I've never taken the time to dwell on.

I'm not intelligent or poetic enough to offer any deep insight you haven't heard before, but: life's short, people. Why hate your neighbor when hand trucks could fall on your head at any given second? I'm tired of people fighting. I'm tired of the bickering. I'm tired of seeing nothing but bad news, bad attitudes, and bad vibes. Even the guy who almost brain-beaned me gave me a sneer until I told him he was leaving a sizeable trail of metallic bread crumbs all along 15th Street. I know there's not an easy answer that's going to fix our world, but I'm sure hoping some summer sun might help at the very least.

So what do I do now? Pretend I've got some cosmic new insight on life? Attempt to offer some kind of sagely wisdom just because I almost took a hand truck to the head? Nah. I'm less than qualified for such nonsense.

Instead, I'm just going to thank my lucky stars that I didn't get to be the lone participant in this especially avant-garde interactive staging of "Hello, Dolly!" I'm going to keep trying to survive in this increasingly weird world. And most of all, I'm going to be especially grateful that "Final Destination" is just a movie... I hope.

COLUMN: Goth Prom

If you're reading this on the Friday it publishes, I am mere hours from one of my favorite side hustles of the year: DJing a goth dance party. Local event promoters Void Church know how to bring joy to the jaded and find merriment amongst the morose -- and tonight at Davenport's Raccoon Motel, they're throwing a formal dance for the divine subculture that celebrates the bleakness of life and the blackness of their wardrobes.

For me, it's a grand time. I first learned to DJ at teen clubs and house parties populated by the fringier outcasts from the social cliques that ruled our high schools in the 1980s. Some of those dour denizens of the night have remained my closest friends to this day, and the music of that era is near and dear to my heart. Any excuse to dust off those gloomy records and spin some goth, industrial, and darkwave classics does my haggard heart some good.

Truth be told, though, I'm likely one of the least goth-y fans of goth music out there. I have no cool tattoos or piercings. I'm scared candles will burn my house down. My go-to fashionwear has always been less about wearing all black and more about wrinkle resistency. ("Do I have to iron this? No? Cool.") If I show up to this goth showcase wearing anything that isn't a Hawaiian shirt, it'll be an achievement.

But more than anything, I make a lousy goth because I try to remain optimistic about life. I like to believe in the innate goodness of people. I like sunny days and laughing with friends and seeing adorable puppies and watching rom-coms with meet-cutes. These are not the basic tenets of goth culture. I should be downtrodden and angsty and nursing black coffee at a Village Inn somewhere until the wee hours. Instead, the advent of warm weather fills me with joy and wanderlust. If I had my way, I wouldn't be sitting at a desk typing this right now. I'd be in my car somewhere majestic, maybe driving down the PCH, seeing ocean waves and mountains and feeling innately alive. I just might be doing it while blaring gothy music out the stereo is all.

This month, though? It's been mighty tough to be an optimist.

I can't make it to work without swearing to myself at least three times in the car. If there's a road in the Quad Cities, it's either (a) riddled with potholes, or (b) under construction. The temporary closure of the Government Bridge has caused massive congestion on the Centennial Bridge, so what better time to work on the Centennial on-ramps and close lanes to power wash the old girl? The other day, I started to cross the bridge to find a guy at a dead stop because he was seemingly confused by the lane closures and forced merging.

Horn-honking is NOT my forte, I swear to you. But I was already running late for work and this guy was inexplicably not moving. So I honked. Wait, let me rephrase that. I booped. Just a wee quick tap on the horn. Also: I drive a Hyundai. If you've ever heard the horn on a Hyundai, you'll know it is the least threatening noise on the planet. Hyundai horns are the car equivalent of the squeal that a wimp makes just before a bully kicks sand in his face at the beach.

My wee boop caused the guy to proceed, but then brake-check me the rest of the way over the bridge, until he was finally able to change lanes and slam on his brakes so he could roll down his window and flip me off while hurling obscenities at me (at least I presume. I had my windows up while listening to goth music at a problematic volume.) Road-raging over a half-second boop at 8 a.m. before I've even made it to my morning coffee should be a felony.

Also this week, I was in a public group on Facebook and someone was talking about the club I was DJing at later that night. "I'm sure the music there is terrible," posted some random cheery stranger who's probably never been there. "I've got an in with the DJ," I cheekily replied. "I'll tell him to avoid terrible music tonight." It took thirty seconds for someone to reply. I was hoping it would be someone else defending the club. I was hoping it would be someone complimenting my DJ skills. Instead, it was a stranger taking time out of their day to thoughtfully reply, "YOU LOOK INBRED." Sigh.

While at the aforementioned DJ gig later that night, I witnessed a police chase that turned ugly when the guy they were chasing blew a red light and almost clipped a pedestrian before T-boning a car crossing the intersection. At least two people were carted off by ambulance, and I hope they're okay. The streets were closed for hours, including the one I was parked on. Not ALL people are innately good, it appears.

Yesterday, I went to the YMCA to work out. If nothing else, I'm continuing my mission to at least look like a slightly less chubby inbred. I was there for fifteen minutes before a giant fight broke out. Next thing I knew, people were running around screaming and throwing punches while others were ducking behind treadmills. My only thought was, "If I get killed at a gym, my friends are going to laugh about this forever." I can see my tombstone now: "HE ALWAYS SAID EXERCISE WOULD KILL HIM."

And to cap off my week, I literally just received word that an old friend from college passed away unexpectedly yesterday. I thought I'd clear my mind by turning on the nightly news. Spoiler alert: Wars. Protests. Murders. Trials. Elon Musk. 

The optimist in me still wants to find the sunny side of the street. I'm sure it's just over yonder, somewhere past the protesters and the car chases and the road ragers and the fighting. And when I DO find it, it'll probably be overcast and stormy, which is exactly what they're predicting for tonight.

Come to think of it, maybe I'm in the PERFECT mood to DJ a goth dance party. See you tonight? I'll be one looking gloomy.  

COLUMN: Ricky's Martin

Once upon a time, I thought I was edgy. I've never exactly been a poster child for the counter-culture, but I spent a good chunk of my youth assuming I was destined to turn heads, push envelopes, and shatter ceilings. Thanks to the ridiculous movie "Pump Up The Volume," I used to wear a pin on my jacket unironically that said "TALK HARD" and thought I was cutting edge. Look out, status quo -- here comes Shane to challenge your norms and push your boundaries.

And here we are, some thirty years later -- and maybe now I'm starting to realize that I'm actually a prude.

I don't ever like to admit that I'm getting old, but the reality is that society has started to outpace me when it comes to challenging the norms. Instead of my pipe dream of confronting convention and offending the masses, it's the masses that are starting to offend ME. Instead of surfing the pop culture zeitgeist, I'm one of the people running from that wave like it's a tsunami about to drown my entire generation in a sea of ick. I fear it's just a matter of time before I buy a cane to shake at the neighbor kids while telling them to get off my lawn.

I don't blame myself for this and I don't blame society. I simply blame time. The job of pop culture is to scare the bejeebers out of the generation that preceded it. In the 1950s, the mere thought of Elvis shaking his hips on national television was enough to cause an uproar. In the '60s, the haircuts of the Beatles made our grandparents fear the world was falling off a moral cliff. In the '70s, punk rock arrived in a rage-fueled flash of shock and awe. In the '80s, we all hid our 2 Live Crew tapes from our parents, some of whom were dragging musicians before Congress to berate their corruption of the innocent.

I've always tried to remain open-minded and roll with the changes. But this year, I may have finally reached the limits of my tolerance. The other day, I caught myself saying a decidedly old-man phrase: "What's WRONG with people today?!"

As regular readers know, I'm a newspaper guy by day and occasional club DJ by night. When you think about it, it's really the ultimate dream hobby. When I go out for a night on the town, I don't just get to pick all the music on the stereo -- I get PAID to pick all the music on the stereo. It's fairly ideal.

Well, it WAS, until this generation came along and mucked it all up. See, I'm one of those nice DJs who plays requests and tries to keep up with the charts and pop culture trends. But here's the thing: Shh, don't yell any young folks I said this, but most of today's pop culture trends are ridiculously terrible. Not all of them, mind you. There are dance songs released every week so good they make my armhairs tingle. But club kids in our neck of the woods don't wanna hear any of those. They just want to hear the filthiest hip-hop songs in my collection.

When I was younger, I thought that we, as a generation, had reached the pinnacle of delightfully rebellious filth. Madonna was SO scandalous. 2 Live Crew dropped four-letter words so casually you'd have thought it was polite dinner conversation. By and large, I was okay with it. It was shocking, it was exciting, and most importantly, it made my parents upset -- which meant it HAD to be cool, right? When I was in grade school, they held a PTA meeting where our parents were told not to let us listen to Blondie because they were a bad influence. Instantly, Blondie became the favorite band of almost every kid at my school. 

But nowadays, the most requested songs at my gigs are SO filthy and SO shocking that they're just kind of... icky. The scandalous songs of MY era were, at the very least, somewhat alluring and titillating. The stuff I have to play nowadays is just kinda gross. I've honestly read anatomy textbooks that were sexier than the X-rated singalong anthems of today's youth.

A couple months ago, I DJed a sponsored party I didn't know was an all-ages event. There were REALLY little kids in attendance, but it didn't stop the majority of requests that night from being filthy trash. I finally found a radio edit of the most requested song and threw it on. So many of the words were censored, people couldn't even tell what song it was. For five minutes, I was onstage laughing while the song went, "Shake____________________________ hands ________________________ now ____________________ for __________________________________me." Everyone just looked confused.

It's not just music, either. I like to stay informed, which is why I subscribe to a wide variety of breaking news alert services. Whenever something exciting happens in the world, I get text alerts so I don't miss a thing. The other day, I looked at my phone to find no fewer than 4 breaking news alerts. Ooh, what could possibly be happening? More conflict in the Middle East? An update from Trump? Did cancer plead not guilty and vow not to rest until it found O.J.'s REAL killer?

Nope. Instead, I had four breaking news alerts to tell me that Latin crooner Ricky Martin had... well, he was a surprise performer at Madonna's concert, and he... umm... well, I can't tell you what happened to Ricky Martin, because this is a family publication. Let's just say, he was onstage with Madonna, and he was... clearly excited to be there. Let's just say Ricky was most definitely livin' la vida loca.

I can't stress enough how little this matters to me. But what concerned me was that no fewer than FOUR news organizations felt it an urgent and important enough development worth texting me over. Okay, ONE of those organizations was TMZ, but still. (And let's give TMZ their props. They're pondscum, but they had O.J.'s death eleven minutes before any other news outlet. Respect.) Regardless, it alarms me that I received more text alerts about Ricky's Martin than I did about Iraq bombing Israel and putting us at risk of WWIII.

Have I lost my edge? Am I just turning into a fuddy-duddy prude in need of a cane to shake? Or has society descended into a such a void of bad taste and idiocracy that I've lost my will to stay hip? There may be only one thing that can save us. I'm looking at you, Taylor Swift. Your new album drops today, and society needs your wisdom. Guide us, oh mighty queen. And if you go back on tour, whatever you do, don't let Ricky Martin onstage.

COLUMN: Eclipse

One of my favorite cultural phenomenons in the history of the internet is the "DVD logo screensaver" meme. Are you familiar?

You remember DVDs, right? Those things we used to buy and rent before Netflix came along and sucked away our souls and wallets? Back in the entertainment era of yesteryear, when you paused a DVD, eventually a screensaver of the little DVD logo would pop up on your TV. This logo would happily bounce around the edges of your screen until you un-paused your movie. Every few minutes, though, if you were paying careful attention, you'd see true magic: the logo would land perfectly in the corner of the screen -- and there was much rejoicing.

For no good reason, it was always an extremely satisfying sight to behold. In one of the funniest episodes of "The Office," hapless boss Michael Scott thought his team was cheering one of his boring sales presentations. In fact, they were cheering because a screensaver logo behind him finally hit the corner. Since then, I've seen videos of packed sports events exploding randomly in joy when a screensaver logo on the jumbotron hits the corner. Some sports arenas are now purposely showing the screensaver in hopes of getting a crowd reaction. It's a silly moment of pointless happiness we can all get behind.

It also happened this week -- just on a slightly larger scale.

Except, instead of a TV, it was the universe. And instead of a DVD logo, it was the moon. Just like how the DVD logo is geometrically destined to land perfectly in the corner of the screen from time to time, so too is the moon geometrically destined to occasionally pass between the sun and the Earth. We call this fully predictable phenomenon a solar eclipse, and as we all know, that moment of pointless happiness happened to us a few days ago. It was great fun.

At 2 p.m. last Monday, if you wanted to do business with our company, you were out of luck. All work in our office ground to a halt for a few minutes so we should step outside with our spanky eclipse glasses and look up at the sun as if we were auditioning to be the cover stars for a Devo album. There was no point in accomplishing anything productive, not while one giant space circle was passing in front of another giant space circle. We weren't in the path of totality here in the Quad Cities, so we only experienced a partial eclipse of the heart, but it was a rare and exhilirating moment to behold regardless.

If you were fortunate enough to be in the path of totality (where the sun becomes completely blocked by the moon,) solar eclipses are even more spectacular. Back in 2017, I stood on a hill in Missouri to experience a total eclipse, and it was pretty epic. Witnessing that fire-ringed black circle was a visual reminder of just how insignifigant we really are in the grand scheme of things. Any time my ego gets pointlessly inflated, it's good to remember that we're all just tiny specks stuck to a ball that's floating through infinity at 67,000 miles an hour. The reality of our universe is cool beyond comprehension.

Regardless of what certain crazypants people on the internet want us to believe, though -- eclipses are NOT a sign of the end times. This week, I saw everyone from online strangers to members of Congress insinuating this week's eclipse was some heavenly harbinger of doom unless we do such-and-such or vote for so-and-so come November. Sorry, I'm not buying it. Eclipses are fully predictable scientific events. In fact, they happen somewhere on Earth almost annually. Just as mathematicians can determine how often that DVD logo will hit the corners of your screen, so too can science geeks predict every eclipse that Earth will ever experience. If a bad omen can be predicted by a nerd and a calculator, it's not especially ominous. 

For our more primitive forefathers, eclipses had to be nothing shy of terrifying. If you were out and about hunting mastadon or trying to invent the wheel and suddenly the sun turned black, that's cause for concern. But in our modern world even with our relatively thin understanding of the universe, I think most of us could go outside this week and enjoy the show without fearing we'd somehow angered a sun god.

I have to admit, though: there was a small part of me keeping a spiritual eye wary for any otherworldy eclipse shenanigans afoot. Alas, I didn't spot a single werewolf. Apophis, the Moon Serpent, did not attempt to eat me. Not a single wizened wizard approached me saying, "BEHOLD, THE PROPHECIES ARE TRUE! YOU ARE THE CHOSEN ONE!" Of course, a friend pointed out to me that I probably shouldn't yearn to be the chosen one. I've seen enough fantasy movies to know nothing good ever happens to chosen ones. Someone else can gladly take that helm. But if the chosen one ever needs a mixtape, I'm your guy. I'm not destined to save the world, but I'm fairly confident I could give it a good soundtrack.

While I don't think eclipses are portents of doom, they're still rare and amazing spectacles to witness. Some of my more jaded and cooler-than-thou friends were so interested in being disinterested in the eclipse that they had to get on social media just to brag about how disinterested they were. "Marked safe from watching one circle float in front of another circle," one wrote. Ooh, I'm so impressed by your apathy. Mountains have existed since the dawn of humanity, but it doesn't make them any less majestic. New Year's Eve is just another night on a man-made calendar, but I bet you've had fun counting down the seconds before midnight. That DVD logo might land in a corner of the screen on every 27th pass, but it doesn't make it any less satisfying when I see it for myself.

As for me? I spent eclipse morning getting a passing grade from my cardiologist check-up. And when the nurse practitioner asked me if I was keeping up with exercising, I proudly replied, "Every single day without fail. And if I'm lying, may God turn the day into night."

COLUMN: Bananapants

I swear, I was going to write about something highbrow this week.

Let's be real: this column is never going to be your weekly destination for erudite intellectualism. We have wonderful writers dedicated to bringing you everything from local news to sports highlights to thoughtful opinions. As for me? I just hang out in my little corner and talk to you about cats and TikTok and nonsense that hopefully makes you smile once in a while.

Occasionally, though, I yearn to write something with a little more depth. You know, maybe showcase some range and perhaps bring a little unexpected sophistication to these pages.

And then, yesterday, a banana exploded in my pants. Take a guess which topic I'm choosing to write about. I know my lane, people.

Public speaking has never been my favorite activity. I'm self-conscious enough without a room full of people staring at me. Anytime I'm tasked with talking to a group of people at once, it's tough to keep my brain focused on the mission. No matter how hard I try to shut it up, there's always a second voice in my head. A much louder voice. It screams things at me like:

"DO I LOOK WEIRD? I BET I LOOK WEIRD. EVERYONE IS STARING AT ME. SIT UP STRAIGHT. SUCK IN YOUR GUT. I'M NOT MAKING ENOUGH EYE CONTACT. WAIT, NOW I'M MAKING TOO MUCH EYE CONTACT! OH GOD, IS MY FLY OPEN? I AM A COMPLETE FAILURE AS A HUMAN BEING."

I don't know how people feel at ease giving a speech. I've always hated it, but in an exciting way. Some people go on rollercoasters for a thrill. The only adrenaline surge I need is for someone to say, "Hey, Shane, why don't you say a few words?"

Most of my work week is spent in our company's advertising department, helping businesses reach audiences like you through our wide portfolio of print and digital solutions. On Mondays, we have our weekly meeting to catch up on all things advertising. This week's get-together was already destined for weirdness. My colleague Brian Menster (who always complains I never mention him in my column) thought it would be great April Fool's Day fun for all of us to walk in wearing tacky vintage sports coats, so we obliged.

I brought one I used to wear unironically in the 80's when tacky sports coats were somehow fashionable. Thankfully, we've evolved from that era. Unfortunately, so has my stomach. My once oversized sports coat now barely gets around my frame. Throughout the meeting, I was in constant fear it was seconds away from audibly ripping down the back like I was Bruce Banner about to transform into the world's chubbiest superhero, The Incredible Bulk. 

What a perfect time, then, to engage the team in a rousing exercise of SALES ROLEPLAYS. It's actually a valuable exercise, where one of us plays a client and we practice assessing their needs and explaining how our products can help them reach customers and gain traction in the community. It's fun, except it's also a little daunting being the center of attention and knowing you're about to be critiqued by your colleagues. When it came my turn, I think I did a decent job, but that shrill little voice in my brain wouldn't shut up. This time, though, it was saying something unexpected.

All the voice said to me was, "SOMETHING FEELS WEIRD."

Two fun facts I forgot to mention:

#1: The pants I was wearing that day have a small hole in the lining of the right front pocket. They came that way, and I can't sew to save my life.

#2: That morning, I was focused on nonchalantly smuggling in the aforementioned tacky sports coat, which explains why I absent-mindedly stuck my mid-morning snack banana into that pocket -- and then promptly forgot all about it.    

So, yes -- to clarify for all parties involved: that WAS a banana in my pocket and I was NOT happy to see you. And as I sat there fidgeting in my comically small sports coat, The Incredible Bulk inadventently crushed that banana into oblivion ("BULK SMASH!"). And as I was in the midst of my sales roleplay with all eyes on me, the decimated pile of what was now rapidly becoming banana pudding wasn't just collecting in my pocket, it was actively seeping through the hole in said pocket and slowly oozing down my thigh.

If there ARE highbrow intelligent readers among you, they might be currently wondering why I didn't immediately excuse myself to sort things out. But there's simply no graceful way mid-meeting to say, "One moment please, I'm having somewhat of a banana crisis within the confines of my trousers." Instead, I just sat there, slowly coming to terms with what was happening in a land down under. Eventually, the meeting ended and I was able to sheepishly shuffle out of the room before I started leaving a delicious trail of pants puree in my wake.

Is there a lesson to be learned in all this? I'm not highbrow enough to find one -- well, other than if you're heading into a high pressure business meeting, you might want to check your pockets for any hitchhiking free-range fruit beforehand. And if you're curious why my pants magically changed colors over my lunch hour Monday, now you know. Personally, I found the entire episode to be a heroic act worthy of acclaim. After all, if I can get through an all-eyes-on-me business meeting with a DIY smoothie trickling down my leg, perhaps I'm a better public speaker than I ever thought. I'd test the theory further, but I'm fresh out of bananas.

COLUMN: Locker Room

There were a lot of things on my dance card for this week. Exposing myself to an elderly lady was NOT one of them.

I've never been one for public nudity. In a civilized society, I wouldn't expect this to be an especially controversial stance. Maybe stripping down to your skivvies is your idea of a fun time. If so, have at it. To each their own, I say. There's even a nudist campground a few miles outside the Quad Cities. If you fancy heading out there to risk bees stinging you in places bees should never visit, don't let me stop you.

(True story: It's been years since I've been out that way, so I don't know if it's still there, but there used to be a farm next to that nudist campground where they raised somewhat exotic animals like buffalo and llamas. I was aimlessly joyriding one weekend when I happened upon that farm. I had recently purchased a fancy camera and thought the buffalo might make good test subjects, so I pulled off to take a pic. Only then did it dawn on me that snapping pics with a telephoto lens while standing feet from an entrance to a nudist campground is probably NOT the best plan of action should I wish NOT to have a reputation as a creeper pervert, so I quickly eased on down the road with no candid buffalo snapshots as a memento of my journey.)

I'm not anti-nudist, but it is NOT my lifestyle du jour. If my clothes could wear clothes, I'd enthusiastically encourage it to happen. I've spent a lot of time in this body, and it's not exactly a treat to behold. I know its nooks and crannies quite well, and it's never going to win any awards. A renaissance artist is never going to stop me on the street and say, "I MUST PAINT YOU!" 

But I'm pretty sure that even if I were svelte, symmetrical, and statuesque, I still wouldn't be into showing off my goods. The master list of people who have seen me naked is fairly small, and I'd like to keep membership to that club as exclusive as possible. If I could wear clothes into the shower, I probably would.

When I graduated high school, I took comfort in the fact it might be the last time I ever stepped foot into a locker room. But that was before this exciting past year of doctors and lectures and medically-motivated gym memberships. I've been going to the gym regularly for months now, but I've also been fairly steadfast about avoiding the locker room. I simply roll up to the gym already dressed in workout gear, get sweaty and gross, and then drive promptly home to shower in privacy.

But a funny thing happens in the wintertime I'd never factored: it gets mighty cold outside. Trekking to your car in a t-shirt and workout pants when there's a -20 wind chill isn't especially ideal. So, with teeth clenched, I took the plunge and rented a locker at the gym. Yes, nothing brings us together as a society quite like communal nudity and the compelling stench of B.O. mixed with Axe Body Spray. Oh, how I missed you, locker rooms.

When I'm changing at the gym, I try my best to keep my head down and blend into the woodwork. I have but two rules of etiquette in the locker room: (1) Get in and out as quickly as possible, and (2) ignore everything and everyone around you. Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes it's not. 

A couple weeks ago, I was in the locker room with a couple other guys who, based on their racquets and, umm, balls, had just finished playing racquetball. It quickly became apparent that the two were co-workers, and Guy #1 was giving Guy #2 advice on an upcoming work presentation. This was fine and dandy, except Guy #1 was doling out his sagely wisdom while standing there stark naked. At one point, he abandoned all pretense of getting dressed and just stood uncomfortably close to his colleague in nothing more than a birthday suit while discussing marketing strategies. I'm not sure if I was witnessing pure confidence or pure obliviousness on his part. Either way, I'm not buying whatever you're selling, dude.

But that was nothing compared to this week's locker room adventure. As per usual, I was giving my best effort at ignoring the world around me. I even had an audiobook playing in my earpods. Stephen King was avidly describing a grisly murder to me in gruesome detail, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too distracted by the weird noise coming from my left. It was the sound of water running, but nothing was over there except some other dude changing.

Curiosity finally got the better of me, so I finally stole a glance to see what the noise was. I was not expecting the noise to be an elderly lady. My locker room buddy was changing, sure enough, but he also had his phone propped up in his locker, and on that phone was video of an elderly woman doing dishes at her kitchen sink. But this wasn't watching a movie. He was Facetiming and chatting with this woman in real time.

"Well, that's just silly," I thought to myself. It took five more seconds for logic to hit me. If I could see this random elderly woman, this random elderly woman could DEFINITELY see me -- and more of me than she should ever be seeing. Yep, all my assorted bits and bobs were right there in glorious 5G technicolor. I pulled up my pants and dove out of frame so frantically I nearly faceplanted over one of the benches. I sure hope Random Guy's Mom enjoyed the show. For all I know, I could be the star attraction on FatGuysInLockerRooms.com as I type.

I should've screamed at the guy. I should've tattled to the front desk. But my urge to remain anonymous and blend into the woodwork won out, so I sheepishly left while cursing him out in my mind. My new locker room plea is to please ignore me and carry on doing whatever you do, UNLESS what you do is amateur cinematography. Warm weather can't get here fast enough so I can go back to avoiding that room like the plague. In the meantime, quick, everyone put some clothes on -- I need to call my mom and tell her what time I'll be home for Easter.

COLUMN: Cat Psychic

As I type this sentence, my cat is sitting in the kitchen staring at me. She's been at it for around fifteen minutes now. Just sitting perfectly still, eyes focused my way with a cold emotionless gaze. I have no idea what's behind this. Am I entertainment? Am I prey? Am I being disapprovingly judged? Is her brain simply in the "off" position? I have no way of knowing.

At least I didn't until now.

It's no real secret that "reality" TV is the bottom of the entertainment barrel. I know this to be true, because I have swum to the bottom of its acrid depths and tasted her rotting forbidden fruit more times than I care to admit. I'm a sucker for any show where idiots are forced to interact with other idiots. Or where bumps in the night are irrefutable proof of ghosts. Or where any rustle in the trees means "there's a 'Squatch in these woods!" I'm perfectly okay with reality TV as long as you realize it's not especially real.

At least I was until now.

I've just watched a few clips of a new British reality show that's surely 100% real and not a load of hooey whatsoever. It's a show that could change the course of humanity, expand our basic understanding of nature, and cause us to question and redefine our very place in the cosmos. A show that could only be called... "THE PET PSYCHIC."

Some people coast through life, offering no positive contributions to the world around us. No such fate has befallen Beth Lee-Crowther. Beth has instead, at what I can only assume to be great personal sacrifice, gifted society with her wonderful talent -- the ability to psychically communicate with our household pets to tell us their most intimate thoughts and desires. Just like the famous Dr. Doolittle before her, Beth can talk to the animals.

It appears to come fairly easily to a skilled telepath like Beth. She just sort of sits next to your pet, makes a weird face, and then tells the owners something like, "Your dog just told me he thinks you're lazy" or "the cat thinks your kids are too loud." Seems legit to me. After all, there's no evidence that she's NOT psychically talking to our beloved pets -- well, I mean, apart from our basic understanding of science, nature, biology, and the known limitations of minds both human and animal. But otherwise, it seems to check out. If she were a fraud, surely our pets would let us know, right? 

And last week, Beth dropped a bombshell. In an interview with Metro.co.uk, Lee-Crowther informed us of a new and exciting development in pet psychic-dom. According to Beth, we are ALL blessed with her same gift and can communicate psychically with our pets. We just need to follow her step-by-step instructions. Ever wondered why your dog pees on the carpet? Concerned whether your cat prefers chicken or salmon? Ever stayed up late at night worried that your lizard thinks you're lazy? All this time, we've had the ability inside of us to seek the answers.

According to Lee-Crowther, here's all you need to do to psychically have a chat with your beloved pet:

First, use a meditation technique of your preference to get your mind into a "relaxed theta state" in order to send and receive telepathic messages. I have no idea what this means, but hey, give it a shot. I'll wait. Okay, are you relaxed and all theta'd up? Good. Next, take a deep breath through your nose, hold it for seven seconds, and breathe out your mouth. Do this three times.

With your eyes open, take your middle finger and place it on your intuitive third eye in the center of your forehead between your eyes. Then tap this point with your fingertip gently seven times. Keep your finger on your forehead, look up at your finger, and slowly cross your eyes while staring upward for 10 seconds. Now, close your eyes and imagine yourself at a familiar and happy place you love. Think of the animal you want to communicate with. Open your eyes to look at the animal, and in your mind, say their name three times and ask them to join you.

According to Beth, you should now be able to carry on a mental chit-chat with your pet and they should respond to your questions in turn. The answers "may seem like your own voice in your mind or it might be a vision or thought from the pet or animal. It could be an emotion, gut feeling, or aroma. Each animal is always different, but just allow the messages to flow."

Seems perfectly logical and not at all insane, and I've always yearned for my cat to send me psychic smells, because the litterbox just isn't visceral enough. So I just gave it a shot. I meditated for a bit, held my breath for seven seconds, put my middle finger on my forehead, tapped seven times, stared upwards, did the hokey-pokey, and turned myself around. I closed my eyes and imagined myself at a familiar and happy place I love (Co-Op Records!) I thought of my cat, said her name three times in my mind ("Meatbag Meatbag Meatbag,") and asked her to join me.

She didn't budge, but it didn't stop me from asking, "What are you thinking right now?"

Plain as day, I heard my cat psychically respond in my brain. She clearly said, "I'm wondering why you're flipping me off. Also, you're lazy. NOW GIVE ME FOOD."

Bless you, reality TV. Without your informative truth, I might never know how real housewives behave. I would have no idea how people catch Alaskan king crab or drive trucks on ice roads. I might not even know who Kylie Jenner's dating. And now, I can carry on all the private mental conversations with my cat I fancy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go. I need to hold my breath for seven seconds, tap my forehead seven times, slide to the left, slide to the right, take it back now y'all, cha cha real smooth, and find out why my cat is sending me psychic urine smells from the basement.

COLUMN: Pothole Champion

This week, I want to bring you a feel-good story. One of those tales that fills you with warm fuzzies and makes you wanna run out and adopt a dog from Sarah McLachlan or something. Today, I use my platform to salute a tireless community activist who goes the extra mile to help his entire neighborhood through times of crisis.

Yes, today I'd like to celebrate... ME. As it turns out, I'm kinda awesome.

I've been called MANY things, but "community activist" has never been one of them. I like my community just fine, but in the motion picture that is my neighborhood, I much prefer the coveted role of "quiet guy who mostly keeps to himself although sometimes we occasionally hear dance beats coming out of his basement." This is the carefully crafted mystique I have painstakingly carved for myself, and I'm in no hurry to change that. 

As a Rock Island homeowner, my demands have been fairly minimal. I like to feel safe in my neighborhood. I like to treat people with kindness and hope they do the same in return. I like peace and calm. And I like driving down my alley without feeling like someone kicked me between the legs. One of these things has been a challenge of late.

To call the chasm at the end of my alley a "pothole" would be a bit of an understatement. For some time now, it's been less of a pothole and more of a pot-canyon. Our delightful Midwest weather routinely wreaks havoc on our area roadways, and my own neighborhood is no exception. What started as a wee crack last year where my alley meets the streets has now become a crevasse unfit for man nor Hyundai. There's been one tiny remaining parcel of pavement that you could ride out to the street if you aimed JUST right. But if you miss that mark a few inches to the left, you're basically falling into the Land of the Lost where you can only hope the Sleestacks are friendly folk who operate affordable tire repair shops. 

I've been dealing with it for weeks now. And yes, I could simply drive the OTHER direction and exit my alley from the far end, but that's a lot to ask of my brain at 8:00 a.m. before it's had coffee. I always forget until I pull up right to the edge of the hole, and by then I'm usually stubborn, lazy, late for work, and resigned to allowing my left tires to take a quick spelunking expedition to the lower depths of Rock Island. 

Last week, I finally decided to take action. That's right, at great time and personal sacrifice, I Googled "HOW TO REPORT POTHOLE ROCK ISLAND ILLINOIS." To my surprise, Google answered quickly. I had no idea that many of our local governments use a service called SeeClickFix to allow residents to report potholes, animal control, graffiti, and other non-emergency issues. The process is smooth and takes just a few seconds.

I clicked submit and had to laugh when SeeClickFix replied with the message, "Thank you for reporting Pothole (#16128520)." I may have even posted a snarky comment on Facebook that 16,128,520 potholes in Rock Island seemed accurate. 

I didn't expect any type of immediate resolution. Heck, part of me didn't expect ANY resolution other than the personal satisfaction of narcing out my pothole to some kind of electronic powers-that-be. I took Civics class in junior high, and I've even been to a couple city council meetings. Here's what I expected to happen: My report would be logged. Perhaps one day, it might be even be seen by a human. That human might then bring it to the attention of other humans who probably have a subcommittee that's created a task force to analyze these sorts of complaints. And maybe, just maybe, one day the issue might get resolved.

Once you've registered on the SeeClickFix site, it sends you alerts when other issues in your neighborhood get reported. A few days later, someone else reported a different pothole a block away. When I was online checking that out, I also looked at the status of MY request. The last time I'd checked, it was under the status of "ACKNOWLEDGED." It had since moved to "CLOSED." The pothole had NOT been fixed. Hmm.

I decided to message Rock Island Alderman Dylan Parker. He's not MY alderman, but we're friendly on social media, so I asked if he knew what the "CLOSED" status meant. "That means they think it's resolved," he replied, and asked me to send him a pic of the pothole. But I don't live in Dylan's ward and didn't want to bug him. Instead, I did something I've never done before. I wrote MY alderman and explained the issue. I've never met the guy before. I always assumed they were busy, you know, aldering and what-not. 

I certainly didn't expect a prompt response that my request had been forwarded to the City Manager and the Public Works Director. And I definitely didn't expect to come home two hours later to discover the mighty chasm filled with fresh smooth blacktop. The next day, I noticed the other pothole a block away had been patched as well. Ask and ye shall receive, I guess.

Guess what? City governments actually DO work for the people sometimes. Honestly, I'm still blown away. Frankly, it took more work to write the thank-you reply than it did to get the pothole fixed, and that's just awesome. I had a preconceived notion in my head that my request would get filed in a "we'll-get-to-it-when-we-get-to-it" pile, and the city just proved me wrong in the best way.

So here's a big public thank you to Aldermen Robinson and Parker and the whole Public Works team at the City of Rock Island. I've seen umpteen people complaining about potholes on social media. I was one of 'em. As it turns out, maybe we should all stop complaining to the gods of Facebook and instead try submitting our requests to the elected people who can (and do) make a difference. You might just be surprised what you can get accomplished.

I don't think I'm cut out for city government. My skin's probably not tough enough for everything they have to endure. But I'm AWFULLY good at whining, so maybe community activism should be my new calling. What should I tackle next? Economic development? Gentrification? Crime prevention? Wait, I know:

"Dear Mr. Mayor, for too long, my neighborhood has been shamefully lacking in taco trucks..."

COLUMN: Roundabout

I've always taken pride in being a forward thinker.

Even as a kid, I loved sci-fi dreams of flying cars and household robots to carry out my every need. I've always been a fan of breaking new ground and pushing boundaries. New technology fascinates me. I look to the stars and seek the answers to life, the universe, and everything. I am Shane, embracer of progress.

At least, that's the story I try to tell myself. Truth be told, I'm a future-fearing fuddy-duddy. 

I hate change. There is comfort in the routine and familiar. Sure, I love going to new places and trying new things, as long as I know I can drive home on familiar streets to the same house in the same condition I left it, where all my stuff is in the same place I know it to be. Knowing how things work and knowing what to expect yields confidence, something my brain has always woefully lacked.

I pretend to be a cheerleader for progress, but here's the truth. About a year ago, we re-arranged the cubicles at my office. I was NOT a happy camper, and spent the better part of a week throwing what, in hindsight, can only be described as a hissy fit. I liked my old cubicle. I liked its views, its size, and its proximity to the break room.

But here's the thing. Our cubicles at work are identical. They all have the same views: cubicle walls. They're all the exact same size. My new cubicle is a few more paces to the breakroom, but a few less paces to the photocopier, so it's a fair trade. By and large, it's the exact same. But the mere idea of being forced to change was enough for me to throw a tantrum and act like some great injustice had been thrust upon me. I'm a sad, silly person.

And yet the future keeps coming. Artificial intelligence is moving at such leaps and bounds that in just a few years, we might be going to the theater to watch movies scriped, produced, and acted by computers. Popular music sounds more and more like angry robots every day. Cars are driving themselves. Don't get me started on politics and what the future (or potentially lack thereof) may hold.

But there's a couple things happening locally that are causing my irrational fear of change to max out. Don't be surprised if you soon see me outside picketing with a sign that says, "I HATE THIS AND I CAN'T OFFER A RATIONAL EXPLANATION WHY."

In less than 2 weeks, the Government Bridge to Arsenal Island will close for the remainder of spring and a good part of the summer. Why? Because Davenport is taking out the perfectly functional intersection at the end of the bridge and replacing it with a roundabout -- or, as I like to call them, a WHEEL OF ETERNAL FEAR.

I despise roundabouts. And I come from Galesburg, where we had one in our downtown before roundabouts were even cool. I don't understand the need, the point, or the advantages. Ergo, I looked it up. All you have to do is type "roundabout" into Google, and you're immediately greeted by not 1, not 2, but SEVEN articles from assorted state governments entitled, "THE BENEFITS OF ROUNDABOUTS." Note: If your state's government has to publish articles about why roundabouts are a good thing, it likely means there's a whoooole lot of people who need convincing.

The basic pro-roundabout arguments: They're less dangerous. There's a 90% reduction in fatality collisions. They slow down dangerous traffic and risky behavior. They control the flow of traffic without the need for stoplights. One article even argued they curb pollution, which is hooey. At best, they curb pollution at that particular intersection. But the cars are still polluting, whether they're stopped at your light or toodling down the road. They're just helping disperse the pollution. 

All these pro-roundabout arguments only work if you assume that (a) you're not an idiot, and (b) neither are any of the other drivers around you. That's a big ask. When I merge into a roundabout, my blood pressure raises and I white-knuckle the steering wheel through the whole process. I never know when to smoothly merge or let others merge. There's always a crazy person cruising the inside lane like they're turning laps at Bristol. There's honking and scowls and friendly greetings from middle fingers aplenty. I suppose the statistics don't lie, but in my world, it takes more brainpower and stress to navigate a circle than stop and watch a pretty light turn from red to green.

The roundabout, though, is just a pre-cursor to the main event, which is when Davenport converts their downtown one-ways into two-lane stop-and-go streets in a year or two. I'm also not a fan of this plan, but I also have NO justifiable reason for my outrage, other than my 6-minute commute will likely become a 9-minute commute. I plan on spending those three bonus minutes pouting and grumbling under my breath. Be prepared.

The downtown one-ways can certainly be hazardous. There's nothing kids love more than treating those stretches of road like their own personal drag strips, and it's intimidating to cross them on foot. There's also morons who turn the wrong way down those one-ways. I should know, I was one of them once. Back in high school, shortly after procuring my license, I tried to impress a girl I was sweet on by driving her up to the Quad Cities without my parents knowing (sorry, Mom, if you're reading this.) She wasn't especially impressed when I turned the wrong way onto 3rd Ave. and almost made fast friends with an oncoming truck. I get the arguments, but I still don't want things to change.

I can't help but feel like the little kid in me would be horribly disappointed not just by my fuddy-duddy attitude, but by our entire concept of future reality. After all, we were promised jetpacks and flying cars. Thus far, the only thing the future holds is stop-and-go traffic and driving around in circles. In the meantime, I'd better go clean my kitchen. It appears my robot maid must be taking a personal day.

COLUMN: Auction Barn Fire

On Saturday evening, the former Rock Island Livestock Auction Barn burned to the ground. Investigators have determined the fire appears to have been intentionally set. At the time I'm writing this, the culprit has yet to be found.

It wasn't me. I've got an alibi, promise.

I was on my way to a trivia night in Davenport, and had just stopped for a pre-game bite at Qdoba on Kimberly Road. "Whoa," I said to the open air as I got out of my car and saw the plume of black smoke billowing from the southern horizon. "That's a big fire."

I didn't realize at the time HOW big it was. I assumed something was ablaze just a few blocks away, not a few MILES away. It wasn't until I was leaving the restaurant and back in my car that I realized the scope and distance of the massive fire. This caused a couple panicked moments of wondering if it was my neighborhood (it wasn't.) Then it caused a couple downright stupid moments of me trying to check my phone while driving (not advised. Also see: illegal.)

Then it was back to panic when I realized the car behind me was doing the same thing and appeared more concerned about the growing fire than my rear bumper, which he allllmost had a blind date with before my honking made him look up and slam the brakes. Of course, the guy in front of me then thought I was honking at HIM for some reason, which caused him to wave hello with his middle finger. It was a good time.

Alibis aside, though, there's a number of reasons why I wouldn't make a good arson suspect. For one, fires are scary. I like a good campfire, but only provided someone ELSE is in charge of it. Responsibility has never been my strong suit, and I've seen too many horrible stories of devastating infernos that can be traced to one idiot who didn't put out a campfire correctly. No thanks. I don't need that kind of pressure in my life. 

Also, I've always really liked that auction barn. I've never been inside, but it was a cool building from the exterior. Back in the days when I may or may not have been partially responsible for bringing rave culture to the Quad Cities, we even looked into renting that place once for a party. But as memory serves, a rather confused gentleman had to gently explain to a couple of aspiring immature entrepreneurs that putting a thousand teenagers in a wooden building full of hay and manure probably WASN'T a top-notch idea.

But mostly, I'd make a lousy arsonist because I wouldn't be able to hide the crime well. All they'd have to do is listen and follow the sneezing. I've suffered from hay fever my entire life. And, as it turns out, it's especially bad when the hay in question is aflame.

As I drove home after trivia that night, the fire had been mostly contained, but the smoke was pretty terrible. I don't live especially close to the auction barn, but even my Rock Island neighborhood was looking like foggy London when I got home. "Uh oh," I mumbled as I pulled into my alley, "this isn't gonna end well."

It takes approximately six steps to get from my garage to my back door. I was outside for less than thirty seconds. But the simple act of walking those six steps and unlocking my back door was enough to launch my allergies into overdrive. I was sneezing before I even made it in the house. Thirty minutes later, I was still at it. Even the dual defense line of Claritin and Flonase were no match for the cooties in the air that night.

I can't count the number of times I've started off the day with a 21-sneeze salute to the morning. There's just no way to be cool while you're sneezing. I've known people with the uncanny ability to stifle sneezes and just make a little "fft" noise under their breath. That's not a life skill I've been blessed with, and also seems like a nifty way to burst your eardrums and shoot your eyeballs clean across the room. When I sneeze, it's an ugly, unctrollable "ra-FLUGHEOOOOOOO" sound that no one on Earth wants to hear, let alone me.

There was once a time when I could almost make uncontrollable allergies seem charming. One sneeze is perfectly acceptable. Two or three in a row can be cute. Ten is annoying. But when you sneeze twenty times in a row, it transitioned into comedy gold. Those were the before-times. Then COVID hit. Today, we're all a little bit more hyperaware that the air we're breathing is being shared by everyone else in the room. If I go into a sneezing fit nowadays, the best I can hope for is a nervous giggle that says, "you're silly. Please don't let your silliness kill me."

These genetics were lovingly handed down from my mother, who also suffers the same crazy allergies as me. Growing up, mornings at my house must have been SUPER fun for my poor dad, sitting at the breakfast table while mom and I traded off rapid-fire assault sneezes while squabbling over control of the tissue box. 

Allergies or no, though, the fire at the auction barn was BAD. Remember how fast I dashed into the house that night? Just the three seconds I had my back door open was enough to cause the air purifier in my living room to kick on. It could smell what the Rock was cooking that night, and it was apparently toxic.

So to whoever started that blaze, you suck. People could've been hurt. You took down one of the coolest buildings in Rock Island, cost the city a ton of time and manpower, caused the entire west end to lose power, and presumably made the whole town reek like a bonfire. I couldn't tell, because I spent the night looking especially sexy with a red face, watery eyes, and Kleenex shoved up both nostrils while checking my security cameras to ensure no cows were milling about in my yard. 

I was, however, looking for something to do that night, and I guess you solved that dilemma for me. Gee, thanks.