The Complacency Chronicles

COLUMN: Best o' 2011

2011-12-29T13:10:00.000-06:00

Some people are naturally gifted artists, with the inner ability to create moving and thought-provoking works that can entertain us, challenge us, and help to reveal truths about our selves, our culture, and our society as a whole. Other folks are more naturally gifted at laying around on a couch and trying to tell other people which art sucks and which art doesn't. That said, here are my annual picks for the Ten Best Records of 2011:

# 10 - The Brother Kite - Eye to Eye EP - How amazing is this unheralded band from Providence, Rhode Island? Amazing enough that they can release a 4-track EP of leftover songs that didn't make their last album and STILL have it be better than most artists' fully realized full-length works.

# 9 - Eliza Doolittle - Eliza Doolittle - It's hard to examine pop music critically, since it tends to be fun and disposable by its very nature. But sometimes the pop charts can produce timeless classics. Such is the case for 23-year-old Brit Eliza Sophie Caird and her record full of killer hooks over classic jazz/r&b samples. The end result sounds like something you'd take to a 1940's revival picnic, should one of those ever exist.

# 8 - Josiah Leming - Another Life - Pop culture junkies might remember Josiah as the homeless kid who auditioned for "American Idol" a few years back. Leming's odd faux British accent (which he claimed he picked up by listening to Coldplay & Keane records) was too left-of-center for Simon Cowell, but didn't dissuade Warner Bros., who signed him to a developmental deal. He's now matured to the point that his new record holds its own against the very bands whose style he once aped.

# 7 - Tyler, the Creator - Goblin - So what do you do with a hip-hip album that can be classified as misogynistic, homophobic, overtly violent, AND a modern classic? It's not an easy album for anyone with strong morals to enjoy, but there's no denying that the 20-year-old is one of the most lyrically gifted rappers on the planet. As frontman of the crew known as Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All, Tyler and his posse set a new benchmark for DIY hip-hop -- self-written, recorded, produced, & distributed, all by what's essentially a bunch of underage skater kids. With Tyler a lightning rod for controversy and live shows more often than not devolving into moshpit anarchy, the whole wild ride stands a chance of imploding as quickly as they arrived, so enjoy them now.

# 6 - The Vaccines - What Did You Expect from the Vaccines? - Every once in a while, it's good to have a band that just plain rocks without pretense. The Vaccines wear their influences on their sleeves (The Strokes, The Ramones, etc.) and march through their repertoire of 2-minute-long songs with bombast, confidence, and a wall-of-sound production that must be making Phil Spector turn green from his jail cell.

# 5 - Childish Gambino - Camp - You might know Donald Glover as an extremely talented stand-up comic and writer for "The Daily Show" & "30 Rock." But you PROBABLY know him best as Troy on NBC's "Community." It turns out what HE'S best at is rapping. As Childish Gambino (a name he was "assigned" during a visit to a "Wu-Tang Clan Rap Name Generator" website), his gifted flow can bounce from honesty to funny to tragic. At his best, it's magical. At his worst, it's second-rate Kanye West -- but second rate Kanye is still better than most of the schlock on today's radio.

# 4 - Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - self-titled - It was one pre-show dressing room fight too many that finally did in British heavyweights Oasis back in 2009. The two essential halves of the band - brothers Liam & Noel Gallagher - both turned out new product in 2011 to varying degrees of success. Singer Liam grabbed the rest of Oasis, changed the name to Beady Eye, and released an impressive psychedelic blues rock album ("Different Gear, Still Speeding") that barely missed this list. While Beady Eye had all the swagger and atmospherics of Oasis, it was older brother Noel who prevailed with his first solo record a few months later. Full of the sort of midtempo love songs that brought him fame, Noel's album doesn't really pack any surprises -- but it does have the impeccable songwriting and timeless melodies that the elder Gallagher's built his brand on.

# 3 - Frank Ocean - nostalgia, ULTRA. - If OFWKTA does implode at the end of their fifteen minutes of fame (see #7), the sole survivor likely won't be Tyler, the Creator -- it'll be Frank Ocean, the collective's jack-of-all-trades vocalist who proved his worth this year with his debut record. It's not every R&B singer who puts out a record covering Coldplay and MGMT and singing another song over the instrumental of "Hotel California." Best yet, "nostalgia, ULTRA," like most of the Odd Future releases, isn't available in stores -- it's a free download.

# 2 - Ringo Deathstarr - Colour Trip - I came of age listening to the psychedelic, drowned-in-sound indie scene known as "shoegaze." Since falling from favor in the mid-90's (thanks, Nirvana,) shoegaze fans have been left to wallow and reminisce in sparsely attended chat rooms. Then along comes a band from Austin, Texas with the horrible name of Ringo Deathstarr who perfectly replicate the classic shoegaze sound (any time a band from the US spells color "colour," you know it's gonna rock.) Not exactly ground-breaking, but why open new doors when the old ones work so well?

# 1 - The David Mayfield Parade - self-titled - And in a year where most critics are fawning at over-produced, sampled, resampled, and multi-tracked studio-laden records, I instead tell you that the best record of 2011 is one of its simplest. For years, David Mayfield played second fiddle to his younger sister (acclaimed songstress Jessica Lea Mayfield) and lead guitarist for folk rock stalwarts Cadillac Sky. This year, after a Grammy nod for his production work, he decided to do his own thing. That thing is a quaint self-titled record that straddles the wavy lines between country, folk, alt-country, bluegrass, and rock & roll with ease. It's a throwback sound but produced so well you could swear the band's right there with you. All I know is there's been no more enjoyable record released this year.

Next week? I take advantage of my year of living like a couch potato with my picks for 2011's Best TV.

COLUMN: Toys for Tots

2011-12-29T12:39:00.001-06:00

Scientists have proven that the sense most closely associated with memory is our sense of smell.

This is a bummer for those of us who suffer from year-round allergies and only occasionally get to experience life with a functioning nose. Still, I think those scientists are onto something, because there's one smell I will forever associate with Christmas.

When I was a kid, one of the greatest days of the year was when Dad would haul down the two big metal boxes containing all of our Christmas decorations. Meticulously packed, it would all be there -- the ornaments, the lights, the garland, the wreaths... but I was more concerned about the hunk of wax that was always haphazardly thrown into the bottom of the box.

It really was fairly hideous to look at, but it was always my favorite Christmas decoration: a red wax pomander in the mold of three slightly deformed Christmas carolers. It sure wasn't much to look at, but the smell that wafted from that piece of wax every year was my absolute favorite part of Christmas. As soon as the coast was clear, I usually absconded with the carolers to my room, where they'd reek up the place for the holidays.

I can't even really describe the smell, because it never really reminded me of anything. It wasn't overly fruity, and it wasn't overly perfume-y. It's hard to explain. It didn't smell like ANYTHING you could put your finger on. It just perfectly and magically smelled like Christmas.

That pomander is long gone, but I still think every Christmas should smell like it... but thanks to last weekend, it's now got competition. A new scent has settled into my brain to forever be associated with the holidays -- the smell of Hefty bags. Lots and lots of Hefty bags.

I conclude every one of my columns with my e-mail address -- and I try my hardest to read if not respond to every letter that I get. That's how I came to meet "Randy." For years, Randy's written me to comment on my columns, debate pop culture, and be a good occasional diversion from the work week. A couple weeks back, I wrote a column about trying to find the Christmas spirit hidden inside today's world of tacky commerce and holiday capitalism. Randy wrote in and suggested that I visit distribution day at Toys for Tots, where he volunteers. Last weekend, I took him up on it. It might be the best decision I've made in a loooong time.

It turns out that "Randy" my anonymous e-mail buddy is actually Randy Murdock III, one of the longest-serving civilian volunteers of our local U.S. Marine Corps Toys for Tots Foundation. Following his directions, I pulled into their Davenport distribution center last Saturday. My fears of getting lost amidst the warehouse district was put to rest as soon as I saw the healthy line of traffic.

"As you can see," Randy said, "you actually managed to catch us at a slow time." I laughed but he didn't.

As he was saying this, here's what I was seeing: Needy families being quickly processed through a short line by friendly Marines in their dress blues, a room filled with about a dozen busy clerical volunteers, other Marines in their fatigues -- wait, scratch that, apparantly they're now called MCCUU's and the last thing I wanna do is upset a proud Marine. Anyways, these Marines would take off into the donation warehouse at a brisk jog and bring back a bag of toys specifically put together for the needs of each recipient. Everywhere I looked, Marines and civilian volunteers were dashing to and fro with efficiency and smiles. If this was a "slow time," I couldn't imagine what their version of busy must look like.

"This is amazing," I told Randy.

"This is nothing," he said. "Wanna see the toy room?"

I didn't know what to expect. I guess I had pictured sort of a dimly-lit grungy room of chaos where folks scrounged for third-rate toys from haphazard piles, like a weird back office at the chocolate factory that was NOT part of Willy Wonka's tour. Not even close.

Remember the end of "Raiders of the Lost Ark"? When the camera pans back to reveal that the Ark is hidden in a warehouse of such mammoth size that you can't even see the end of the room? Imagine THAT room -- but filled from one end to the other with Hefty bags full of toys. 3,959 bags, in fact -- that's how many local families QC Toys for Tots is helping this year. 3,959 bags, meticulously organized and numbered, filled to the brim with presents for kids of all ages. Kids who will have a great Christmas, all thanks to donors from the Quad Cities.

Randy told me that donations were SO good this year that they've already got a jump on NEXT year's drive. And what I saw wasn't lame stuff, either -- we're talking brand new dolls, board games, skateboards, bikes... stuff that kids will LOVE. I'm honored to live in a community as giving and people-centered as the Quad Cities. Randy's been across the country and has volunteered at other Toys for Tots programs, and he says the community response in other locales doesn't hold a candle to what the Quad Cities does year after year.

Personally, I think it's all part of the Midwest mindset. Sometimes journalists can be really hard on the Midwest -- just read some of the national coverage of the Iowa caucuses that paint us to be a bunch of backwards podunk zealots -- but the truth is, Midwesterners show a kindness you just don't get anywhere else. On the whole, we're raised right -- we know about sharing, we know about caring, and we know that you don't just walk all over your fellow man. You stop, pull him up by his bootstraps, and offer a helping hand.

This weekend, I saw that helping hand in action.

I never thought I'd catch the Christmas spirit in a chilly warehouse that reeked of Hefty bags, but there it was in full bloom. I saw it in the faces of the volunteers, I saw it in the smiles of our Marines, and I saw it in the gratitude of families.

"As far as I'm concerned," Randy told me as we walked around, "THIS is my Christmas, right here and right now."

Thanks, Toys for Tots, for everything you do -- and for bringing me a much-needed dose of reality, compassion, fellowship, and Hefty-bag-scented warm holiday fuzzies.

COLUMN: Sofa

2011-12-29T12:35:00.000-06:00

My new sofa! The one I decided on -- coming to a basement near you soon!

I get easily led astray from my column-writing duties around the holidays. Between staring vacantly at festive lights, surviving shopper stampedes, and watching any of the seemingly endless and endlessly cheezy holiday movies, my schedule for the month is pretty full of yuletide distraction.

So when in doubt, my old journalism teacher used to say, "write about what you know." Well, what I know this week is sofas. Actually, what I know now is that I know very, very little about sofas.

After 1.5 years of living here, the basement of my new house is officially finished. New walls, new ceiling, new carpeting. It looks AMAZING...ly empty. It might be the most unfinished finished basement in history. I currently have an astoundingly beautiful and entirely barren empty subterranean room. Now that I'm single again, outfitting the perfect man-cave has taken a back seat to maintaining an entire man-house.

Good thing, then, that I have the greatest parents in the world. I find it charming whenever people say that they have the best parents in the world. Charming because those people are all WRONG. I'm fully convinced that, given an ample budget, sizable enough control group, and an on-call team of theoretical physicists, I could scientifically prove that MY parents are, in fact, the greatest parents in the world by definition. And those great parents just informed me that they're springing for a new sofa for my basement. Holy Christmas, Batman!

"This will be AMAZING," my brain thought. "All I need to do is hit up a furniture store and find something affordable yet stylish."

In retrospect, I'm now convinced that fixing the economy would be an easier task than picking out a sofa.

The first place I went to is my dream store. It's my dream store because everything in it -- and I mean EVERY single piece of furniture from one end to the other -- makes me drool. It's also my dream store because I'd HAVE to be dreaming to think I could afford ANYTHING in the place. I'm pretty sure that purchasing ONE sofa in this store WOULD fix the economy. Still, I figured I'd pop in to see if they had any good holiday deals. Sure enough, quite a bit of their inventory was marked down at 20% off. I suppose that's a good deal, but when the original price is $10K? I'd need about another 70% off, and despite my pretty face, my bartering skills didn't extend that far.

My primary goal here is to keep things cheap. First off, there's no need for my folks to over-extend themselves just to make sure I have a comfy basement. Second off, until I get rid of this newfound "single" status on Facebook, I probably won't be spending a whole lot of time in the man-cave. But mostly, I know that there's no reason to pay good money for something that's destined to become yet another oversized scratching posts for my home's OTHER tenants.

When I bought my first ever new couch, I had a salesperson tell me that it was made of high-quality, tear-resistant leather. I was also told by that salesperson that cats aren't big on scratching leather furniture. I wish she'd have come home and told that to my cats, because from the first HOUR I had possession of the couch, my cats made it their mission to rip it to shreds. I bought scratching posts for each side of the couch; they batted them away to get to the couch. I even bought a fancy can of some foul-smelling substance that you spritz on your furniture and supposedly it makes your cats stay away. I spritzed it and the cats came racing and spent the next week incessantly licking the couch like it was some kind of fancy exotic treat. I worry that my cats might be "special."

So with cat claws deemed inevitable, there's no point going for high fashion. Instead, I wanted something comfy, cool-looking, and cheap. The second store I went to delivered just that in spades... which ended up being a worse outcome. My eyes immediately landed on a really cool sectional with an even cooler price tag. It was hip, modern, and fit my tragically deranged sense of "style." Just one problem: It was kind of uncomfortable. Well, it'd be comfortable for a doctor's office or something, I suppose, but for a basement? I could do better.

Better was the next couch I tried. Sitting in it was like floating in a marshmallow paradise. Plus it reclines, so double awesome. That said, I swear to you that it might be the ugliest couch I've ever seen. It looked like a taxidermist stuffed Jabba the Hutt and molded him into the shape of a couch. I don't care how comfy the thing is, I just couldn't bring myself to have this tan monstrosity blighting my basement.

That's when it hit me: I am Goldilocks. All I should need is a simple device upon which I can plop my chubby rump and watch a ridiculously unhealthy amount of TV. But nooooo... "this couch is too big," "this couch is too ugly," "this couch is too uncomfortable," "this couch is not the exact shade of toasted mocha I'm looking for," and I'm STILL as of press time unable to find my "juuuust right."

I've been to many other stores, and each came with mixed results. At one place, every sofa in the joint looked like it was designed BY my grandmother FOR my grandmother. At another place, the sales staff was so aggressive that I had to leave before I started strangling the innocent. Everywhere I went, I was greeting by a surplus of pros and cons. It's starting to come across like I'm looking this gift couch in the mouth, and I swear I'm not. I'm just an indecisive idiot.

Reason #3423 to have a signifigant other: let THEM pick out the furniture. Until then, I'll be sitting in the middle of an empty room, rocking back and forth on the floor, in a state of perpetual "maybe." Wish me luck.

COLUMN: Occupy

2011-12-29T12:32:00.002-06:00

I am a HUGE fan of online commenters. You never realize just how much people like to argue until you give them the power to do so anonymously. Nowadays, even the most innocuous of news stories can result in epic acid-tongued online warfare. In other words, it is pure comedy gold.

I like to picture these people in their day-to-day lives. Is the guy grocery-shopping next to me really "AwesumDude38" who believes our President is a Kenyan-born Antichrist? Is the sweet-looking little old lady in the next car really "SilvisMama" who believes the CIA was behind 9/11?

Some people think anonymous public commenting is annoying. I think it's cathartic for all parties involved -- of which there are TWO: extreme left wingers and extreme right wingers. If you're a moderate these days, apparantly you don't have internet access (or perhaps have better things to do.)

It's always been my dream to figure out a way to write a column that gets BOTH sides of the fence riled up... and after half a decade at this, I may just do it here today.

It's not very often that I bring politics into this column -- other folks get paid to do just that and they do a MUCH better job at it than me. Still, I've never really made it a secret that my own political views tend to swing rather liberally to the left. But I've got to admit, I'm having a crisis of liberal faith, folks. There's a movement afoot that should normally have my blue state toes a-tappin' -- but they're not. Instead, I sit with raised eyebrows and a curious expression over something that I just don't comprehend -- and I'm worried that my lack of understanding means I'm secretly becoming (a) Republican, (b) my parents, or (c) just plain old:

Occupy Wall Street. I don't get it. Now please don't take away my liberal decoder ring and membership badge.

First, let me see if I've got this right: You're mad because 1% of the population has gobs and gobs of money while the other 99% of us are struggling. You're right -- that sucks. You SHOULD be mad. We should ALL be mad. So let's get united, let's get together, let's make change, let's make history, let's... hang out in a park and hold up signs saying how bad things suck?

I'm all for improving things, and I respect anyone right now who calls for progress. If there's a movement to be joined, count me in -- or at least sign me up for your mailing list. But I don't exactly understand what Occupy Wall Street expects to change by their current methods. If anything, I'm afraid that it's making even the outspoken, intelligent members of our 99% come across as smelly, whiny neo-hippies with an astonishing sense of entitlement.

The main goal of the Occupy movement appears to be raising awareness. But I don't need a sign that says "The Economy Sucks" to know that the economy sucks. Almost 10% of us are unemployed. Foreclosures are rampant. Daily existence is a struggle for WAY too many families. I don't think any of us are blindly walking around whistling "Zip A Dee Doo Dah."

Change doesn't come from having a month-long campout. If you're sick of the way things are, don't stand around in a park with a smartphone waiting to film police brutality. Be pro-active. I know it's hard to find a job, but you're never going to get one if you don't at least TRY. Make products that help commerce. Invent something. If you want to change government, run for office. Go to city council meetings. Petition Congress. Let them know that you're a voter and your friends are voters and you expect more from your elected officials. The system wasn't made for Wall Street -- it was made for YOU. USE it.

You've actually got a leg up on the fat cats on Wall Street. Know why? Because YOUR generation was raised on the internet. My dad can build a house with two bare hands, but he doesn't even know where the power button is on his computer. This gap gives your generation the advantage of global communication. Stop looking at videos of Chuck Testa and run with it.

I believe in the power of the common man to make change, and I believe that with the right leadership and cooperation, we can crawl our way out of this economic mess. If I didn't, I'd be my uncle who lives down south and keeps a "ready bag" at his door full of ammo and supplies for the day that the economy fails and the world descends into anarchy.

The intentions of the Occupiers are good. Like I said, people are desperate and they at least care about changing things, so that's half the battle won right there. But let's be realistic. Last week, I logged onto Facebook and received an event invitation to something called, I kid you not, "Drum Circle for Economic Reform." Really? REALLY? We're standing on the precipice of a global recession and THIS is your plan?

I just don't think you're going to find too many people in the 1% who are going to be moved by your bongo solo, no matter how wicked cool it is. Instead, you're going to find people like Newt Gingrich telling you to "cut your hair and get a job." And, God help me, I kind of agree with him.

What I'm really honestly hoping is that I've got it wrong. That I've fallen victim to the media's incorrect portrayal of a movement with the capability to make a real difference. I hope an Occupier reads this and comments and takes me to task for being short-sighted. I want to be with you, I really do. But right now, I'm just not seeing the point -- so PLEASE, convince me otherwise.

This doesn't mean I'm flipping sides, either, so bait me or hate me all you want, right-wingers. Like most of you, I'm in the 99%, and I just happen to believe I'm with the right (left) people to get our country back on track. Do I have all the answers? Heck no. I'm the guy who just wrote a whole column about Slurpees, so go easy on me while I occupy my couch and read your online comments.

COLUMN: Christmas Lights

2011-12-29T12:27:00.001-06:00

My house with my handiwork! Well, Friend Jason helped, too!

Well, it's barely December, but I'm already trying my absolute hardest to not let the Grinch set up shop. Every year around this time, I get jazzed up about Christmas and the prospect of harvesting some of that holiday magic that's usually only found in our childhoods and/or cheezy Christmas movies on Lifetime. This year, though, that's gonna be one especially tough order to fill.

(Cue violins.)

The sad real truth is that this humor columnist hasn't had a whole lot to be humorous about this fall. My girlfriend and I split after almost three years together, and it's kinda made things a little topsy-turvy in Shaneland. Not to tug the heartstrings and play the sympathy card any more than necessary, but it's a fact that I'm typing this column in the living room of an empty house that I was pretty certain would one day be "OUR" house, and the stale pizza boxes littering my landscape are testament to just how not "our" house it is anymore.

(End violins. Promise.)

That said, I refuse to let current events dictate my level of holiday cheer. Just because I may be hopelessly alone, despondent, and destined for a life of cat-owning solitude doesn't mean I can't be hopelessly alone while decking the halls with some jingle bells on a silent night.

Which is why I found myself the other night marching into Target with only ONE thing on my Christmas list: lights, lights, and more lights. Apartment-dwelling Shane never had the opportunity to decorate -- the one time I tried to put up a Christmas tree, my cat threw herself at it kamikaze-style until it was Christmas mulch. But THIS year, come heck or high water, my house will look festive, even if the weirdo loner guy living inside isn't.

Just one problem: I had NO idea what I was doing.

Step One seemed simple enough: Buy a bunch of lights. Easy, right? That was before I rounded the corner at Target into their room-o'- infinite-lights. In all my light-buying glee, I never stopped to think about what KIND I wanted. One color or variety? LED or standard? Blinkers or solids? Little bulbs or big ones?

My initial choice was go to all red -- it's festive, understated, and looks classy without being over-the-top. But I just couldn't take my eyes off Target's display of blue lights. I think it was just three weeks ago in this column that I rambled on about how it was impossible for me to have a "favorite" color, but darn it if those blue lights weren't screaming out, "PICK ME! PICK ME!"

Then it hit me: I'm the sole decision-maker now. I like red, I like blue, so why not do both? Red lights around the pillars and blue along the handrails. People would drive by the house and go, "Wow, what great red lights! Wow, what great blue lights! Whoever lives there must be a super cool guy and not at all some weirdo loner loser!"

The next morning, I proudly told my co-workers about my awesome independent decision-making skills. I had barely gotten to the good part before every one of my female co-workers, pretty much in unison, went, "Ewww! Noo! You can't mix red and blue Christmas lights by themselves!"

What is this mystical power that girls seem to have when it comes to matching colors? There's a complex system of rules, regulations, and timelines that govern these sorts of things, and only girls are privy to them. Guys, being born sane, generally do NOT comprehend. If colors don't make our eyes hurt and clothes feel comfy, we're wearing them -- at least, until a girl tells us not to.

"Feh," I said to myself. "What do THEY know? This is MY independence, MY house, and MY light show."

It took a few hours of untangling, hanging, stapling, un-doing, re-hanging, and re-stapling, but I managed to get every last light up sans falling or electrocution. All that was left was to flip the switch, walk out front, and bathe in the glory of...

...a horrible, horrible decision. I was displaying my independence, alright. In fact, the whole front of the house looked like Independence Day gone horribly awry. Red lights are pretty, blue lights are pretty, but put 'em together and you've got one horrible mess. It was a grand and patriotic salute to tackiness. The red lights were totally outshined by the blue lights, which cast this sort of unhealthy pallor over the entire house and made the whole thing just look... ill. Look, I get PAID to put things into words, and I can't even begin to describe the ugliness of this collision.

Score one for the girls and their distressingly accurate advice, I guess. I spent the rest of the night taking down blue lights, running to the store for more red, and going back to my original plan. The blue lights came inside and are ending up on my tree, where I hope their bright weird glow will make all cats flee in terror. I now have a fully red porch and it looks faaaantastic if I do say so myself.

So fantastic, in fact, that I went ahead and left them on for the season -- two weeks before Thanksgiving. That's right, I was THAT guy -- Mr. Premature Christmas. Mock me if you like, but it was 60 degrees when I put those lights up. Think about THAT while you can see your own breath as you're clinging to a frozen ladder for dear life this weekend.

I also discovered that it would be REALLY easy to fall into the Griswold trap. Once I got done, I looked at my porch and went, "That looks great. If only I had some icicle lights... and then maybe some smaller strings to go around every window... and a star for the upstairs window... and then... and then..." And THAT, my friends, is how you end up with a house that can be seen from space.

So I'm sticking to my guns and going with my understated yet festive red porch lights and little else. Maybe, just maybe, it's the perfect amount of holiday spirit to get me living again.

Is Victoria Jackson REALLY This Ignorant?

2011-12-07T23:14:00.001-06:00

Wow.I just can't help but hope and pray that this is all some kind of absolutely brilliant Andy Kaufman-esque parody that will one day be played for laughs.

Because if it's NOT, then Victoria Jackson is a racist xenophobic intolerant homophobic hatemonger who should be sent very, very far away. Like Alabama or somewhere.

COLUMN: Slurpee

2011-11-28T15:59:00.001-06:00

Arriving in the Quad Cities as an Augie freshman in 1988, I've witnessed the demise of some truly iconic Rock Island businesses. I can't grab a burger at the 7th Ave. Porkie's or bowl a frame at Town & Country. I can't go rent a movie at Hilltop Video... or Hogan's Video for that matter. I can't go talk music with Dave Harrington at the 14th Ave. Co-Op Records, and I can't go back to work for Mike King at Co-Op of the District. If I wanted to relive my days of all-campus parties at the Rock Island F.O.E., I'd be in the parking lot of a funeral home – and if I wanted to nurse all these sad memories over an adult beverage at Lee's, the clerk at Auto Zone would be REALLY confused. As much as I like to fight the good fight, the times continue to a-change.

That's why I bristled at first when I found out yet another local institution was losing its identity. I remember seeing the sign when I came up to tour Augustana as a high-schooler and turning to my mom: “Ha! They have a gas station called Mother Hubbard's Cupboard.” Back then, I had no idea that Ma Hubbard had MANY a Cupboard throughout the Quad Cities -- but that's all changed now. Earlier this year, Old Mother Hubbard handed off the keys to her Cupboards to the big boss daddy of incorporated convenience: 7-Eleven.

When I was a kid, we had a couple of 7-Elevens in my hometown for a while, but they were in what my parents used to call “the bad part of town,” so we never stopped. Still, the non-stop ads for 7-Eleven in print and on TV made the company feel like a distant pen-pal that I've finally been given the chance to meet. With that understanding, though, comes an embarassing admission.

As a result of growing up sheltered from the alluring neon of 24-hour convenience stores, there's one thing I've never tried in all my 40 years... and since it's the product most often associated with the 7-Eleven franchise, I can't very well write this column without giving it a go.

My name's Shane... and I'm a Slurpee virgin. (I swear that sentence didn't sound nearly as Cinemax-y in my head as it does on paper.)

How I managed to make it through forty years without succumbing to the temptation of nearly-frozen sugar-water is beyond me. You don't need science to tell you that cold plus sweet equals awesome. I think I was just intimidated by the big swirling machine that I'd never used before. What if I hit the wrong button and Slurpee nectar went flying about the store willy-nilly? People would point and laugh and go, “Look at the 40-year-old weirdo who's clearly never had a Slurpee in his life.”

Well, a funny thing happens when you tell the local 7-Eleven PR rep that you've never had a Slurpee before. What happens, if you're wondering, is that you're pushed in front of a Slurpee machine while photographers gather around to take images of your first ever Slurpee, which in turn causes people to point and laugh and go, “Look at the 40-year-old weirdo getting his picture taken with Slurpees!” The end result is bad for social anxiety yet heaven for the taste buds.

I have officially Slurped. And, honestly, I even went back later after the photo shoot and Slurped again. These things are GOOD. And the way I figure it, they must be good for you, too. Think about it: If you're suffering from dehydration and go to the hospital, what happens? They hook you up to a glucose drip, which is essentially sugar and water. Slurpees are, essentially, sugar and water. That makes Slurpees MEDICINE in my book, and if you're gonna take medicine, it might as well be wild cherry flavored, no?

Thanks to the folks at 7-Eleven, I've been learning LOTS about Slurpees. Did you know they were accidentally invented by a guy named Omar Knedlik? When the soda fountain broke at his hamburger stand, his only way to serve cold drinks was to stick sodas in his deep freeze. It turns out his customers preferred the slushy, half-frozen sodas to normal fountain pop. 7-Eleven bought into the idea in the mid-60's and the Slurpee was born. Nowadays, those swirly machines keep the Slurpee at exactly 28 degrees – the perfect temperature to maintain its sherbet-like consistency.

Today, the Slurpee is a household name. Thirteen million of the suckers are sold and Slurped every month. While I was standing in the Rock Island store for my photo shoot, customers were literally pushing me out of the way to get to the machine – and I witnessed nothing less than master Slurpee chefs, mixing and matching varieties for triple and quadruple-flavored brainfreezes. 7-Eleven even sells divided cups that let you sample multiple varieties with a straw capable of Slurping two flavors at once.

“It's a brand that connects with people in an emotional way,” explains Laura Gordon. She's 7-Eleven's Senior Director of Proprietary Beverages, which I'm pretty sure means she's built a career around playing with Slurpees. “Slurpee brings out the kid in all of us.”

There's a town in Washington called Kennewick that relishes its fame as the world's leader in Slurpee sales. The local 7-Eleven there claims it was all due to their local high school football team hanging out in the store and downing Slurpees like oxygen. 7-Eleven responded with freebies, t-shirts, and even launching new and exclusive flavors in Kennewick. A newspaper in nearby Winnepeg reported on the claim to fame with the headline, “Kennewick Sucks!”

My proposal, Quad Cities, is this: Let's take Kennewick's crown away. Some towns are best at commerce, other towns are best at tourism. Let's become the town that's best at sucking. It would certainly give THIS writer some good future column fodder.

Times change. People and businesses come and go, and what we're left with are fond memories of the past and hope for the future. It sounds like 7-Eleven's here to stay, and I'm all for it. My hope is that we become the future Slurpee capital of the world. With lots of work, dedication, and a whole lot of brainfreezes, I'm pretty sure that if we all come together, the Quad Cities can officially and definitively suck harder than ever (in a good way.)

COLUMN: Mouse

2011-11-28T15:58:00.000-06:00

Since becoming a homeowner, I've learned to roll with the punches. When the washer backed up and nearly submerged my basement, I rolled with it. When I hit the wrong button on the vacuum cleaner and a gallon of dirt foomp-ed all over the kitchen floor, I rolled with it. When a wind storm came precariously close to depositing half a tree in my living room, I rolled with it. But there's one thing I will NOT put up with:

Squatters.

A month ago, I came home from the store with a load of groceries. Among my purchases? A new bag of cat food, which I placed in the hall closet. A week or so later, I went to open the new bag... to find that mission already accomplished. As I lifted the bag, rogue bits of kibble cascaded from a gash at the bottom of the bag. Several scenarios sprung to mind:

• My cats are NOT dumb. The bag of food was so close to the door that they reached through the crack and clawed open the bag. Bad kitties.

• My cats are capable of premeditation. Clearly they conspired together to jump up, turn the knob, open the door, claw open the cat food, and then shut the door leaving me none the wiser. VERY bad kitties.

• I am the worst cat owner ever and somehow managed to shut one of them in the closet while getting ready for work. Can't blame the cat for clawing open the food bag for survival. Thankfully, she must've escaped when I got home and hung up my coat. Bad human.

• The house is haunted by a ghost with a particular affinity for Cat Chow. All I need to do is set up a series of motion cameras, thermal and electro-magnetic field detectors, and perhaps a grey-haired psychic to croak, “Go into the light! There is peace and serenity in the light!” Bad undead.

Maybe the bag had ripped at the store. Maybe the bags are just cheaply made. It could have been a billion things, so I just ignored it and transferred all the food to a plastic container.

But then I got another new bag of cat food, put it in the same closet, reached for it a week later, and once again got showered in kibble. That's when it hit me:

These bags are being ripped by a non-cat, non-human, and likely non-ghost entity. Dare I say it, methinks I have a mouse In the house.

Mice are cute. I could watch them do their thing all the live-long day... provided that thing occurs safely behind glass. Mice tend to lose their cute when they're free-range walking about your house.

My old apartment complex had mice -- until I got my first cat. Chelsea was a mouser extraordinaire, a skill I discovered one morning at exactly 7:02 a.m. when she jumped on my chest and proudly spit a freshly-dead mouse onto my neck. Coincidentally enough, 7:03 a.m. that same morning was when I first discovered that it's possible to go from a dead sleep to a scream in under a minute.

That wasn't the only time my first cat gifted me with a mouse corpse. All told, there were 4 in total over the years, each more disgusting than the last. But when Chelsea went to that big ball of yarn in the sky, I missed my mouser.

A year later, I took in the sister kitties that I have today. From that day on, I never saw or heard another mouse in that apartment. My neighbors would complain about mice all the time, but with the twins on patrol, it was a non-issue.

That's why I now needed to call a family meeting. My security team is NOT known for slacking. In fact, just last week, I saw them take down Mothra's little cousin with tag team precision, aerial acrobatics, and a hang time Michael Jordan himself couldn't pull off. All they needed was motivation.

“You understand that I allow you to live here rent-free, right?" I began. "I give you food, I clean up your poop, and I scratch under your chins when you come up going 'mrow.' All I ask in return is unconditional love, continued cuteness... and your unwavering diligence in keeping mice out of the house. Step it up a notch, ladies.”

I sensed understanding, but apparantly not. As I type this, they're both dead asleep beside me on the couch while Mickey and Minnie could be turning my hallway closet into mouse-miniums for all their little friends. No good. Time to get pro-active.

That's why I just placed my very first mousetrap. Don't worry, I'm not snapping any necks today. Like I said, mice are cute, albeit just a little terrifying. Ergo, I bought a little mouse apartment from whence there is no escape until I pick up the trap, take it outside, and let the little sucker go. To bait the trap, I bought something called "mouse attractant" that is advertised to be "better than cheese or peanut butter" but looks like purple snot and smells considerably worse.

It's been baited for two hours now, and thus far, no takers. In a way, this makes me happy, because I still don't know if I've got the guts to pick up a mouse-filled trap and take it outside without dying of fear that a legion of angry rodents will spring forth, run up my pant leg, and promptly give me both the black plague AND cooties simultaneously.

Maybe the ghost explanation IS the best. After all, I've yet to hear any mice scurrying about -- and if they ARE making a home in my closet, they're clearly tidy and potty-trained residents, because the only evidence I have to their existence are two holes in two bags. Frankly, if they keep their droppings and Lyme Diseases to themselves, they can turn the cracks and crevices of my house into Mousetopia for all I care. Just back off the Cat Chow, buddies. And if it's something other than mice? I'd rather not know about it and live a blissfully ignorant life where holes in bags can be blamed on ghost cats.

COLUMN: Skrillex

2011-11-28T15:51:00.001-06:00

Listening to me whine about growing old is a recurring theme of this column, and based on my inbox, it's a theme that a lot of you have very little patience for. After all, I'm only 40 -- it's not like the news networks have my obituary on standby or anything (though, based on the number of drive-thrus I've frequented since my girlfriend and I broke up, it might not be a bad idea.)

In many ways, I'm still a young pup. And to sit here and be all, "Woe is me, for the sands of time hath blown me closer to the tomb!" when my primary audience is likely OLDER than me? Yeah, that's not gonna fly. So I've made it my mission to stop complaining about life as a 40-something.

But just because I've stopped complaining about it in print doesn't mean that I've grown any more comfortable to its dread arrival. What it comes down to is THIS: In my mind's eye, I still picture myself as a counter-culture college student. Truth be told, when it comes to MOST things in life that I like -- music, DJing, TV, video games -- I'm past my prime. That 18-34 demographic came and went. I'm supposed to now be stuck in my ways, listening to dated music and watching reruns of "Law and Order" while telling teenagers what life was like before cell phones and mp3's. I choose to NOT go gracefully into that good night, thanks much.

So I'm coping. And trying to keep my yap shut so I come across as calm, cool, and still in possession of as much youth and charm as I can muster up. But this weekend, something really evil dawned on me that truly brought it all home...

One of my favorite hobbies is playing in trivia nights around the area, but an ever BETTER time is getting asked to emcee one of them. This week, though, I'd bitten off a little more than I could chew: TWO trivia nights in one week. That meant coming up with 100 questions, 100 answers, and a nifty Powerpoint presentation for each of them. So while you guys were enjoying the last decent weather week of 2011, I was sitting in my living room, unshaven and occasionally unbathed, furiously looking up random facts about random stuff.

Since trivia nights draw crowds of all shapes, sizes, and ages, careful attention must be paid to creating a set of questions wide-ranging enough to keep everybody happy. So when I was working one of our music categories, I was focusing on artists from all eras and genres... and it hit me.

When I was in high school, the primary objective was to be cooler than the next guy. So when everyone I knew was listening to Bon Jovi, I rebelled by discovering the Beatles. In a time when radio was ruled by new wave bands that sounded like the future, wandering down Penny Lane through Strawberry Fields Forever seemed nothing less than archaic. It was, and is, wonderful music; but even back then, it sounded like a beautiful remnant from a bygone and distant era.

I've just realized that I'm now on the OTHER side of that coin. When I was listening to the Beatles in high school, their music was 20 years old. NOW it's the "new" music I listened to in college that's just turned 20. Nirvana's "Nevermind" just turned 20. I believe this may even constitute it now as "classic rock." Does this mean that kids in high school today hear Nirvana the same way I heard the Beatles? As some of kind of crusty old antique?

In a way, it's a little disappointing. Back in high school, bands like Duran Duran and the Pet Shop Boys sounded so futuristic they couldve been from Mars. And I remember thinking, "Wow, in another 20 years, music will be SO cutting-edge, it'll be unrecognizable!" Umm... future FAIL.

Guitar rock, for the most part, sounds about the same now as it did back in the early 90's, and about the only thing that differentiates Britney Spears from Debbie Gibson is less clothes and a slightly superior synthesizer. The only REAL evolution in music over the past two decades has come from hip-hop, and a good chunk of that just samples beats and loops from my era and before.

The high school me would have assumed that, by now, our Top 40 charts should sound something like the cantina band from Star Wars crossed with power tools. Thus far, future music hasn't been very futuristic. Then I heard Skrillex.

Every week, I'm getting more and more requests for his music at DJ gigs, and his popularity continues to grow and grow. There's a genre of music big in Europe right now called "dubstep" - slow-tempo dance music characterized by throbbing basslines and little else. Skrillex, an American producer, takes that blueprint and adds as many abrasive synth noises as possible. It is definitely the music that was in my head when the 1981 version of me wondered what the music of 30 years down the road would sound like. And it's entirely unlistenable.

Every Skrillex song employs the same formula: A harmless beat kicks in and is usually surrounded by some etheral synths and dreamy vocals. Then, right as you're about lulled to sleep, someone screams and the song explodes into what sounds like malfunctioning, shrieking robots through the din of a bassline that goes "WUB! WUB WUB WUB!" violently for 6 minutes. It is impressive in its awfulness.

This is the music that Death Stars should get destroyed to. The music to turn Elroy Jetson into a delinquent. It is ahead of its time, proof positive that the world is evolving, and God-awful to my 40 year old ears - just as it should be. But when I first heard Skrillex in a CLUB, where every screech and WUB gets pounded into your soul by subwoofers, I understood. It might be awful but it's AWESOME, too.

I'm getting older, going grey, and officially hating a form of modern music. But even though I can't the stuff, I get why kids would like it and appreciate its awesomeness. Skrillex is the Kurt Cobain of its time, and maybe even the Beatles of THEIR time. As long as I've got THAT understanding, I'm ok with getting a little older. Just keep it off the soundtrack of my video games or I'm gonna get irked.

Hawaii Five Oh No!

2011-11-21T22:26:00.001-06:00

Umm... what the HELL, Hawaii Five-O?

Okay, here's my take on THIS show: I don't have one. BUT now I super hate it.

Here's the thing: Even though I've never really seen an episode of the rebooted show, it's pretty much always on my TV. My Monday night ritual usually involves turning on the TV, watching "How I Met Your Mother" and "Two & A Half Men," then turning the volume down and working on my newspaper column for the week.

As a result, "Hawaii Five-O" is on my TV a lot, though I've never paid attention to it. The original was before my time a little bit, but I kinda thought it was a standard run-of-the-mill crime drama, wasn't it? I assumed it was just like Kojak or whatever, but in Hawaii to create slightly nicer scenery, no? And maybe I'm wrong there, since I never saw the original.

But every time I glance up at THIS reboot, it looks less like "Kojak" and more like "Apocalypse Now." There's always someone being tortured or dudes running around with AK's and machine guns or what appear to be wicked Rambo-style jungle fights or huge explosions... this is NOT your parents' Hawaii Five O.

Well, even though I've never really watched the show, I've secretly rooted for it for a number of reasons... primarily the cast. I was a "Lost" junkie, so it was cool that they cast Daniel Dae Kim as a lead character. And then there's the show's leader, Alex O'Loughlin, who was really quite great in that-one-vampire-show-that-was-only-on-for-one-season-whose-name-I-can't-remember. He's another in our current pantheon of British actors who play bad-ass Americans, and I dig that.

Then, THIS season, when they got Terry O'Quinn -- aka John Locke from "Lost" -- on a multi-episode arc, I respected the show even more.

But there was one secret reason why I reeeeeally rooted for Hawaii Five-O -- Larisa Oleynik. Some of you might remember her from the classic Alex Mack Nickelodeon show... some of you might know her as Julia Stiles' little sister in "10 Things I Hate About You"... or you might remember her as Joseph Gordon-Levitt's girlfriend from "Third Rock from the Sun."

What I remember her from is the HUGE CRUSH I've had on her for years. Call me pervy if you want, but she was always in that shortlist of girls that make me go "Wuh." (See: Holmes, Katie; Seyfried, Amanda; Birch, Thora; and Mulligan, Carey.) And I was always kinda sad that she'd all but dropped off the Hollywood map. But then, lo, there she was on Hawaii Five O, playing some kind of techie specialist person I think (based on my muted TV.)

So tonight I get home, watch sitcoms, and then bang out my column in record time. "Cool," I thought to myself. "Enough time to turn up the volume and catch a little of this Hawaii Five O nonsense."

I turn up the volume. There's O'Loughlin getting tortured, as usual. And there's the rest of the cast, running through random jungle. And hey, there's Larisa Oleynik! Aww, and she's still fairly cute. It's so good that's she's on.....

BLAM! BLAM!

And with two point blank shots to the chest, Larisa Oleynik is apparantly no longer a recurring cast member of Hawaii Five-O. Worse yet, they apparantly turned her character EVIL at the end or something. Or at least deeply, deeply flawed. She apparantly was responsible for turning O'Loughlin over to the bad guys in exchange for some dude they'd kidnapped, and, well, he was dead, too, whoever he was.

Can't. Believe. They'd. Kill. Larisa. It should be a crime to kill someone that cute, even a fictionalized version. Actually, I think it IS a crime, and one that O'Loughlin will probably spend the next 2 seasons trying to remedy, IF the show goes that long. I know it sure just lose its hardcore Alex Mack fanbase...

American Horror Story

2011-11-10T00:51:00.000-06:00

Is this NOT the creepiest thing that's been on TV in a looong while?

I'm officially considering myself a passive fan of the show. I've watched every episode since its launch... and I'm still a little torn on the show.

When I sit down and watch TV, I want to be entertained. I want to laugh or feel excited or feel compelled or feel like I've learned something.

After every episode of AHS, I just kinda feel icky. And I don't know yet if that's a bad thing or a good thing.

If you're un-initiated to the world of American Horror Story, here's the scoop without any big spoilers: Dysfunctional family moves into creepy house where a seemingly infinite number of former residents have died tragically, angrily, and/or murder-ily -- and clearly, they've got a score to settle with the living still.

Ryan Murphy is the brains behind this show -- the same dude who brings us "Glee" every week. But AHS is clearly the anti-Glee. There are no morality plays in AHS - every character seems deeply flawed and there's really no rooting to be done for any of them... and that's where I start to have problems with AHS.

For as much as I love the tone of the show (DARK AS HELL), the cinematography (DARK AS HELL), and the slowly unveiling plotlines (DARK AS HELL), I have a reeeally hard time investing in these characters because there's never any kind of redemption at hand. The creepiness is mad fun, but only if you as a watcher have genuine interest in the survival of the lead characters.

Thus far, it's just been nothing but darkness and death and despair behind every corner. After a while it stops being compelling and just ends up being torture porn. We need to FEEL for the family that bought this house... we need to see them occasionally WIN every once in a while. Let's see them put their heads together and dispatch one or more of the former tenants to the netherworld... we need to understand why on Earth they don't just run from the house screaming and find a nice, safe apartment elsewhere.

Instead, it's just basically 60 minutes of watching some people we don't care about slowly get tortured, and that's not fun, it's just kinda disturbing in an un-fun way. If Murphy were to add a little humanity to the family, then we'd feel emotionally invested in the storyline. Until then, it's little more than curiosity making me watch.

That said, tonight's episode -- focusing on the family's sullen daughter and her on/off love affair (SPOILER ALERT) with one of her dad's patients -- was a step in the right direction... especially when it's revealed (BIGGER SPOILER ALERT) that her boyfriend Tate is actually the ghost of a Columbine-esque school shooter. The crux of the episode was the daughter (played brilliantly by Taissa Farmiga) grappling with her affections towards someone capable of something so heinous -- let alone someone capable of being, well, dead.

I'm still fascinated by this show, so I'll continue to watch it, ickiness aside... but jeez, I hope they lighten it up at some point just long enough for us to catch our breath and start actually CARING about whether or not (HUGE SPOILER) Mom is really carrying a hoofen-foot devil baby.

I want to like this show... it's ambience is enchanting and Murphy's crafted an astonishingly creepy world without having to rely on pure scare tactics... but just occasionally give me something TO like, k?

What do you guys think about AHS?

An Old Year's Resolution Come True

2011-11-09T23:14:00.002-06:00

So about a million billion kajillion years ago, I made a great public proclamation about how I was going to spend more of my time working on this blog. Then life sorta got in the way. Well... now I'm back.

My original goal for TCC wasn't just to have a place to archive my old columns. I wanted it to become a living, breathing beastie, where readers of my newspaper column and the general public could log on, hang out, comment, argue, bicker, and just have some fun. It's high time we got around to that.

It starts now. When you click on each story, you should now be able to read it in its entirety, share it on social networks like Facebook, and comment to your heart's delight.

My columns will remain the centerpiece of the site... but I also want to focus on the other things we love. Music... movies... TV... video games... ANYTHING pop culture. If there's something YOU want to see on the blog that I don't roll out, PLEASE e-mail me at sbrown@qconline.com.

Bookmark this blog and keep checking back -- in the coming weeks, I might try new layouts or other fun stuff as things progress. The only way this thing can grow and become a good place to hang out and debate pop culture and news items is if YOU participate. So comment on stories... share stories on Facebook... and let's see what we can do with this thing.

Thanks again for caring about what a fat nerd has to say. You continue to blow my mind.

COLUMN: Biscuit

2011-11-09T17:22:00.001-06:00

As I type this column, it's Halloween night. I'm sitting in the corner of my couch waiting for trick-or-treaters. Last year, our house was so popular, it merited an emergency candy run. This year, we're already an hour underway, I've had 0 visitors, and I'm starting to worry that my diet for the next month will be consisting primarily of mini Milky Ways.

It's times like this that I like to reflect on exactly why I've always hated Halloween... and, thanks to the events of this morning, I've finally figured it out: IT NEEDS MORE BISCUITS.

My alarm clock goes off weekdays at 7:15 a.m. This gives me a precise fifteen minute window each morning to wake up, watch Al Roker tell me the weather, and desperately attempt to boot up the central processor of my brain.

At the conclusion of these fifteen minutes, I know that I have EXACTLY enough time to hop in the shower, throw on some clothes, and hit the road with just enough time to swing in to a gas station and get the iced coffee and 2 Cokes required to make it through the work day.

(UPDATE: Still no trick-or-treaters.)

This morning, though, was different. I woke up precisely on cue, turned on the Today show, and was greeted by the sad sight of Bernie Madoff's family trying to get America to feel really really sorry that their husband and father is a Class A scumbag. This was NOT the way I wanted to kick off my day, so I forced myself off the couch and into action. I ended up out the door with just enough extra time for the greatest morning bonus of all: a drive-thru sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit. Life was good. I just first needed to run into the gas station...

Which I found myself strangely unable to do, since it's employees were standing outside blocking the door.

"No power," said one.

"No sales," said the other.

"No calculator?" I asked.

"No power," replied the one.

"No sales," replied the other.

And, apparantly, no basic math skills. That's okay, I won't blame them. I still count on my fingers. If I had to figure out sales tax at 8:08 in the morning, my brain might very well explode. Back to the car.

I knew of another gas station I could get to a few blocks away, and it wouldn't eat up THAT much time. This could still be done, I thought with confidence, as visions of biscuits danced in my head.

(UPDATE: Thought I heard something outside. Nope.)

At the second gas station, I was greeted with lights that proved they had power. Huzzah! However, it turns out that having power might actually be detrimental to this gas station, since I opened up their cooler to grab a Coke to get hit in the face by a gust of HOT air.

Not just "not-cold" air, mind you. No, this was HOT air, blowing all through their cooler for HVAC reasons unknown. The Cokes were literally TOO HOT TO HOLD. This will simply not do, as hot cola sounds about as appealing as cold chili. Some things are just not meant to happen, and heating Coke to the boiling point is one of them.

Clearly, my hatred for Halloween had transported me to some ironic Twilight Zone-esque land where hot is cold, up is down, and, clearly, no one eats biscuits.

Now at this point, you're probably asking yourself, "What's the deal, Shane? Don't they have pop machines at your work?"

That's just what Halloween WANTS you to think. In fact, they DO have Coke machines at my workplace, and they work fine -- except during any time that I crave one, in which case they're usually empty. I'm not one to tempt fate, especially on the least karma-filled day of my year. And I don't often make endorsements in this column, but in Shaneland, Pepsi just doesn't cut it. I have to endure Halloween -- at the very least, let me endure it with a Coke in my hand.

Dejectedly, I walked back to my car... but then it hit me. There exists a third gas station. And if karma, fate, and luck all decided to give me a break en masse, I just might be able to score my coffee, my Coke, and still wheel it into the biscuit drive-thru without being late for work.

I arrived at the third gas station and leapt from the car like a graceful yet bloated gazelle. Inside, I grabbed the necessities and even treated myself to a candy bar en route to the counter. The clerk rang me up with ease... until she hit that candy bar.

"Hey, Cheryl," she yelled to her co-worker with a frown, holding up my candy bar. "Remind me to tell you the story about this."

Umm. Alright, brain, focus. Pay, get out of here, and that biscuit is yours. You can't waste any time whatsoever... but WHAT story? My mind had a light-speed argument with itself. Many scenarios unfolded. Perhaps it was an inocuous story about store inventory. Maybe she wanted to recall the tale of Milton Hershey turning a Philadelphia candy shop into a multi-million dollar empire. Perhaps Hershey bars reminded her of a lost love.

Yet, for every GOOD story my brain could guess at, it quickly wrote a worse one. Like the story about how they found a 10-year-old box of stale chocolate and put it on the shelves. Or the story of how she caught a kid peeing on the candy bars last night. Maybe it was the one story my brain offered that's waaaaaaay too disgusting to retell in print.

I needed that biscuit. I wanted that biscuit. But I had to ask.

"Umm... what's the story with my candy bar?"

She then spent the next several minutes telling, with some skill and grace, the story about how she, as a child, had found a fully-wrapped Hershey bar on the ground. She knew it was wrong, but it was still sealed, so she took it home, ate it, and then became violently ill for several days.

I suppose the story had a good moral. Ground candy is BAD, kids, so leave it be -- but at least MY candy bar was safe. And, as I sat there at work, it was pretty tasty. But it sure wasn't a biscuit. I hate Halloween.

(UPDATE: One kid! Dressed in street clothes with a crudely drawn marker moustache, but still, a kid nonetheless. And I just gave that kid so much candy that he's probably gonna still be awake when this paper hits his front door on Sunday.)

COLUMN: Kadhafi

2011-11-09T17:19:00.002-06:00

Ah, yes -- Halloween. Our time-honored and cherished holiday where we celebrate the spooky, the macabre, and the things that go bump in the night. When we can channel-flip through the TV dial and see zombies and vampires and blood and guts and dead bodies aplenty. It's good to see everyone getting into the spirit of things this year -- up to and including CNN.

Last Thursday, the scariest thing on TV wasn't a werewolf or a zombie or Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. No, instead it was the morning newscast just as I was stepping out of the shower.

"...we can now confirm the death of Moammar Gadhafi. We're beginning to receive video. Caution, these images are graphic."

Now, I suppose a person 100% in control of his or her impulses would be able to think to oneself, "This is an intriguing and fascinating news story. That said, there's no need to assault my brain with graphic images of death at 7:50 a.m. in the morning. Therefore, I will choose to turn away." I also suppose that a person 100% in control of his or her reflexes would be able to quickly avert their eyes in the rough .08th of a second that CNN gave us between announcing the graphic video and PLAYING said graphic video.

Instead, I started my day standing statuesquely stark naked and dripping wet, hypnotized by rough video of a freshly dead and extra gross Libyan that I've never especially cared about. I must have stood there with my mouth hanging open for a good 30 seconds before I announced to no one at all: "Ewww!"

Why would the major news networks feel the need to treat us to what's essentially Assassination Porn at breakfast-time? Or heck, ANYtime for that matter? Just because somebody sticks a dead body in front of a camera doesn't mean that you need to broadcast it willy-nilly to an innocent nation. I was relatively creeped out by the images of a dying and subsequently dead Gadhafi -- I wonder how many KIDS got to unwittingly witness that same news coverage? Shame on you, news networks.

And the images carried on and actually got worse and worse as the day progressed. By the time I got off work, it was like an amateur Libyan version of "Weekend at Bernie's." I channel-flipped from one gory video to another. The networks couldn't get enough dead man walking. A week later, I'd like to say that it's stopped. But I kid you not, the lead story on Globalpost.com as I write this is:

"Gadhafi Sodomized: Frame By Frame Analysis (GRAPHIC.)"

Really? REALLY? THAT'S what it's come to? We're taking gruesome images of a bad guy's death and having a CSI frame-by-drame dissection in order to fully appreciate and maximize every individual second of torture inflicted on the dude? This is a sick world. I'm not remotely trying to defend Gadhafi, either - he was clearly a scumbag who arguably deserved his grisly end. But that doesn't mean I want to WITNESS said grisly end, and I hope for humanity that most of us feel the same way. I mean, I'd hate to meet the guy who came across that headline and went, "Ooh, sodomy, you say? (CLICK!)"

Our downfall, it seems to me, is two-fold:

(1) We've gradually become desensitized to gore. I first realized it when I played the video game Mortal Kombat. Two characters fighting to the death was intense enough, but no. MK took it to the next level with finishing moves -- if you were REALLY good with the game controller, furiously tapping in the right code at the right time could make your character grab your opponent's head and triumphantly rip out their spinal cord. In short, it was AWESOME.

But violent video games gave birth to TV shows pushing the grossness boundaries to new and exciting levels. You can't say naughty words on TV -- and you certainly can't have a wardrobe malfunction -- but if you'd like to catch a virus that liquifies your body, you'll have a starring role on the next episode of "Bones." Have you guys ever SEEN this show? Every episode goes something like this:

"Hello, Bones."

"Hello, Angel the vampire."

"No, that was my last show. Now I'm just a run-of-the-mill FBI agent despite being so superhumanly attractive that guys like Shane immediately develop inferiority complexes when they watch my show."

"Ah, yes. So I hear Mr. Smith has been murdered and you'd like my help."

"Yes, please."

"So why did you bring me here to this gooey red pile of maggots?"

"This gooey red pile of maggots IS Mr. Smith, Bones."

(2) We've become an untrusting society. Once upon a time, all it took was a stone-faced, chain-smoking newscaster to deliver what we took for granted to be the truth. Nowadays, we question EVERYTHING. The moon landings were fake, the government's poisoning us with jet vapors, 9/11 was an inside job -- there's a cockamamie conspiracy theory out there for everything. I'm not saying that we shouldn't question authority -- the fact that we CAN is what makes our country inherently better than, say, Libya. But if a newscaster comes on my TV and goes, "Gadhafi is dead. We've confirmed it with DNA," I'm good with that. I'm not going to stand there and go, "The hell he is. Until I see townsfolk playing soccer with his severed head, I refuse to believe."

At the end of the day, press coverage of the death of Moammar Gadhafi makes you think. Primarily, it makes me think that you'd have to be out of your dang mind to become a dictator. It just doesn't ever seem to end well, does it? You don't often hear stories like, "He ruled his country with terror and oppression for twenty some odd years… and then had a nice retirement party. He and his wife now have a charming little bungalow up the coast." No, if you dictate for a living, you might have a few years of golden toilets and opulent statues, but the odds are better than decent that you'll eventually end up in a ditch, cave, or on the receiving end of a good NATO strike.

So here's to you, Moammar -- you got what you deserved. I just didn't need to see it first-hand.

COLUMN: Autumn

2011-11-09T17:18:00.001-06:00

Fall is my favorite season. This is the statement I've made with confidence for years and years now. I just can't for the life of me figure out WHY.

First off, the concept of favorites eludes me. Well, I suppose there are some things in life that I can easily play favorites with. I have a favorite restaurant (D'alessandro's,) but in saying so I could hurt the feelings of Ross', my favorite DINER. I have a favorite band. In fact, I have ten or twelve of them, depending on the mood, season, time of day, and about 1800 other factors. I tell everyone that my favorite movie is "Dazed and Confused" in order to hide the fact that my REAL favorite movie is "Twister."

But some things just shouldn't have favorites. I have never understood, for instance, how a person could have a favorite color. Colors are just a part of life that I don't feel should be given preferential treatment. I'll accept that certain colors work well together in design, and I'm not so devoid of artistic emotion as to deny that certain colors can be awfully pretty. Still, I've never thought that one color is innately or inherently prettier than another. I've never been able to declare anything like "Ooh, I'm Team Blue!" or "I'm a Red Man, me!" To me, saying you have a favorite color makes as much sense as saying you have a favorite letter of the alphabet. They're just colors, man. Well, maybe except yellow. Yellow kinda sucks.

And to me, seasons are kinda like colors. Especially given the confines of the Midwest, we have to live the highs and lows of all four seasons, and there's pros and cons to each. There's nothing more magical than a snowy winter night… until you wake up the next morning and realize you have to stand in a -23 wind chill scraping an inch and a half of solid ice off your car window. Nothing's as life affirming as the first blossoms of spring… until they start spitting out asphyxiating pollen. The long days of summer are full of fun and excitement… except when the humidity starts making it actually painful to be outdoors.

I guess that's why I've always deferred to fall as my favorite season. There's not much to complain about when it comes to jacket weather and a bright crispness to the air. Still, though, I've been trying to think about all of the things that go hand-in-hand with fall, and as it turns out, I'm not exactly smitten with any of them:

• Pumpkins - They make for decent pies, I suppose -- but on the whole, they're kind of disgusting. Don't believe me? Cut one open and stick your hand inside and tell me I'm wrong. Pumpkins are slimy, sticky, seed-riddled weirdness that just happen to come in an aesthetically pleasing shell. I just wanna know who the first person was to pull out a stringy handful of pumpkin guts and go, "Mmm, I bet this is GOOD eatin'!"

• Haunted Houses - Wandering around in the dark trying not to get fake blood on your shirt while some kid half your age chases you amok with a plastic axe? And I'm paying money for this privilege? No thanks.

• Halloween - I've made my opinions on dressing up in costume time and again in this column, so I'll refrain from standing atop my soapbox yet again. Suffice to say, when you have social anxiety and a hard enough time making awkward small talk with near strangers, please don't complicate matters by dressing the strangers up as Chewbacca. My parent's photo albums are littered with snapshots of the various costumes they forced me into as a child -- and in every one, I look mere seconds from crying. What are you this Halloween, Little Shane? Sad Uncle Sam. Then next year I'll be a sad hobo. Then a sad ghost. The cycle had to stop, and that time was puberty.

• Cornucopia - Now this I might like… if I only knew what the heck it was. Pictures of cornucopia adorn most Thanksgiving decor, but has anyone actually seen a real one? As I recall from pictures, they're basically oversized Bugle chips full of random vegetables and fruits that I hate, right? So I think I'll take a pass…

• Leaves - That pretty much leaves… leaves. The essential symbol of fall. That magical time when trees shrivel up and die for the year and we're supposed to bask in the beauty of their death throes. Actually, I DO bask in their beauty -- fall really IS quite pretty. At least that's what I thought BEFORE I bought a house. As it turns out, leaves quickly lose their lustre when they start landing on YOUR lawn. And I've got a mammoth tree in my front yard that poops down leaves pretty much year-round. My professional raking career came to a halt last fall when I accidentally raked up a snake and almost peed myself, so nowadays I pay for the service, and it's just not cheap to be a lazy wuss these days.

Still, there are some inarguable wonders to fall. You can't beat a glass of apple cider. Indian corn might be the coolest thing I've ever seen. Long-sleeved shirts are comfy. Bonfires are romantic. The whole town has an awesome smell to it (especially now that you can't burn leaves, for which me and my allergies are eternally grateful.)

At the end of the day, I have no idea if fall's my favorite season or not. All I know is that it's a season of change, and forced change is never a bad thing when you need an occasional kick in the pants like me. Now, I'm off to go look at pretty leaves on and off trees. Except for the yellow ones. The yellow ones kinda suck.

COLUMN: Single

2011-11-09T17:17:00.001-06:00

Well, Quad Cities, I'm in a bit of a pickle.

Let's say -- hypothetically, of course -- that you're an aspiring humor columnist with humble dreams of global adoration, world conquest, and riches beyond all imagination. And let's say that you've spent the past two and a half years charming the socks off your readers with innocent tales of burgeoning young (or at least middle-aged) love. Let's say that it's to the point, even, when strangers stop you on the street to ask when wedding bells will ring for you and your dream girl.

How, then, should one handle breaking the news that The World's Most Perfect Relationship Ever has gone down the drain like a half bottle of Plumber's Helper?

I suppose the best way to save face would be to paint the newly labeled ex as a She-Devil incarnate, and regale you all with the many ways that she done gone and done me wrong in a charming yet biting Hank Williams kinda way. That the poor hero of the story (that'd be me) went and foolishly gave his heart to the female Vordemort, yet somehow -- with the utmost conviction of personal strength and character -- made it out the other side wiser and world-weary with a little charm and a lot of style.

Too bad that'd be a lie.

It is true that I have sadly parted ways with She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named -- but it wasn't anybody's fault. Truth is, it had been coming for a while. We're just two different people who turned out to be too different of people. And yeah, it's a huge bummer. No one was a hero and no one was a villain. It was just the culmination of a lot of issues and a lot of hard work on both our parts. At the end of the day, I still love her and I hope she still loves me. We're working hard at staying friends, and while a reconciliation down the road is doubtful, I've definitely seen weirder things happen, so who knows.

In the meantime? Bachelorhood, thy name is Shane. It's been a while, and not much has changed. I've had little to do over the past month except weigh the pros and cons of single life, so let's run through the checklist:

PRO: I can eat what I want, when I want.

CON: Except when the refrigerator is empty, which it now always is, because I haven't mastered the basic art of cooking or caring for myself. I've also discovered that when you're in a relationship, you eat out often at moderate to fancy restaurants, and I fear I've developed a taste for the stuff. Problem is, I have a hard enough time eating lunch at a diner by myself -- I couldn't imagine rocking a steakhouse solo. I've tried carry-out a few times, but it's not the same. So if any of my friends are looking for second or third wheels for dinner, call me up. In the meantime, I've been having an awkward and beloved reunion with my true soulmate: the Taco Bell drive-thru.

PRO: I can watch whatever shows I want to watch whenever I want to watch them. (Also related: I will never have to sit through another re-run of Law & Order (her fave show!) ever again.)

CON: An eight-hour marathon of "Storm Chasers" sounded way better in my head than it turned out to be. And TV's boring when you only get to share it with your cats.

PRO: I can decorate this house however I want. Down with the holiday-themed hand towels! Off with the doilies! I now have a fully-finished man-cave basement to go with the rest of my man-house!

CON: I now have a fully-finished man-cave basement that I never go down into because I can't hear if someone's trying to break in upstairs. Having a paradise escape retreat only works if you have something in your life worth escaping. And it always used to smell like flowers in here for reasons I've never been able to figure out. Now it just kinda smells like feet.

PRO: I never have to spend my weekends at one of her extended family get-togethers!

CON: I really like her family -- and Lord knows there's a BUNCH of them. I feel like I just broke up with 27 people at once, most of whom can cook like the dickens, too.

PRO: Whenever I would write a column about the two of us, she'd demand on reading it before-hand, often insisting on changes to anything she disapproved of. No more of that poppycock.

CON: Without her inspiration, I fear lots of columns about cats, crankiness, and the catastrophes of single life in my future.

I'm trying to look at it like the story arc of "Friends." When the show started, everybody loved Ross because he was the lovable hapless loser. Then he hooked up with adorable Rachel and everyone cheered. Then it got kinda stale, so the show broke 'em up. And then they paired Ross up with a hot (albeit kinda bitchy) British chick. Well, just for the record, I'm a sucker for a British accent, so if that's you, get in touch. Of course, then the British girlie left Ross at the altar when he accidentally said Rachel's name during the ceremony, so that's no good.

Who knows what the future holds? For now, I'm just trying to keep my head above water. If I stay lucky enough to keep getting this coveted piece of Sunday newspaper real estate, you're all invited for the ride. Wish me luck.

COLUMN: Teleport

2011-11-09T17:15:00.002-06:00

Remember last week when I wrote about the fall TV season? Remember how it was kind of a cop-out column to hide the fact that I really spent the entire week doing nothing but free-form laziness?

Well, apparently, I did ONE thing last week other than create a Shane-shaped indentation on my couch: I somehow managed to get off my butt just long enough to catch a gnarly virulent cold. LAST week, I stayed on the couch for no good reason. THIS week, I've been on the same couch hacking, coughing, sneezing, and generally being a phlegm factory. I was hoping for a change of pace this week, but a riveting round of "Contagion: The Home Game" wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

None of this is particularly conducive to good column-writing. Normally, when I'm bone dry on column ideas, I've always got two topics to fall back on: my girlfriend and my cats. Well, the cats haven't done anything this week other than sleep by my side, and as for the girlfriend…? I'll currently leave that with a terse "no comment," but perhaps one day I'll fill in the details should I ever change jobs from humor columnist to despondent-loser-who'll-forever-be-unlucky-in-love columnist.

In the meantime, though, I needed inspiration. That's why late this weekend, I wadded up a pair of Kleenex, shoved them in my nostrils in the most attractive of fashions, grabbed some orange juice, and hit the road. Perhaps a good old-fashioned aimless drive around the QC would provide some column fodder.

I wondered what to write about as I detoured around the barricades on 15th St. in Rock Island… I wondered what to write about as I merged down to one lane on Moline's 6th Ave… to not be able to use the 7th Ave. on-ramp to I-74… to not be able to use the Airport Rd. off-ramp of I-280… (do you see a pattern developing here?)

Not to get all Seinfeld on you, but what's the deal with all the road construction? At this rate, 2011 will clearly be remembered as The Year You Can't Always Get Where You Want. You simply can't get from Point A to B these days without getting slowed down, re-routed, or stared at menacingly by a guy holding a "SLOW" sign. And don't get me started on Iowa, a state I barely remember thanks to this summer's bridge work.

I should be happy, I suppose, and in a way I am -- a lot of this road work is being done thanks to allocation of federal funds that help keep folks off the unemployment line, and that's never a bad thing. I guess I just never expected all the work to be done SIMULTANEOUSLY -- and I never expected it to drastically impact my morning commute. But the work on Moline's 6th Avenue often causes morning traffic to back up all the way to Rock Island's 7th Avenue, and that's my daily terrain. At this point, I've used up any brownie points I've ever gained at work on habitual road construction-related tardiness, and it's frankly too much drama to be had before I've even had a sip of coffee.

We are supposed to be a technologically evolved society. What happened to the future we were told to expect from a kajillion different sci-fi books? We were promised jetpacks, flying cars, robot maids, food pills, and Mars colonization. Well, ancient books of the past, I'll let those things all slide -- in exchange for ONE of your should-have-happened-by-now advances: I want teleportation. Every day, men of science make countless achievements in countless fields. And I'm pretty sure that, given enough time together in the same room, they could figure out how to zap us across the river to avoid bridge construction.

This notion caused me to fantasize about a world where you could yell, "Beam me up, Scotty" and be swept away to any part of the world you fancied. It sounds absolutely delightful, but when the cold harsh reality sinks in, I can easily imagine some problems with the advent of teleportation:

(1) For one, you can't tell me that it wouldn't HURT. I'm no expert in Trekkian physics, but I believe the basic idea of the teleporter beam is that one's body is converted into a kind of molecular energy and then essentially re-assembled at its destination point. Well, I can tell you that when microscopic portions of my finger lose molecules due to a paper cut, it hurts like a mother. I can't believe that the dis-assembly and re-assembly of my entire body wouldn't produce the kind of pain that would merit years of therapy to get over. Maybe that's why the red-shirted guys were all too happy to join the landing parties and face their certain death -- they'd already lost the will to live from a lifetime of gut-wrenching teleportation pain.

(2) Teleportation would do BAD things for the local economy. I mean, the Quad Cities are neat and all, but when your lunch options are either driving to Hardee's or teleporting to Paris real quick? I don't think the Thickburger would win out.

(3) How would the logistics of a teleporter work? Let's say that you wanted to teleport yourself to the summit of Mt. Everest for a quick look-see. How would you work it so that you weren't teleporting into the exact same quadrant of real estate as 342 other people at the exact same second? Clearly, you'd need some kind of extensive teleportation air-traffic control system manned by incredibly well-trained professionals. No offense if you're one of them, but I've seen some of the folks they hire to man our toll roads, and I'd hate to think that those same people would be my only safeguard against teleporting directly into the spleen of a sherpa.

(4) The teleportation industry had better require extensive manpower, since its inception would be simultaneously sending planes, trains, and automobiles the way of the dodo. The only way to save those other industries would be to make teleportation an incredibly expensive luxury -- and it would be a horrific to drive to work every day in a world where Snooki and The Situation could teleport themselves to the Jersey Shore anytime they wanted. Plus, teleporters would probably be big and cumbersome and take up an entire room of your house -- until Steve Jobs III invents the iPort, and then you'd have to deal with Apple recommending a bunch of destinations to you every time you wanted to take a simple teleport to the grocery store… it'd just be a hassle.

The moral of the story is clear: In the future, I should probably take Nyquil AFTER writing my column. As for teleportation, maybe it's best to deal with road construction and let our children's children's children conquer the space-time continuum -- as soon as they've had their food pills.

COLUMN: Fall TV

2011-11-09T17:13:00.002-06:00

Have you ever had one of those certifiably lazy weeks? The kind of week where all you wanna do is plop down in front of the TV and accomplish as little as possible? For the past week, I've been living that dream. I say it's occasionally good for the psyche to kick back and let your muscles atrophy a bit. Good for the psyche, but bad for the newspaper column -- as it turns out, inspiration doesn't come a-knockin' when your highest form of brain stimulus for the week is "Two and a Half Men."

It's good, though, that my week of inactivity just happened to coincide with Fall TV Premiere Week. Now I can officially claim that I did NOT spend a week on the couch in a state of perpetual laziness. No, siree. I spent a week doing RESEARCH for my column on the fall premieres -- which, apparantly, I present to you right now. Here's what I caught and what I've thought:

MONDAY:

How I Met Your Mother (CBS) - Once again, another season begins and we still haven't met that mother. Once upon a time, this show was edgy and hip. Now, it's softened with age and all the characters want to get married and have babies. It's the "Friends" curse -- which is understandable, since the two shows are almost interchangeable. We should be heading to a quick finish, though. With Jason Segel and Neil Patrick Harris both bonafide stars now, they won't make it past the next contract negotiation. I only hope that they end the show as anti-climatically as possible, with Ted going, "Oh, and then I went to a gas station to get a Coke, and that's how I met your mother. The end."

Two and a Half Men (CBS) - Charlie Sheen is history, and there's clearly no love lost for the fella, since they announced his death in the first scene and spent the rest of the half hour making jokes about it. Jeez, remind me never to tick off Chuck Lorre. Ashton Kutcher serves as a fine replacement, though, and this show might have some legs still.

2 Broke Girls (CBS) - Kat Dennings is one of my favorite indie hipster actresses, but I'm not sold on her here as a big-haired, trash-talking waitress. Still, it's one of those brainless sitcoms that's just non-stop offensive one-liners, which means it's moderately entertaining and destined to be a huge hit.

TUESDAY:

New Girl (FOX) - When it comes to playing charming, cute, and awkward, no one does it better than Zooey Deschanel. Here she plays a charming, cute, and awkward girl forced to move in with what appears to be three carbon copies of Joey from "Friends." Hilarity ensues. Actually, I'm still kinda waiting for it to ensue. But Zooey's great, so I've got high hopes.

WEDNESDAY:

The X Factor (FOX) - The biggest surprise in the premiere of The X Factor was that Simon Cowell didn't come off as the bad guy. In fact, compared to new judge L.A. Reid, Simon's downright huggable. As for the show, it's the same ol', same ol'. Everybody's got a sob story except for the token crazies paraded out for their 15 minutes of fame. In the premiere, one of them drops trou mid-song and poor Paula has to go be sick. When the highlight of the show is some guy's blurry manhood and a vomiting judge? Not off to a good start.

Revenge (ABC) - Finally, a TV show about incredibly wealthy people living incredibly wealthy lives. Sigh. This time, though, there's a twist: One of the wealthy people is secretly the daughter of some wealthy guy whose life the other wealthy people somehow destroyed in some as-yet-untold wealthy way… and now she wants revenge. Frankly, I don't care what she wants -- but she's seriously cute, so count me in.

THURSDAY:

The Office (NBC) - History will prove The Office to be one of the greatest sitcoms of all time. With Steve Carell gone, most think that the show's jumped the shark. I'm reticent to write its obituary quite yet, even though the season premiere wasn't that great. Still, I like the addition of James Spader's CEO character.

Parks and Recreation (NBC) - Hands down the funniest show on television. I want Ron Swanson to be my boss, Tom to be my friend, and April to be my girlfriend. Never before has central Indiana come across as a place I'd like to live. I'm voting Leslie Knope in 2012, are you?

Whitney (NBC) - Sandwiched into the middle of what's arguably the greatest comedy line-up in the history of television is this dud of a sitcom that I predict will be out the door by Christmas. Whitney Cummings is a really funny comic when she's allowed to be raunchy and edgy. Here, she's just abrasive and unpleasant, and someone needs to tell her that the definition of "acting" is NOT "talking, but louder." Cummings is also the writer and creator of "2 Broke Girls" on CBS, and she shoulda stuck with that.

Person of Interest (CBS) - Ah, yes. The show where creepy Ben Linus from "Lost" hooks up with Jesus Christ (or at least the guy who played Him in that Mel Gibson snuff film) to stop crimes before they're committed, all thanks to some secret government computer that watches our every move. Everything's so tense that it's silly, but I love Michael Emerson, so I'm sticking with this one for a while.

Prime Suspect (NBC) - I'm told this is based on a fantastic BBC series that starred Helen Mirren -- but as far as I can tell, it's a standard crime drama with Maria Bello as a hardened detective trapped in a world where all men suck. Her entire life is a boy's club that she's not invited into, ergo she spends the entire episode railing against her abusive co-workers, who all appear to hate her for no other reason than she wears a bra. By the end of the episode, I felt like pondscum just because I can pee standing up. Oddly, though, based on the gore and violence, the show appeals to be designed for men. Conundrum.

FRIDAY:

Fringe (FOX) - And I'll end my Week o' Sloth by telling you that the greatest show on television continues to be a little-known sci-fi epic that airs on the one night hardly anyone watches TV. Fringe is a world of parallel universes, complex characters, mind-bending plots, and a third season cliffhanger that might take this entire year to work out. You REALLY need to start watching. There's just one problem: By now, the storyline has gotten so deep that any new watchers will be hopelessly confused. So hurry out to the video store, rent the first three seasons, have an epic marathon, and then join along in the fun.

COLUMN: Escape From Rock Island

2011-11-09T17:10:00.002-06:00

I've now been a Rock Island homeowner for just over a year, and on the whole, I don't regret a thing.

I know Rock Island occasionally suffers from a bad rep, but you don't hear me complaining. We've got a wicked arts and entertainment district, great local businesses to support, and hands down the best winter roads crew in the Quad Cities. I've got a house I adore, neighbors that I like, and a commute to work that's still under 15 minutes. All things considered, it's a great place to live.

Except, of course, for all the damn zombies.

As a humble and devoted employee of the newspaper industry, I know that there are 3 primary issues in life that cause us all untold sleepless nights of anxiety and concern: (1) John Marx's irrational hatred of the Cubs, (2) finding out exactly what they're putting into the water at Cordova city council meetings, and (3) the constant and ever-present threat of one day being overtaken by hordes of the undead roaming the city streets at night in search of delicious brains.

One of these things I may now have an answer to.

As a pop culture junkie, I like to stay ahead of the game by keeping tabs on all upcoming releases for music, movies, TV, etc. And in scanning one of those lists, I stumbled upon the oddest thing. A new video game is coming this fall for your Android cell phone. It's a zombie game of strategy, survival, and what I can only hope to be blissful amounts of video game gore. Zombie games are a dime a dozen these days, but one thing makes this game stand out from all the others: the name.

The game is "ESCAPE FROM ROCK ISLAND."

It's the brainchild and debut release from aspiring developer Mark Dudek and his start-up company, Number Eleven Road Software. It didn't take long before I was able to track down Dudek for an interview.

"'Escape From Rock Island' is an attempt to bring a serious zombie game to the Android platform," he explains. "There are plenty of casual zombie games out there, but I wanted to create something a little deeper that would involve strategy, creative thinking, and decision making."

Dudek, who hails from Pennsylvania, made EFRI all on his own. So why the title? What's it got to do with us?

"Rock Island just kind of popped out of my head," he says. "It's familiar, it rolls off the tongue, and it had the right feel. As a fan of country blues music, maybe I was subconsciously referencing 'Rock Island Line' by Leadbelly."

Dudek has never stepped foot in the Quad Cities, let alone Rock Island -- but his wife has. She works as an executive producer for the TV show "Snapped" airing on the Oxygen Network, and they were in town a while back shooting an episode.

"It's entirely possible that her work on that episode influenced me on some level, but it wasn't intentional," Dudek insists. "I didn't have a specific Rock Island in mind."

Or so he'd have us believe.

Being the intrepid investigative reporter that I am, I visited the website of Dudek's company (www.numberelevenroad.com) only to find NO references there to Dudek himself -- only a mysterious figure nicknamed The Proprietor. Everywhere I looked, it seemed as if this Proprietor fellow knew a little TOO much about zombies. My guard was raised, my senses tingled. Knowing I had to get to the bottom of this, I pressured Dudek until he granted me access. What follows is the world's first known interview with The Proprietor.

Me: At last we meet, Mr. The Proprietor! Every good zombie story needs an intrepid reporter to break the scandal wide and perhaps earn a Pulitzer. I am that guy. Tell me, how did you really find out about our zombie problem? The government seems to have gone to great lengths to keep it hidden from the press, the public, and well, pretty much everyone.

The Proprietor: Believe it or not, there was one single post about the Rock Island zombie outbreak on Google Plus. When the government locked down all communication to and from Rock Island, I guess they forgot about Google Plus… just like everyone else on the planet. And yes, I did +1 that post.

Me: What started our zombie plague? I always thought those buildings on the Arsenal smelled funny…

The Proprietor: Our sources are currently investigating the cause of the zombie outbreak in Rock Island and will present their findings shortly. To me. Not to you. In the meantime, I advise all residents of Rock Island to stay in their homes and do NOT, under any circumstances, approach the Arsenal. We're also asking that all residents kindly refrain from all that screaming -- it's driving our sources crazy. That's all I can say.

Me: With the District in the center of town, it might be difficult at 3 a.m. to properly discern the difference between a brainless zombie and an over-zealous patron of Rock Island nightlife. How can we tell the difference?

The Proprietor: Excellent question. I refer you to official government publication BR-549, "Zombies vs. Drunks." Here's a short excerpt:

Wants to eat your brain: Zombie

Wants to eat Taco Bell: Drunk

Stumbles over visible object: Zombie

Stumbles over invisible object: Drunk

Chews on cell phone: Zombie

Loses cell phone: Drunk

Is drinking a St. Pauli Girl: Drunk

Is eating a St. Pauli Girl: Zombie

Screams "BLAAAARRRRGGH!" in the street at 3 a.m.: Toss-up.

Me: When I'm playing Escape From Rock Island, will I be able to identify particular zombies as being, say, an irritating ex-girlfriend or sadistic former employer who might just need some "extra" killing?

The Proprietor: It depends on how freshly dead the person is when you run into them. The game starts roughly 3 weeks into Rock Island's zombie outbreak. That's plenty of time for the "early adopters" to get nice and ripe, so they're going to look pretty much the same -- like week-old hamburger left out in the sun. However, should your ex-girlfriend have gotten infected the day before? Well, yeah, you'll recognize her as she's trying to bite off your middle finger, so do what you gotta do.

Me: You say that your (cough) -- I mean, Mr. Dudek's -- wife was in town recently shooting a TV show?

The Proprietor: Yes. In fact, your newspaper was even featured in the episode. I believe her contact there was a Jerry Taylor…

Me: Yes, that's our publisher and highly revered boss-type guy. Can we somehow ensure that he's saved from the forthcoming zombie plague? And if not, as a follow-up question and to the best of your knowledge, can zombies still sign paychecks?

The Proprietor: Sadly, no-one's safety can be guaranteed during a zombie outbreak, not even newspaper publishers who know my wife. On the plus side for your, it's pretty easy to forge a zombie's name -- he's not going to know the difference. He's only concerned with eating your brains; it's doubtful he's care that you forged his name on your paycheck. Heck, while you're at it, give yourself a big bonus. I would.

Me: If we somehow manage to, as the game challenges, escape from Rock Island, will we ever be able to return? Or will our ragtag team of survivors be forced to pick up and start life anew in Iowa? And in your estimation, is that a better fate than getting our brains eaten?

The Proprietor: IF you escape Rock Island, assuming there's somewhere to escape to, and IF society hasn't utterly collapsed and the zombie outbreak is contained, then yes, at some point the survivors can try to reclaim Rock Island. But those are some pretty big if's. You guys won't be hosting any dinner parties for a while. However, I really hope you do manage to escape and come back, because "Return to Rock Island" will make a really good sequel -- much better than "Escape to Iowa: Farm or Die."

Me: I'm pretty sure everything I need to know about dealing with the recently deceased can be found in the classic movie "Weekend at Bernie's." How does Escape From Rock Island differ?

The Proprietor: Escape From Rock Island is a stark, intense survival experience about fighting off zombies, managing meager resources, suffering loss, and making tough and cruel life and death decisions, all in the face of what seems to be a hopeless situation. It's still funnier than "Weekend at Bernie's."

Dear Mr. Pulitzer, you can send my prize - provided I don't get my face chewed off - to the usual address.

Escape from Rock Island will be available to download to your 1.5 or higher Android phone sometime between now and Halloween. Find out more at numberelevenroad.com. Happy escaping!

COLUMN: Grey

2011-10-10T17:02:00.001-05:00

I'm not the kind of person who's easily predisposed to violence.

Heck, I'm not EVER predisposed to violence. In fact, should the situation present itself, I wouldn't have the slightest clue what to "do" in a violent manner. This probably isn't the brightest thing to admit in a widely-distributed local newspaper column, but I'm not too worried about it. Unless you're a really big fan of Carmex and/or charmingly ironic New Kids on the Block keychains, there are FAR better targets for mugging out there, trust me. Besides, I might not be able to HURT you, but I can definitely scream loud and long like a wee schoolgirl.

I've seen neutered and declawed housecats with better hand-to-hand combat skills than myself. I am a pacifist, a non-arguer, a non-confrontational weenie who believes in the inherent goodness of human nature and tries his hardest to be as nice as possible to anyone and everyone. That said, an interesting thing happened to me the other morning.

I woke up in a BAD mood. A seethingly bad mood. The kind of bad mood where my only hope was to make it through the work day talking to as absolute few people as I possibly could. It had been a LOUSY weekend. The kind of weekend that has no place being discussed in a column like this because it'd just bring everybody down. And now it was Monday, and here I was, getting to work in the nick of time and just hoping to slide into my desk and nurse my coffee as unnoticed as possible.

I got onto the elevator with one of my favorite co-workers -- but on THAT morning, I didn't have favorites. I just had an aching desire to avoid eye contact and most forms of interpersonal communication altogether. I even went for the tried-and-true method of human avoidance: I took out my cell phone and pretended as though the most important text message of my life had just arrived. But all the while, my brain was just thinking three words over and over again like a mantra: Leave. Me. Alone.

No such luck.

I've worked with this co-worker for over 15 years, and I love her to tears, I really do. It wasn't her fault. She didn't know I was a posterboy for Snuffleupagus Anonymous that morning. But she DID think it was a great time to say the following:

"Wow, you sure are getting a lot of grey hairs."

Like I said, I'm not a violent person. Violence isn't even a concept in my brain. Yet at that moment, I kinda wanted to put my fist through something. Not my co-worker, mind you -- but something that would make a statement, like maybe the elevator door. In my mind, I would slam my fist into it and it would cave in like in the Hulk movies. Then I'd cut loose with a primal scream and perhaps turn all green and muscle-y.

Of course, in reality, I just stood there, put on a fake grin, and made some kind of gutteral "heh heh" that would hopefully pass for a socially acceptable response. Had I actually HIT the elevator door -- should I actually even KNOW how to "hit" something, which I absolutely don't -- the elevator door wouldn't cave in. It wouldn't even bruise. My HAND, on the other hand, would have shattered like dainty porcelain. Why? Because I'm a wuss -- and now I'm apparantly an OLD wuss at that.

Grey hair is just NOT cool in my world. I don't wanna be the old guy. I'm just not ready for it yet. It's no secret that most of my life's passions are clearly being designed for a demographic I'm no longer part of. DJ booths, indie music, video games... these are clubs that I'm no longer supposed to be a member of. At some point, I'm supposed to start thinking that video games are too violent, too fast, and too silly for someone my age. My musical tastes, meanwhile, are supposed to stop at some arbitrary year along the road of life so that I'll flock to an oldies station. Thus far, that's not happened.

I can't get around the fact that I'm 40 years old. But at least I don't think I look the part quite yet. And I know that sounds vain, which is really weird, because vanity isn't something I'm usually concerned with. I'm an out-of-shape uncoordinated oaf -- and I'm pretty much cool with that. Call me fat all you want, so long as you don't call me OLD and fat.

Why the huge concern with age? Your guess is good as mine. I've had a lot of women tell me that grey hair adds character and makes you look distinguished. But there's no "distinguished" when you're sitting around in a baggy t-shirt, eating frozen pizza, and playing Call of Duty. "Distinguished" folks go to supper clubs and discuss politics. Well, my friend and I tried that action the other night and it's just not for us. The place looked like a funeral home, the food was nearly tasteless, and any awkward conversation we attempted was drowned out by the multitude of oxygen machines attached to other patrons.

I will NOT go gracefully into that good night. Frankly, it's unfair biology that hairlines turn grey and recede from the head while new crops rise to life in your nostrils and ears. I caught myself in the mirror the other day, and the hairs that were sprouting out from my nose looked like a bad Star Trek special effect. That's why I spent a few minutes in the bathroom, diligently plucking out nose hairs (yes, I know, NOT recommended,) which of course made my nose plug up so I walked around all morning like I had a cold...

Which was PART of my bad weekend. The rest of it was when I was DJing at a downtown nightclub later that night and a customer came up and wanted to hear "something from the 80's." When I asked what song, she replied, "Your choice. Just something retro that we'd enjoy. You know what to play -- you're no spring chicken yourself."

I know, I know -- I should just suck it up and count my blessings. I made it to 40, which is more than some people even get. And while I may have "a lot" of grey hairs, grey hair is better than NO hair, and besides, they've yet to take over completely. When they do, hopefully I'll handle it with grace and dignity and a bare minimal amount of hands shattered against elevator doors. If I wanna play video games and DJ hip-hop when I'm 70, who really cares? In the meantime, I promise to shoot for sunnier Mondays and fighting the good fight against age. And if all else fails, like it did the other morning, I can go to my desk, take out a pencil, and break it in half in an act of random and senseless violence. Sure, it may have taken a couple tries, but it felt gooood.

COLUMN: Baby Fever

2011-10-10T17:00:00.001-05:00

I'm really worried, people.

I first noticed it in her eyes the other day. I didn't want to say anything because I was too afraid of the truth. I couldn't admit it to myself, but I knew something was wrong. My girlfriend just wasn't acting herself. Little did I know that it was the beginnings of a medical crisis that could change our lives forever.

I was right. It turns out that my girlfriend has an acute case of... baby fever. This is NOT a good thing.

I suppose she's had it for a long time. For as long as I've known her, she's loved kids. I mean, she's a first-grade teacher, so she'd BETTER love kids. (Though, come to think of it, I'm pretty sure that MY first grade teacher HATED children. True story: instead of a time-out corner, if you acted up in HER class, you had to sit under a dark cardboard refrigerator box that smelled of pee. I was never a fan.)

Ever since we've been together, I've seen my girlfriend go ga-ga for babies and wee kids that she spots in restaurants. She'll sit there and make faces at them and laugh and coo and I'm fine with all this because it gives me more time to peruse the appetizer menu. As for the babies? Well, sure, I guess they're cute and all... but the minute I take a gander is the time when they'll decide to spit up or put their finger up their nose or pick up something off the ground and eat it.

I guess I don't understand why both science and religion inform us that human beings are the smartest and most superior race on the planet, yet our offspring need to endure years of training to understand that food goes in the mouth-hole and pee-pee goes in the potty. My girlfriend, on many an occasion, has made claim that my two cats are, for lack of a better word, stupid. And as much I love my cats, she's pretty much correct in her assessment. Yet even in their dumbest moments as wee kittens, my cats knew to hike on down to the litterbox if they were plotting a doodie. The only thing human babies know how to do is occasionally look cute whilst emitting disturbing amounts of disturbing things from pretty much every hole in their bodies. I don't get it.

I just sort of assumed that we'd be together for a few years, work our way into engagement and marriage, and maybe by then I'd be prepped to handle a gooey, phlegmy, urine-soaked progeny or two. But then the unthinkable happened:

One of her best friends got pregnant.

This has been a learning experience for me. Primarily, I've learned that baby-crazed females require a wide berth, a lot of patience, and the ability to develop a repertoire of sincere responses like "mm hmm" to be used often and repeatedly. But this has already gotten me into trouble -- I zigged when I shoulda zagged. I weebled when I shoulda wobbled. I "mm-hmm"-ed when Amy asked if she could throw her friend a baby shower in my basement.

A basement might not sound like the warmest, most relaxing environment for a gaggle of girls, but we're talking about MY basement. For the past year, I (and as always, "I" means my dad, who spends most of his time in indentured servitude to me) have been working tirelessly to turn my basement into a multi-media respite, a testosterone-fueled nerd paradise... the man-cave of all man-caves. It's nearly done. All I need are a few more speakers, some ethernet cable, and a couch just WAITING for a permanent indentation in the shape of my butt.

But how does my man-cave get inaugurated? By looking like the place where Strawberry Shortcake and Rainbow Brite go to purge their sugar and spice and everything nice. I walked downstairs on the eve of the party to find... lollipops. Pastel hues of pink and blue. Little ornamental cakes with little ornamental frosting. Balloons. Flowers. CUTENESS everywhere. Shudder.

I was told not to worry. While the girl gaggle was downstairs doing whatever girls do at baby showers, I was promised an afternoon upstairs of relaxation without interruption. But do you think this came to be? Nope. Not when a couple of the invitees surprised us by bringing THEIR children... which resulted in me being becoming the de facto babysitter of the gala. Little did I know I'd spend the next two hours saying phrases like, "Err, no no. We don't take the game controller and throw it at your brother, little dude." I barely survived with my sanity, and it took days before my man-cave was back to its drab neutral earth tones that bring me solace. A pile of deflating balloons in its corner still serves as a reminder of its once-hellish past.

So now it's a waiting game until my girlfriend's friend pops out her screaming, crying, adorable little phlegm factory. And she wants Amy in the delivery room when it happens. I'm praying the sight is so gross that it creeps her out a little, but I'm going to guess that it'll be a magical experience that'll take baby fever to an altogether new level. I'm just hoping that it doesn't happen on a Sunday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday night -- because those are the nights Amy babysits for extra cash, and guess who gets to be the on-call babysitter du jour? My man-cave's destined to be a nursery before I know it.

In the meantime, the girls are a-twitter running around buying last minute baby essentials. Today at lunch, I found out she bought a car seat and a book for the as-yet-to-technically-exist human-ling. I want to be supportive, I really do. I thought long and hard about what I could bring to the conversation. I chose this:

"A book? It won't be able to read for at least four years, right? And a car seat? Already? Don't you want to wait and make sure it doesn't come out with, like, 8 legs or something? That'll be a waste of money if she has an octo-baby, I'm just sayin'."

For future reference, this is NOT the right thing to say.

Don't worry, I'm sure her friend's baby will come out with the correct number of everything and be all super-cute and make everyone gush and goo and talk in REALLY silly baby voices and cause my girlfriend to go from baby fever to baby pneumonia and then it'll be my time to put up or shut up, I guess. For now, I'm okay watching others live the baby experience. Like last weekend, when we were at this party, and there was this little guy there who clearly had just learned to walk, and he was waddling around, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses, and came up to us with the dopiest little smile on his face and he was just the cutest little k...

AAGH! BABY FEVER IS CONTAGIOUS! NOOO! RUN AWAY!!!!!!!!

COLUMN: WM3

2011-10-10T16:57:00.002-05:00

I'm somewhat of an expert when it comes to the criminal justice system. I don't mean to brag, but I've seen at least 200 episodes of "Law and Order." When it comes to murder, I know how things go down:

A body is found. The victim -- a pillar of the community whose tragic death shocks the neighborhood -- is loved by everyone. Then the police investigate and discover that the victim is a philandering drug abuser with secret lives, shady business dealings, multiple spouses, a fixation on the underground world of dog fighting, and/or one, if not many, shockingly deviant fetishes. Suspicion will immediately fall on the most likely suspect, who, after a short commercial break, will always be completely exonerated of the crime. The REAL murderer is always the least likely suspect and/or best actor on the show. From there, it's up to Jack McCoy to put the criminal away while teaching us valuable lessons about morality and ethics by ending every episode with an overstated but unsaid: "we win... but at what cost?"

Reality never works that way.

The same fiery addiction for bad TV like "Law and Order" is what led me one channel-flipping Sunday to an HBO documentary called "Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills." This documentary would grab me so hard that researching this case would become one of my favorite pastimes. After two decades of confusion, condemnation and frustration, the case "closed" last week in the same unjust manner in which it began -- but that's what you come to expect when you're a supporter of the West Memphis Three.

On the afternoon of May 6, 1993, a search team discovered the bodies of three 8-year-old boys in a muddy wooded creekbed in the Robin Hood Hills neighborhood of West Memphis, Arkansas. It was a tragic and horrible crime that shocked the sleepy community, and local police were eager to make an arrest.

Suspects were plentiful. Two local teenagers with a history of drug arrests suspiciously packed up town and left four days after the bodies were found. When the two were given polygraphs, both indicated deception when they denied involvement in the crime. Reports also came in from a nearby restaurant that a man had shown up covered in mud and blood and locked himself into the ladies restroom for over 45 minutes.

Instead, though, the police focused their suspicion on a local boy -- 18-year-old Damien Echols. Based on the murder scene, investigators theorized that the boys had been killed as part of a Satanic or cult ritual, and if there was one person in West Memphis who had cultivated a reputation for the occult, it was Echols.

I don't pretend to know anything about the occult, but I do know a thing or two about rebellious teenagers. When I was in high school, a teen dance club opened downtown. As one of the regular DJs at that club, I had a front row seat to the year punk rock hit Galesburg. It started with a group of kids from Peoria who drove out to the club. Within days, the craze had hit our school.

Seemingly mild-mannered teens suddenly dressed in torn clothes, safety pins, and mohawk hairdos. It was adolescent rebellion at its finest, and our newfound punks wore it with pride. One of them was my friend Brian, who decided one day that the easiest road from nerd to cool was a can of green hair dye and a Dead Kennedys t-shirt. I'll never forget the day we were at his house and spotted his mom not-so-discretely reading a self-help book, "Help! My Son Is A Punk Rocker!"

Soon, rumors swirled all over school. So-and-so is a devil worshipper. So-and-so sacrifices chickens. All I know is that it would have made an excellent Sociology 101 paper. As a fringe member of this newfound scene, I knew the truth. This was just another way for kids to tick off their parents and assert their individuality. Another of my friends announced she was Wiccan and bought a handful of spell books and candles. Today she's probably a rep for Partylite. She called herself a witch back then, but last I heard, she's living in Chicago with a husband and a doctorate.

That same teenage rebellion grabbed Damien Echols. He had long hair, dressed in all black, read horror novels, told people he was a pagan, and listened to heavy metal music. And that, apparantly, was enough for police to focus their suspicions. Within days, Echols and everyone in his circle were brought in for questioning.

Eventually, the police questioned a neighbor, Jessie Misskelley. Echols claimed they'd never met, but after being interrogated for 18 hours straight, Misskelley CONFESSED. He told police that he, Echols, and Daniel Baldwin had stalked, tortured, and killed the three boys in the woods. Arrest warrants were soon issued.

The trials were quick. Prosecutors used Misskelley's confession along with testimony of classmates who claimed Echols had bragged about the crime. A knife was found behind Baldwin's house that could have been used in the killings. Misskelley and Baldwin were sentenced to life in prison. Echols? Death row.

But things started not to fit. Witnesses recanted their statements and blamed police intimidation. Forensic experts proved that the supposed knife marks on the victims could have been bites from animals. Absolutely no DNA evidence from the crime scene implicated any of the three alleged murderers. As for Misskelley's confession? It turns out that he got hardly any of the facts right, and his IQ of 72 (borderline mentally challenged) made him a easy candidate for police coercion.

After the HBO documentaries aired, the public began to rally. Celebrities like Johnny Depp, Eddie Vedder, and "Lord of the Rings" director Peter Jackson became involved. "Free the WM3" became a rallying cry and popular t-shirt slogan. I should know - there's one hanging in my closet.

Finally, Echols' defense won the right to a hearing on the lack of DNA evidence. That hearing was to occur this coming December. Knowing that the tides might be about to turn, prosecutors made a surprise offer. On August 19th, after 18 years behind bars, the West Memphis Three walked out as free men. The condition? They had to take what's called an Alford plea: no contest to murder charges, conceding that prosecutors had enough evidence to convict while reserving the right to maintain their innocence.

The good news is that the West Memphis Three are free, something I never thought I'd see. The BAD news is that they essentially had to plead guilty to achieve it, thus ending the police investigation of the case and finding out what really happened to the boys.

It's a bittersweet ending to a bittersweet case. Do I think the WM3 murdered those boys? Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. What I've rallied against for years, though, is the way those kids were railroaded into guilty verdicts on little more than bad reputations and Satanic panic. Hopefully one day the truth will come out and real justice will be had for three little boys and three grown men. For now, I'll take the Jack McCoy ending: We won, but at what cost?

COLUMN: Labels

2011-10-07T17:26:00.001-05:00

I like to wear a lot of hats in life -- newspaper columnist, telesales representative, disc jockey, boyfriend, son, homeowner. But despite my many interests, there's ONE pigeonhole that you can ALWAYS find me in, regardless of what particular hat I'm wearing that day:

I am a music nerd.

I blame my parents. Apparantly my mom used to take headphones, put them around her pregnant belly, and pump up the jams so that I could have a fierce little rave in utero. My folks had an 8-track player in their bedroom, and I can still picture my dad cranking Santana into floor-shaking terrain. My mom, on the other hand? Well, let's just say my ultimate point of mortification was when it hit 3:00 and I hadn't even made it out the doors when I, and the rest of my junior high, could hear my mom belting along to Barbara Streisand on the car radio.

From their love of music came my own. I was just a little kid when I got my own console stereo, and it rapidly became an only child's best friend. I was the only kid in middle school with a subscription to Rolling Stone.

But quite often, Rolling Stone would heap praise on bands that I'd never heard of, bands that weren't on the radio dial. And when my mom let me join the Columbia House tape club and I could choose 20 tapes for a penny, I devoted that entire penny to bands I'd read about in Rolling Stone but had never heard: R.E.M., The Cure, The Smiths, Echo & the Bunnymen, XTC, New Order, and so on. That box of tapes changed my life.

In high school, there were only two paths to follow: (a) Become a devotee of the mainstream and pick up a quick fondness for hair metal bands, or (b) embrace the counter-culture and listen to indie music. Sure, you'd be ostracized by the Bon Jovi crowd and get derogatively called a "corn chip" for reasons none of us have ever understood -- but you could live with being a corn chip because you knew you were secretly in a gang too cool for the cool kids.

Bands like Poison wrote lyrics like "don't need nothin' but a good time." Instead, I worshipped at the altar of The Smiths' frontman Morrissey, famous for refrains like, "There's a club if you'd like to go/You could meet somebody who really loves you/So you go and you stand on your own/And you leave on your own/And you go home and you cry and you want to die." Overly dramatic? You betcha. But when you're an ostracized teen in the throes of puberty, Morrissey was the only guy you wanted to turn to. Morrissey understood. Morrissey KNEW.

Some twenty-five years later, I'm not quite as depressed -- but my love for indie music has never waned. The music business is in serious jeopardy these days. With the decline of CDs and the advent of swapping mp3 files willy-nilly all over the internet, it's tough for a record label to stay in business. In order to best compete and stay viable in the market, the major labels have trimmed their rosters down to the core and put all their money on those artists most homogenized to reach the widest audience possible (see: Ke$ha.)

Meanwhile, struggling acts who don't have MTV looks or banal bubblegum choruses are ignored by the big labels. Their only hope is to get picked up by a fledgling independent label -- the little guys with no capital, no massive marketing departments, and no sales in Wal-Mart. Without indie labels, the world would have never known Kurt Cobain. Oasis might have ended up a bar band. Arcade Fire wouldn't have cleaned up at this year's Grammies.

With all apologies to the ghosts of Mr's. Holly, Valens, & Bopper, last Monday was the day that the music REALLY died.

You've heard about the riots in London, right? Well, what barely made news is that one of the buildings that got torched by rioters was a non-descript warehouse in the Enfield region. But this warehouse just happened to be owned by Sony and operated by Play It Again Sam, the #1 global distributor for indie record labels. MILLIONS of records and CDs were lost in the blaze, including the entire inventories of some of the world's most important indie labels.

I know what you're thinking: The stuff's insured, right? The answer to that is thankfully yes, but it could take MONTHS for replacement stock to arrive. Most indie labels operate on a shoestring, month-to-month basis, and cutting off all sales while they wait for restock could spell the end for some of the most cherished, ground-breaking, and under-appreciated record labels in the world. Among the labels hit by the fire:

- Rough Trade Records, the original home of the Smiths and one of the most seminal labels in the world. Home to The Strokes, The Libertines, Belle & Sebastian, and others. If you see a Rough Trade stamp on a CD, you know it's a great record.

- 4AD Records, the boundary-pushing, storied label that was home to the ethereal dreampop sounds of The Cocteau Twins, Dead Can Dance, The Pixies, and scores of other acts.

- One Little Indian, the label that found an unknown Icelandic band called The Sugarcubes and ended up making their frontwoman (Bjork) a global superstar. Paul McCartney recently left his life-long home of EMI Records and signed exclusive distribution rights of his back and future catalog to One Little Indian.

- Mute Records, worldwide home of Depeche Mode and Erasure.

- Domino Records, one of the hottest indie labels on the planet right now. Home of Franz Ferdinand, Arctic Monkeys, Animal Collective, etc. The brand new Arctic Monkeys single was due out this week - thanks to the fire, it'll never see the light of day.

- WARP Records, perhaps the most innovative dance music record label in history.

That's just a handful of the labels that have been all but wiped out by the fire. Without the continuation of these small companies (most so small they're run out of bedrooms, basements, and garages,) some of the greatest musical artists out there will remain undiscovered, unheard, and unappreciated.

I've never used this space before to hustle moolah, but this cause is well worth it. The Association for Independent Music has set up an emergency fund to support the labels, and they're urging consumers to hop online and make some digital music download purchases that will help these struggling companies survive until their physical inventory returns. You can go to www.musicindie.com to read about all the labels affected, learn what purchases you can make to help save the indie music industry, or just make a monetary donation that'll go straight to the labels.

Be a music nerd, lend a hand, and help teach those kids in London that the BEST way to rebel isn't with a riot. There's only one time-honored, tried and true way to rebel: Go out and buy a record that you just KNOW your parents will hate. Take it home, crank the volume to 11, and rock out.

COLUMN: Barbie

2011-10-07T17:24:00.002-05:00

This may come as a horrible, horrible shock to many of you, but I was kind of a weird kid.

Like every aspiring nerd, I used to be crazy for comic books and constantly begged my folks to take me to Dave's Book World in Galesburg for the newest issues. But it wasn't Batman or Superman or The X-Men that I was after. No, when I was a kid, there was only ONE comic book hero for me:

RICHIE RICH.

My hero didn't need a silly bat suit or a bite from a radioactive spider to fight crime. No, Richie Rich fought crime with little more than keen intuition, unending amounts of cold hard cash, and an alarming sense of entitlement. Richie spent most of every issue making horrible puns about his sickening level of wealth (example: Having saved the day, Richie and his friends are riding in a convertible in a ticker tape parade while crowds of people throw spare change at his head. Caption: "Put your hard hats on, everybody! They're throwing COIN-fetti!" Cue crazy laughter from 8-year-old me.)

The moral is: You always win if you're a nice guy... but having a butler, a robot maid, and a diamond plated dollar-sign shaped swimming pool doesn't hurt, either. Richie Rich was pretty much THE worst fiscal responsibility teacher on the planet, and might be the very reason why I live near the poverty line due to spending every dollar I earn on ridiculous gadgets and toys. I hoped that with the decline of Richie Rich comics, perhaps today's youth might have a better understanding of the value of a dollar. I was wrong.

As you may know, my girlfriend frequently babysits a pair of precocious siblings, ages 6 & 8. I like to refer to them as my "practice children" -- around juuust enough to give me a taste of what fatherhood would be like, yet thankfully they return to their nana every day before I've had a chance to accidentally inflict any permanent emotional scarring.

The other day, we took the girls to Incredible Pizza. The next night, they wanted to go BACK.

"I wish I had the money to take you guys there every day," I said.
"Well, go get some!" replied the 8-year-old.
"How do you propose I do that?" I asked back.
"Go to the money machine at the gas station and tell it that you need money!" she said.
"How does that work? Will the money machine just give me money anytime I want it?"
"Yep," she affirmed. "Just go, 'Hey, money machine! Give me money please!'"

There's no learning the value of a dollar when you believe that ATM's are magic money machines that disperse unending amounts of dough to anyone and everyone in need. So if Richie Rich isn't to blame for this generation's lack of fiscal appreciation, who is? I'm pretty sure I know.

I'm lookin' at you, Barbie.

I always thought she was a nice girl. I mean, sure, she's taken some heat over the years for her impossibly hourglass figure and her perpetuation of female stereotypes, but personally, I always thought Barbie was a pretty hip chick. And I suppose Ken's a tad bit Aryan and has a slightly alarming "buddy" named Allan (Google it,) but all in all, Barbie seems to have her act together. After all, she must do SOMETHING productive with her life to afford the mortgage on that Dream House, right?

Then I checked her phone. Specifically, the toy Barbie phone that the 6-year-old brought over the other night. Aww, cute, I thought at the time. A little play cell phone that looks like an iPhone, and when you press the buttons, Barbie talks to you. Super cute, right? Until I started to pay attention to what Barbie actually had to say. These are actual lines that Barbie says to your child:

"We're going to have a blast together!"

Well, okay, Barbie. I'm down for hangin' out, as long as we keep it on the cheap. I've got a house payment due this week.

"Let's go shopping together!"

Uh-oh.

"Do you want pizza for lunch?"

Well, okay, I suppose I can buy you some pizza.

"Want to get some ice cream?"

Jeez, Barbie, aren't you a little full of pizza? I mean, you've got to watch your figure, right?

"Let's stop for a snack!"

Barbie, you might have what's called a binging disorder. I'm starting to get a little worried.

"Let's go shoe shopping!"

Umm, I just spent my last $30 on pizza and ice cream, lady.

"I know a great boutique!"

Boutiques are PRICEY, Barbs. Can't we just go to Wal...

"Let's pack for a picnic at the beach!"

We live in Illinois, Barbarella. The nearest beach is, what, the Indiana Sand Dunes? That's about $100 in gas round trip + food + expenses...

"Hotel reservations - how can I help you?"

HOTEL?! You can help me get away from this spending succubus is what you can do...

"Let's find a tour bus!"

WHO are you dating? The guy from the Monopoly board? No wonder Ken left you for Allan...

"I'm all ready for our flight!"

Barbie is the devil.

"Don't you want to upgrade to first class?"

AAAAAAAGH! RUN AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

For the rest of the night, the 6-year-old waltzed around telling Amy & I that she needed to upgrade to first class, despite not having any clue what it meant. I should have told her that it meant eating her vegetables and opening a savings account.

Maybe I wasn't as weird a kid as I thought. Compared to ol' Barbs here, Richie Rich is a fiscal planner. He was just guilty of HOARDING money, not SPENDING it. I don't want to live in a world where I could surprise my daughter with a trip to Disneyworld and have her pout because I had the gall to fly her there in coach.

Thanks a lot, Barbie.

COLUMN: Bunker

2011-10-07T17:22:00.002-05:00

Nothing on Earth heals my soul quite like a drive in the country. The rural midwest countryside is my confidant, my therapist, and my rock of stability. Sure, I love bright lights and big cities and nightclubs and theatre and hustling and bustling, but nothing beats an open road, a full tank of gas, and the complete and total lack of an agenda.

In college, I met my best friend Jason, and together, we have trekked thousands of countless and needless miles driving for the sake of driving. The trouble is, in this day and age, aimless driving is about as politically incorrect a hobby as one can possibly have.

For one, it's dreadful on the environment. I know for a fact that every dirt, gravel, and paved road within a 100-mile radius of the Quad Cities has seen my carbon footprint at one time or another. This week, we honored hordes of people riding their bicycles across Iowa, and I celebrated this eco-tastic feat by wasting an entire tank of gas driving in circles throughout rural north-central Illinois. Not good.

ESPECIALLY not good given the current price of gas. Once upon a time, five bucks could score you multiple hours of aimless driving fun. These days, it requires forethought, checkbook balancing, and budgeting a good percentage of my weekly paycheck. In this economy, it's a crazy pastime to have -- especially considering the average temp this summer has been about two degrees away from the boiling point of human blood. I've already worked my way through one a/c compressor in my car this year, and its newly-installed replacement is already getting a doozy of a workout.

But the worst part about aimless driving? We've done it too much. Half the fun of cruising around without an agenda is not knowing what's around the next bend. A crazy water tower? Historical marker? One of Ronald Reagan's seemingly endless supply of boyhood homes? But when you've been sputtering around rural Illinois for 20 years like we have, you start to memorize the bends and nothing's a surprise anymore. In order to get good and properly lost these days, I've got to drive at least 100 miles away from town, and that's quite a commitment. Put me in a car for more than two hours and muscles start seizing up, backs start going out, and the whole affair just becomes a big exercise in contemporary pain management.

Ergo, we've been spending time lately trying to RE-visit weird places we vaguely recall from drives of yore. For instance, there was one night in college that a carload of us took a study break and hit the open road. We were somewhere on the outskirts of Orion when we stumbled upon a REALLY weird building. All I remember were floodlights, barbed wire, and a clear sense of foreboding evil. The building didn't have a sign, but it didn't need one. I'd seen enough episodes of The X-Files in my day and this was CLEARLY where the government kept the bodies of crash-landed aliens. Re-finding that building was a top priority in my book. When we did, it was a bit of a letdown. In crisp summer daylight, it was a lot less evil and a lot more boring industrial complex of some variety or another. I still don't know what the heck's in that building, but it ain't Marvin the Martian. Boo.

But last weekend, we set out on an aimFUL drive to re-find quite possibly The Weirdest Thing We've Ever Seen In Illinois. It had been a rather boring afternoon of sleepy farm towns and cornfields a decade ago when we first laid eyes on it. Out of the rural blue, for about a square mile, all signs of human life dropped off the landscape, to be replaced with the ruins of bunkers, like some kind of weird abandoned Illinois militia base or something. The buildings were identical and resembled the domed habitat of Luke Skywalker on Tattooine at the beginning of Star Wars (wow, I'm a nerd.) All looked abandoned and overgrown with trees and weeds. All looked creepy as all get out. If the Blair Witch had a summer home, it was this place. We didn't get out of the car because it looked like private property and entirely uninviting and entirely unsafe, but to discover this place in the middle of rural Illinois was entirely cool.

Just one problem -- we have NO idea where we were that day, other than "the country." It was Illinois, it was east of the Quad Cities and west of Chicago, and I THINK north of Peoria. Beyond that, it could be anywhere. Still, we thought we'd give it a shot. All day long, we zig-zagged and criss-crossed around every country road in central Illinois until my iPod battery was shot and my back was crying out in pain... no luck. The place has simply vanished. Many theories abound:

* Like Season 8 of "Dallas," it was all a dream. But I couldn't dream up a place this creepy. It exists -- somewhere.

* THIS was where the government kept the alien bodies, but now we know, and now They know we know, so They moved it. My guess is to Alabama, where creepy militia bunkers are a way of life.

* It, like the rest of anything remotely interesting about central Illinois, has been mowed down and turned into a wind farm. I like the idea of wind power, but once you get past the excitement of seeing those futuristic white windmills, you start to realize how bad they wreck the landscape.

* They're not bunkers, they're all just various assorted boyhood homes of Ronald Reagan that we've yet to tour.

Someday, I WILL find those weird little buildings again and get to the bottom of it. Until then, it's just the excuse I need to waste gas and be an awful bio-consumer.

UPDATE: that someday is NOW. I never thought to check the internet, because I didn't expect Google to have much to say on a search for "WEIRD BUNKER THINGS IN ILLINOIS THAT LOOK LIKE LUKE SKYWALKER'S HOUSE." BUT when I searched for "ABANDONED MILITARY BASES IN ILLINOIS," it didn't take long to stumble upon the Green River Ordnance Plant. In business from 1942-1945, the plant made a variety of weapons (mostly bazooka shells) for our boys fighting in WWII. After the war, it closed down but was never torn down. Today, the remains are privately owned and some of the bunkers are used to store explosives to this day. DEFINITELY don't consider this an endorsement to go trespassing, because the Illinois EPA says that chemical and explosive hazards are still present, up to and including traces of cyanide and astesbos. That said, if you find yourself on U.S. 30 between Dixon and Amboy, it's worth a roadside look-see (note: We were 2 miles from there this weekend. Guess we zigged when we shoulda zagged.)

So, mystery solved. Which means I need a new excuse to continue my shameful passion for aimless driving. Wait, I'm pretty sure I saw a water tower painted to look like an ice cream cone somewhere...

COLUMN: Pampered Chef

2011-10-07T17:19:00.002-05:00

Finally.

After years of being banished away in a corner of the Arts and Living section, forced to write fluffy little humor columns, this hard-nosed journalist FINALLY has a scoop. For all of you who wanted some little drively happy-smiley-time piece about cats or my girlfriend, you're about to be sorely disappointed, for I am on the verge of some serious Class A investigative journalism here. Look out, Chris Hanson of Dateline NBC... watch your nose, Geraldo... there's a new guy in town, and I've got a story that just might benefit mankind for years to come. And I mean MANkind. You girls can stop reading - this one's for the fellas.

Gentlemen, I have done it. I have breached the dark and mysterious wall that separates us from the world of women. As I type this, I am at present deeply embedded along the front lines of danger. You may know this place as "my basement." As I sit sequestered in my subterranean den of safety, a secret gathering is occurring merely one flight of stairs above my head. I have reached the promised land. I have gone where no man has gone before.

I am... at a Pampered Chef party.

Well, technically I'm below one. But it's well within earshot, and it's happening in MY house. This is simply one of those events that guys aren't seen at. Heck, we don't even know what HAPPENS at one of them. While we guys are out doing guy things, girls of the world unite under someone's roof to buy and sell candles, baskets, makeup, "surprise" parties, and more. When my girlfriend asked if she could hold a Pampered Chef party at my house, I bristled at first. Then it was explained to me that I would actually be allowed inside at the same time as the party, and my curious journalistic nature perked up. And once I heard that mango salsa was on the demonstrator's menu, that pretty much sealed the deal.

This is a world not often witnessed by those of us holding X and Y chromosomes, but this much I can tell you: Pampered Chef is a company that makes high-end cooking utensils and kitchenware. Some of their products are truly awesome (a device that removes corn from the cob? Sign me up.) Others are just plain weird, but I'll get to that later. The point is, I've yet to see a product in the Pampered Chef line that would make a BAD addition to one's kitchen.

If only one could buy their wares in stores. But ya can't. There's only one way to buy Pampered Chef, and that's by going to a Pampered Chef party at somebody's house. Or, in other words, you have to be a woman. That's not to say that Pampered Chef specifically excludes the estrogen-challenged, but let's look at the evidence. For fifteen years, I have sat at my cubicle at the newspaper. In all those days, I can't tell you the number of Pampered Chef invites, e-vites, catalogs, and party talk that have whisked their way around me. Yet not once did one of those invites end up on MY desk. Noooooo, say the girls of the world. Why would we give an invitation to Shane? He's a smelly no-good boy, and we don't want smelly no-good boys at our parties... leaving me to sigh and head home, resigned to spend yet another evening trying to remove corn from the cob with a standard table knife.

The way I see it, the folks at Pampered Chef are missing out on a fairly sizable demographic of clients: dudes. Just because we man-folk like to hunt and fish and watch cars drive in endless circles every Sunday does NOT mean that we don't appreciate a fine piece of hand-crafted stoneware when we see it. It just might take a slightly different marketing plan to get us involved.

First off, let's call it what it is, and what it ISN'T is a party. I understand the definition of "party," for I am a learn-ed college graduate. Specifically, I learn-ed how to party at my fraternity house.

If there's one thing guys have down pat, it's your standard party elements: People. Music. (LOUD music, preferably being played by me.) Camaraderie with close (and, heck, occasionally distant) friends. Maybe some burgers on the grill. Throw some video games into the mix. You might even end up with a soothing bonfire (and, if MY frat house serves as an example, if the party was an exceptional rager, your bonfire might just end up involving one of more pieces of your living room furniture by night's end. If you wake up to a smoldering sofa, rest assured that you've just had one GOOD party.)

Girls, on the other hand, are clearly born lacking the party gene. When girls get together en masse (the scientific term is "a gaggle of girls,") they live it up with such reckless party hedonism as... brunch. Or tea. Or a book club. Or anything involving color-coordinated and seasonally-themed party decor... OR, in this case, inviting a near-stranger into your house to tell you about the wonders of a garlic press.

Wait. I just heard a squeal. I need to investigate. Be right back.

Okay, whew. I'm back. It appears that the squeal has erupted because the mangos have been properly, umm, mango-ed. Okay, so I don't know the process by which mangos go from being delightful pieces of fruit to delightful salsa, but I now know that Pampered Chef sells a product that does just that -- and only that. It is built and sold for the express purpose of processing mangos. Let's say you wanted to do the same thing to a kumquat? Sorry, no. This tool is ONLY suitable for mangos. And the girl gaggle just went "oooh" over it. I'm pretty sure I've consumed mango maybe twice in my entire life. I don't even know what a mango looks like, but I can now own and wield a tool capable of destroying one (which is good to have on-hand, just in case the Great Mango Revolution goes down.)

This isn't a party. It's a sales pitch disguised as a get-together. And as much as I actually do like their products, why would anyone want to go out of their way to get pressured into buying them?

It was about that time when Amy came down and got me -- and I in turn got my answer. At the end of the product pitch, we had a table full of mango salsa, chicken fajitas, brownies, and a behemoth fruit trifle. Everybody loves food, and the girl gaggle made quick time decimating the goodies -- but not before inviting me into their yummy world. By the time it was done, not only did I have a full stomach but a dent in my wallet -- that de-corn-erator thing will make a nice addition to my kitchen, methinks. Somewhere along the way, I may have turned on Rock Band and caused an impromptu Bee Gees sing-along. It almost felt like... a party.

COLUMN: Audition

2011-10-07T17:17:00.002-05:00

Whenever people talk about common recurring nightmares, there's usually one stereotypical dream that always gets mentioned, right? You're back in school, there's a horrible exam, and you havent studied. I don't think I've ever suffered one of those dreams... but this past week, I pretty much lived it.

Regular readers probably know that I moonlight on the weekends as a DJ. Recent readers might even know that I've been without a gig for the past few months. That's what led me to an online job listing a few weeks ago that made me raise an eyebrow.

"CLUB AWESOME, the ultimate 70s and 80s dance club, is opening soon in AWESOMETOWN. Calling all: Dancers, DJs, MCs, Hula Hoopers, Roller Skaters, Models, Celebrity Impersonators, etc."

It's not actually called Club Awesome and it's not in Awesometown, but since I'm still waiting to hear if I got the job AND since they didn't bother advertising in OUR paper, I'm leaving the locale a mystery for now. But I can tell you that it's a new club opening up in a casino that's well over an hour's drive from here.

I blew the ad off at first. No gig is worth that drive -- or is it? A club devoted exclusively to the 70's & 80's? With hula hoops and roller skates? Sure, it's a ridiculously long commute for a gig, but my basement is chock full of musty disco records just waiting for a second lease on life.

So I applied. It wouldn't be something I could commit to doing every weekend, but if they were looking to hire a rotating staff of DJ's, I'd be happy to join the mix. Last Monday, I got the call.

"Mr. Brown? This is so-and-so from Human Resources at Club Awesome. We'd like to schedule your audition. Are you available tomorrow?"

I've never had to "audition" for a DJ gig in my life. I wouldn't even know how, and that's not me trying to sound cocky. DJ's are normally judged by how they work the dancefloor over the course of an entire night. What could I prove in an afternoon? What would the "audition" consist of? What equipment did I need to bring? What should I plan for?

"No worries," said the HR rep. "I'll e-mail you the information."

Here is, verbatim, the contents of that e-mail:

"The club will be 70’s and 80’s based, so if you can perform to the era, it would be best. We’re looking for candidates that are upbeat and really get into the character of the 70’s and 80’s. Your audition is your time to show us all your talents and enthusiasm and ability to get the crowd “pumped up”, and time to prove yourself as a Club Awesome member."

This answered NOTHING and was the same stock response they were likely giving prospective hula hoopers. Did they want a talented DJ with knowledge and mixing ability? Or did they want Fonzie to come out and go "Aaaayyyyyyyy?" Since they reworked their audition time to match my schedule, I guess I was gonna find out.

Last Thursday, I got off work and made a bee line straight for Awesometown. My instructions were to go to the employee entrance, which, after circling the casino, did not appear to exist -- so I sauntered through the main door.

Here's a handy tip: When one enters the main door of a casino, it's best NOT to bring along two suspicious duffel bags of DJ equipment. The security guards at the gate all but went Terror Alert Red on me.

"Hi! I'm here to audition for the--"
"SIR-YOU-NEED-TO-EXIT-THE-AREA-NOW!"
"I'm hoping you can help me find the em--"
"PLEASE-LEAVE-SIR!"

Finally, I learned that the employee entrance was hiding on the west end of the building. By the time I hiked around the perimeter of the building carrying umpteen pounds of DJ gear, I arrived at the correct door a slimy, sweaty muckpile.

"We're expecting you," said the kid who met me. "Right through here," he motioned.

I walked into a large and mostly empty space. In front of me stood a card table. In front of THAT, a large black curtain. It quickly dawned on me that I was on a stage. A BIG stage.

Two guys came out and helped me set up my gear in record time. "Are you ready?" one said to me.

"Well, yeah, but I don't really know what I'm..."

"GO!" he yelled. Before I could even laugh, the curtains pulled back, revealing an empty theatre except for the front row, where sat a line of Simon Cowell wannabes with crossed arms and stern faces.

That's when one of them said, and I quote: "Wow us."

You had GOT to be kidding. I had no clue what I was supposed to do, how long I was supposed to do it for, or who any of these people staring at me were. I assessed the situation and did the only thing I knew how:

I pressed play.

Suddenly music was booming and I was in my element. One of the guys jumped onstage. Was he going to yell at me? Would I get pulled offstage with a giant hook? I looked up and realized the guy was filming me. Between the nerves, the lights, and the dude with the camera, there was no stopping me from being the sweatiest, ugliest guy alive.

As I slid into the second song - a nifty remix of "Afternoon Delight" I'd picked up somewhere - Camera Guy starts yelling, "Yeah! That's the stuff!" I had at least one fan. I kept going, bouncing in and out of songs as fast as I could, sweating so bad I was afraid of shorting out the equipment. After 20 minutes, Video Guy taps me. "We've seen enough."

I packed up my gear not knowing if I'd just been hired or fired or what. Afterwards, they invited me down for a chat. They said they liked my stuff and the energy that I brought, but they had questions. "Fire away," I said.

"Why do you want this job?"
"What's your background?"
"What's your going rate?"
"Do you have chest hair?"

My response was less a word than a mixture of nervous laughter and fear. I'm guessing it sounded like "S'Whaahahahaha?"

"Serious question. Do you have chest hair?"

"Is this an essential job function of your DJ position?" I asked.

"Well, we'd like you to dress in costume. Do you have a problem with that?"

I'm a chubby guy. I've got man-cleavage. Heck YES I have a problem with that.

After much more nervous laughter and some handshakes, I got out of there and laughed almost all the way home. I'm hoping if they DO hire me, I could opt for more of an 80's keep-your-chest-hair-to-yourself costume. Stick a Devo hat on my head and a "Frankie Say Relax" t-shirt and let some other hairy dude rock the open-shirted disco look. As of press time, I have no clue if I got the gig or not. I'm frankly not even sure if I want it. One thing's for certain, though: Once this place opens, a road trip to Club Awesome will be mandatory.

COLUMN: Titanic

2011-10-05T17:30:00.002-05:00

Indeed, sometimes there are perks to being a beloved, semi-successful humor columnist of moderate fame in the #142 market of the country. You just have to learn to know when to take advantage of them.

I first started writing this weekly column in a distant time known as "2004." That was when I received my first letter from Rick. Inside the manila envelope were some photocopied pages and a note that basically said, "Hi Shane. I'm a fan of your column and thought you might find the attached information about the Titanic interesting."

"Ummm," I thought, "ooookay." I hadn't ever written about the Titanic, nor was it a topic of much interest to me at the time. But whatever, I checked out the pages and they WERE intriguing and detailed the links of local residents and families to the famed disaster. Did you know there was a survivor of the Titanic who was en route to Galesburg at the time? Rick sure did.

From that point on, about every six months, I would get another envelope from Rick, usually containing more documents and news clippings related to the Titanic. Eventually, thanks to some back-and-forth correspondence and a mutual friend, I met Rick. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but as it turns out, he's just a normal, nice retiree who just happens to have a lifelong obsession with all things Titanic. And I'm cool with obsessions -- I've been told on more than one occasion that my passion for British music runs the gamut from "hobby" to "obsessive" to "a little bit sad and pathetic." To each their own, I say.

As soon as I read about Davenport's Putnam Museum landing a touring exhibit of Titanic artifacts and a return engagement of Jim Cameron's "Ghosts of the Abyss" documentary, I knew one Quad Citizen who had to be veeeery happy. And when my girlfriend's little sister expressed interest in going, I knew just the tour guide to call. It took a while for everybody's schedules to match up, but finally, on the last weekend of the exhibit, the three of us walked into the Putnam to meet up with Titanic Rick.

It was a good call. There were times I was convinced that Rick knew more about the exhibit than the folks who had curated it. Between his insight and the awesome collection of artifacts retrieved from the ocean floor, it was a fascinating day out and one heck of a learning experience. Kudos beyond words to my friend Rick and to everyone at the Putnam for securing such a great and rare treat. To say it got me thinking about things is an understatement, but here's a few impressions:

* If I had been onboard, would I have perished? Been a hero? A plucky survivor? I'd like to think that I'd have some kind of heroic end, but I also know myself. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have gone down in history as the guy who got shot while trying to cut through the line of women and children to get to the lifeboats, but that's only because I probably would've dropped dead of a heart attack the moment someone yelled "ICEBERG!" I'd like to think, though, that perhaps some skinny person could've used my heroic corpse as a flotation device.

* Even facing certain death, the band played on and some of the first class passengers took the time to change into formalwear for their pending doom. In a way, these notions seem elegant and courageous and indicative of a time long gone from our culture. But then I got to thinking. Most of Titanic's better-known passengers were wealthy aristocrats and socialites. INCREDIBLY wealthy, since the cost of a first-class suite was equivalent to around $85,000. I can't help but envision a boat full of braindead Paris Hiltons, Kardashians, and Real Housewives of Orange County. Perhaps the socialites only knew how to be socialites and couldn't bear to imagine a trip to the Pearly Gates without a personal attendant and imported silk at the ready.

* Staring at a pile of plain white au gratin dishes sounds like the most boring activity in the world. But staring at a pile of plain white au gratin dishes recovered from 12,600 feet under the ocean is inexplicably fascinating.

* Among the most well-preserved artifacts recovered from the ocean floor were the personal affects of one Howard Irwin. But young Mr. Irwin didn't perish in the Titanic disaster. In fact, he wasn't even onboard. While en route to the ship, Irwin was kidnapped and shanghied onto a China-bound freighter, where he was forced into servitude for weeks before escaping. A horrible experience for sure, but quite likely a better fate than had he made it onto the world's most luxurious deathtrap. His friend Henry Sutehall, who boarded the Titanic with Howard's luggage, was among the 1,517 lost at sea.

* I realized during the showing of "Ghosts of the Abyss" that I kind of hate James Cameron. Sure, he's responsible for the two highest-grossing movies of all time (Titanic & Avatar.) But does he have to be so self-important about it? "Ghosts of the Abyss" documents the efforts of Cameron (and, oddly, actor/narrator Bill Paxton, who will forever be Chet from "Weird Science") as they take 3D cameras two miles down to the Titanic wreck. But somewhere in there, it starts to feel like the star of the show switches from the Titanic herself to Cameron and his (quite literally) tons of gadgets. I'd love to remind him that he may have brought us "Avatar," but he also directed "Pirahna II: The Spawning," so he's not the essence of cool.

* If I were to die in some kind of monumental horrific tragedy, I'm not sure how I'd feel about a museum one day honoring my life -- especially if it involved thousands of people staring at my underwear through a temperature controlled glass case while a self-guided audio tour pointed out my pant size.

* Some of the most amazing artifacts on display were letters and postcards that had managed to survive the brutality of the ocean floor thanks to leather satchels. Again, though, this makes me highly concerned that one day the contents of my leather wallet could be on display for future generations to see -- and frankly, I don't want future generations to know that I'm one punch away from a free lunch buffet at Happy Joe's. I would want my horrifying tragic death to instill a sense of mystery and wonder -- which is why I just wrote a note and put it in my wallet that says: "THE DIAMONDS ARE BURIED 40 YARDS FROM JIMMY HOFFA" next to GPS coordinates of the Dispatch/Argus office basement. That'll give 'em something to write about.

All told, it was an amazing exhibit and I hope you guys all had the chance to go soak it in. I hope the Putnam Museum continues to give every one of us something to obsess over. To that effect, I'll be glad to help out in the design and curation of any future exhibits on British Alternative Rock 1970-present. I promise you the Echo & the Bunnymen kiosk alone will be worth your trip.

COLUMN: Fireworks

2011-09-27T17:26:00.001-05:00

Part of the fun of having a regular newspaper column is that, for a few fleeting moments each week, I get to feel like a bonafide influential member of the counter-culture. If the pen can indeed be mightier than the sword, then so shall I wield it as a sounding board for America, having a laugh at The Man whilst righting the wrongs of societal oppression.

But Hunter S. Thompson I am not. I'm not a sounding board for the counter-culture. I'm just a pudgy 40-year-old guy who likes to write about laundry and cats. Truth is, I don't really have a rebellious bone in my body. I've never been in real trouble with Johnny Law and I've never stuck it to The Man.

In fact, my entire criminal record (other than a speeding ticket or two) can be summed up on two fingers:

(1) Galesburg, 1987. Me and my friend Will were cruising the strip in my car on a Saturday night when we spotted a friend of ours pass us in the other direction. We decided to turn around to catch up, so I hooked a right into the nearest driveway. That driveway just happened to be Galesburg's largest downtown cemetery. The little paved drive was too narrow for a quick turnaround, so as I struggled to find a route out, I didn't even notice the three police cruisers that quickly peeled up to block our exit. It turned out the cemetery gate we turned into was supposed to be closed at night, so the police were rather concerned to find it open, let alone us toodling about inside. Unbeknownst to us, the cemetery had recently been hit with a plague of vandalism, so the cops naturally assumed we were up to no good. Thankfully, my friend Will set them straight:

Cop: What are you boys doing in here?
Friend Will: Umm... looking for a friend.
Cop: And is your friend dead?

Eventually, we got out of there with a warning, but if any graves were discovered vandalized come morning, they'd be paying us a visit. When I told my dad what had happened, we had to restrain him from jumping into the car and keeping armed watch over the broken cemetery gate for the rest of the night. Luckily, everything must have been A-OK, because we never heard back.

(2) In college, I was in a fraternity. A part of me would like to think this was because I was a fun and hedonistic party animal. Truth be told, I'm pretty sure I only got in because I was THE only skilled DJ on campus and they needed free labor. While my buddies would do what you'd expect them to do at frat parties, I'd be the sober dude in the kitchen, playing records on a ramshackle sound system hooked up to the real party happening two rooms away. It was a glamorous job.

Well, flash forward a few years after graduation, and I got an urgent call from the then-president of my frat. They had a party scheduled that night and their DJ had just called in sick. Even though I was an alumni, they knew I still lived in town and convinced me to come lend a hand. As I walked into the house, a couple kids were walking out. They told me they were from out-of-town visiting friends on campus and asked me how to get to Taco Bell. Despite balancing a couple crates of records and nearly throwing my back out, I stood there and gave them directions.

It turns out they weren't from out of town. They were undercover police. Ten minutes after I started playing music, the house was full-on raided by a dozen or so uniformed officers. Worse yet, old alumni Shane turned out to be the only one of legal drinking age in the whole house. It was NOT my best moment. Happily, a VERY lenient judge threw out most of the charges and to this day, the only real blight on my record is a $50 fine paid for "Frequenting An Unlicensed Liquor Establishment." Moral of the story: When a house full of drunken college kids asks you to DJ? Don't.

So that's it. Those are my only times running afoul of authority. Not exactly the kind of savory rap sheet that one wants from one's underground folk hero. I suppose I could play it off like those were the only times I've been CAUGHT, but truth be told, I'm a relatively boring, law-abiding citizen. But come every 4th of July, I can't help but think about one instance when I operated a tad bit outside the rules.

I speak, of course, about the hypothetical time a decade or so ago that me and hypothetical Friend Jason might have hypothetically purchased some hypothetical fireworks in Wisconsin and brought them back across the border. In the grand pantheon of criminal masterplans, this was NOT a genius move.

For starters, when one makes the conscious decision to brazenly break the law, one should probably pick a law that doesn't involve launching illuminated signal flares into the night sky. You can't exactly shoot off fireworks stealthily. It's pretty much a homing beacon that says, "Attention law enforcement! We are doing something naughty. For your ease in arresting us, we provide a convenient trail of light and smoke."

For another, we hadn't exactly thought the plan through. At that point in our lives, both of us lived in apartments. How, exactly, would we find a locale suitable for sending explosives into the night sky?

Which is why, on that hypothetical night, we ended up on an isolated gravel road some ten miles south of town in an area so pitch-black you could barely see the fuses to light them. In the event that we DID end up blowing off a finger, we had NO CLUE where the nearest hospital was, let alone the nearest town.

And we darn near ended up needing one. Amongst our hypothetical contraband was a small disc with a fuse. Like I said, it was way too dark to see any instructions, so like the nimrods that we were, we just set it down and lit the fuse to see what would happen. Answer: the disc shot up about five feet in the air like a bounding mine, hovered, and then began violently shooting out wicked projectiles in all compass directions while we dove for our lives. Why would anyone invent such a nightmare and why did I buy it? Either (a) we set it up wrong, or (b) there's a Chinese plot afoot to kill and/or maim as many Westerners as possible.

Clearly, we were hypothetical IDIOTS, and had we not run from that death contraption like ninnies, we'd be missing eyes to this day. Don't follow in our footsteps. We could have hurt ourselves, or worse yet, set some poor farmer's fields ablaze. There are people out there kooky enough to become licensed at handling fireworks, so let them run the risk of losing a finger or two. Of course, I offer this warning several days AFTER your 4th of July celebrations, so it's probably too late. But that's just the kind of rebel I am, I guess.

COLUMN: Flood (albeit a tiny one)

2011-09-27T17:23:00.001-05:00

(Not my basement, thank God.)

"I need to show you something in the basement," said my girlfriend. Uh oh.

My mind raced. What possible scenarios could be afoot? I've seen my share of horror movies and I know when someone wants to show you something in the basement, it's seldom a good thing. It's usually more like, "Let me show you... THIS CLEAVER," and that's when the music starts going "WEET! WEET! WEET!" and someone says "redrum" and it all goes higgeldy-piggeldy.

But hey, when a cute girl says she needs to show you something in the basement, I suppose it's worth the risk of running into a hockey mask-wearing psychopath. Maybe "I need to show you something" is code for some subterranean PG-13 SMOOCHY SMOOCHY TIME, and I, for one, do not rescind invites to smoochy-smoochy time.

But her voice didn't sound smoochy-smoochy. It sounded serious, if not scolding. It was the kind of "let me show you something" that one would say to one's dog before going, "Look what you did! BAAAAAD Shane! BAAAAAAAAAD Shane!"

I started to panic. The night before, I had been down there doing laundry. My girlfriend doesn't have a washer or dryer at her place, so I let her use mine (and if all of MY laundry gets done in the process? Bonus.) But the night before, I had needed to wash some stuff, so I threw a load in -- and I bet I screwed something up.

Once upon a time, laundry was a simple task. My old apartment complex had a washer/dryer that I'm pretty sure pre-dated the invention of fabric. It had 3 settings: hot, warm, and cold -- and warm was broken. But that was okay, because I'm a boy, and Boy Laundry is simple, logical stuff. If it's white? Hot. If it's not? Cold. Easy peasy. But now that I've got my own house with its own washer and dryer, there's like 28 different settings and none make sense. As God is my witness, I'm now 40 years old and haven't the slightest clue what "permanent press" is.

And that's me handling Boy Laundry. On those very few times that I've been tasked with Girl Laundry, it's a mind-melting free-for-all. Half of her clothes pile is unidentifiable (hat? legwarmer? timing belt?), and the other half I have no clue if you're supposed to wash it in cold, hot, or warm. Maybe all her clothes call for the little setting that's simply indicated with an asterisk that I presume must mean "magic." Plus, ALL of her clothes feel so dainty that you half expect the fabric to crumble in your hands. How can I expect it to survive a wash cycle?

Ergo, I usually just leave her laundry in a pile and do mine instead. It's not that I don't want to help out, I just don't want to hit the wrong button and cause half my girlfriend's wardrobe to shrink or fall apart. As I walked down the basement stairs, I was envisioning her about to show me a dryer full of pink tidy whities or a wardrobe newly resized for Barbie's Dream House.

Instead, we got downstairs and she pointed straight down. Uh oh.

If you're a regular reader of this column, you'll know that I've spent the better part of this past year finishing my basement. And by "I," I mean my dad, whose vision of retirement might NOT have included indentured servitude to his incredibly grateful son. What was once a concrete slab floor is now a paradise of waterproofing, foam, pads, and carpeting. The only spot in the basement left untouched is the small area housing the furnace, hot water heater, and drain... and as I looked down at that tiny concrete oasis, I saw a small pool of water on the floor. Uh oh, indeed.

Above it run most of the pipes for the house, so I started feeling around to find the leak. That's when I noticed with some horror that the small pool of water didn't seem to be coming from above, but rather cascading out from underneath the carpet. BIG uh-oh.

I looked across the basement and there was my culprit. Against the back wall, the washing machine may have looked innocent, but even from far away, I could see it's catchpan brimming over with water. The leak was rapidly turning half of my basement into the Tide With Bleach Alternative Sea.

I raced over and shut off the water flow to the washer. The carpeting underneath was soaked to the bone and water was running under the carpet to the drain across the basement -- directly under the 30 or so cardboard boxes of unimportant junk I had yet to unpack from the move.

"Nooooooooooooooo!" I said as I started grabbing boxes and running to high ground. Happily, we noticed just in time to save such prized possessions as my Sega Dreamcast and Casio keyboard (whew.)

As a Congrats-For-Buying-Your-First-House gift, my dad had handed down a space-age wet/dry vac that had, until now, been sitting in the corner looking like R2D2's meaner cousin. I pulled it down, plugged it in, and set forth trying to suck the standing water out of the washer's catchpan. Just one problem: I was uninformed that this particular wet-dry vac had TWO places to attach the hose: one to suck and one to blow.

Sure enough, I stuck the hose in the catchpan, turned the vac on, and blew out an epic tidal wave that all at once showered dirty sudsy water all over the ceiling, walls, boxes, and anything else declaring residency in my basement, up to and including one of my cats who might need lifelong therapy from the double shock of the vacuum noise AND instant shower. Home improvement is NOT my thing, people.

Eventually I got the hose sorted out and sucked up as much water as I could. Then my dad drove up and had a meeting of the minds with my girlfriend's dad, who just happens to be an appliance repairman. I can't say how it went, since I was at work, but between my dad's inquisitive nature and her dad's knack for detail, my girlfriend reports that she now knows more about the internal workings of a washing machine than anyone EVER needs to and that I "owe her bigtime."

For now, it seems fixed, and the fate of my carpet now lies in a cat-eating industrial fan and a dehumidifer that's getting a serious workout. At least, thanks to Tide with Febreze, this is the nicest-smelling flood one can imagine. I'm lucky because I know basement flooding is a way of life for many Quad Citians, and my drama was pretty minor in the grand scheme of things. Still, the next time my girlfriend says she needs to show me something in the basement, I might just run from the house screaming, even at the risk of smoochy-smoochy time.

COLUMN: Bike

2011-09-27T17:20:00.001-05:00

They say that once you learn to ride a bike, you never forget.

Dear "They,"
Bollocks.
Love, Shane.

When I was a kid, I loved to ride my bike. Well, okay: when I was a kid, I loved sitting in air conditioning watching HBO and playing Ultima IV on my Apple II. But every once in a while, my parents would mandate that I unplug myself from the information superhighway and go (gasp) play outdoors.

As far as I was concerned, the outdoors was little more than a hot and humid sanctuary for snakes, bugs, bees, things that suck your blood, and things that just plain suck. Quickly, I discovered my favorite outdoor pasttime was riding on my bike -- that way, if any of that pesky nature decided to come a-callin', I could get on my bike and just pedal away to safety. As a result, I pretty much lived on that bike whenever I went outside.

But I also had an over-protective mother who assumed that since her son was now in possession of wheeled transport, he would immediately ride it into traffic kamikaze-style. Let's not, at this point, forget that I grew up on a 50-acre lot off a tiny paved road in rural Galesburgian nowheresville, and the nearest thing that could even be loosely defined as "traffic" was about 1.5 miles away from the house. Still, my mom felt it best that I not be allowed to ride my bike on the "hard road" without parental supervision. This meant I had to stick to the gravel driveways, yards, and hills of Brown Manor.

The upside of this dilemma was that I actually kinda got pretty good at off-road biking. I would set up mock courses and hold time trials. I could take downhill corners at wicked speeds and live to tell the tale. On our farm, I could ride circles around my friends. For a while there, I actually had leg muscles.

Then I turned 16, got my driver's license, and that was the very last time I ever climbed aboard my bike... until now.

To put it mildly, I'm sick of my ever-expanding belly. I've now reached the age where I can no longer sit on my couch, watch TV all day, and expect to maintain my socially acceptable slightly chunky figure. Over the past five years, I've gone from out-of-shape to clinically obese to Fatty McButterPants. My official wake-up call was when I had to recently go buy pants at a Fat-Dude store, and that's not cool.

(And, FYI, if you own a Fat-Dude store, why would you employ a sales clerk who looks like he just stepped out of an ad for Men's Fitness? I had to talk to this guy and be like, "Hey, can I have the key to the fitting room to try on these pants?" but what I FELT like I was saying was: "ME LIKE COOKIES! FATTY NEED KEY SO HE CAN TRY ON SMALL TENT WITH LEGHOLES! CAN YOU HELP FATTY FIT THROUGH DOOR?")

Obviously, me and exercise are not the best of buddies, but something needs to be done before the news of my death includes the phrase "the body had to be extricated from the house with a crane." That's when it hit me: Once upon a time, I'm pretty sure I actually enjoyed bike riding. Let's give it another shot.

I had mentioned to my mom a few times that I'd like to get my bike up here, and every time she'd say, "I'm not sure if it'll fit in the car, I'll have to talk to your father" before swiftly changing the subject. I recently figured out that it was her same over-protective streak flaring up, and her belief that the entire Quad Cities is one big "hard road" for me to get killed upon. So the other day, I circumvented Mom and went straight to Dad.

"Sure, I know right where it is! Let me tune her up and I'll bring it with next time we visit!"

Two weeks later, my Schwinn Sidewinder, looking good for her age, was sitting in my garage.

Eagerly, I jumped aboard... and almost fell headfirst onto the pavement. This did NOT feel right. For one, it was SO FAR OFF THE GROUND. HOW did I ride this thing as a kid without the constant fear of death? The bike was tall, the pedals were tiny, the tires incomprehensibly narrow... this wasn't an exercise tool, it was a deathtrap. That's when I looked up and saw a kid whistling to himself as he pedaled past me with no hands and not a care in the world. I CAN DO THIS.

I took the bike to the grassiest section of my lawn. "No," my girlfriend chided me, "get out here in the alley."

"Nope," I said. "I need a better cushion than concrete right now."

Bravely, I pushed off, made one full rotation of the pedals, weebled, wobbled, and ALMOST fell down. I turned around and did it again. And then again. And again. After a few minutes, I was marginally convinced that I could keep the bike upright, so I took it onto pavement. It's a good thing there's seldom traffic in our alley, because I weaved from one side to the other, but somehow I kept the bike afloat. The only drawback is that, in tuning up the bike, my dad must've gotten grease on the brake pads, because every time I hit the brakes, it makes a noise like a Canadian goose being horribly, horribly violated. But I stayed upright.

After a couple days of back-and-forthing in the alley, I finally got brave enough to go on my first bike ride with my girlfriend. We just rode around the neighborhood, I'd say a total of maybe ten blocks. By the time I got home, I was covered in sweat from head to toe and my hands were numb from gripping the handlebars as tight as humanly possible. Worse yet, I climbed off the bike and... how do I put this in a family paper... let's just say it felt like I'd just been on the losing end of a fight with a rabid feral proctologist, and my particular losing end needed an extra couch cushion for the next 48 hours.

I walked up the back steps to the house. Well, no, I guess I didn't. I got TO the back steps, I know that. And my brain definitely issued the command to my legs to step UP the back steps. But my legs just kind of plodded forward in a non-vertical manner and I almost fell face-first onto said back steps. Eventually I made it to air conditioning and recovered.

And then I did it again. And again. And again. And when I get done writing this column, I'm gonna go do it yet again. I'm up to about 20 blocks now before I think I'm about to die, so we're making progress (although I really DO need to look into getting a padded seat - how on EARTH did I not spend my childhood walking funny?) Once I get a little less wobbly, I'll try the bike path down by the river. Heck, maybe I'll even bike to work one of these days.

So maybe the adage is right and you DO never forget how to ride a bike... there's just a slight learning curve for the coordinationally-challenged. Wish me luck... and please, if you're driving and see a sweaty mound of fat cycling in front of you, give me a wide berth. I'd hate to prove my mom right.

COLUMN: Bieber

2011-06-20T11:21:00.001-05:00

Is it just me, or does this photo scream, "I have to poop!" ??

I woke up today with one clear thought in my brain:

Justin Bieber has a lot in common with the Beatles.

My girlfriend earns extra cash frequently babysitting two of the cutest girls (ages 6 & 7) ever to walk the earth. I, having never been around kids since I was one myself, greet our time together with a mix of fascination and fear. Most of the time, I sit around in an awkward display of helplessness while they run around like they've been out mainlining caffeine with John Belushi. They bounce, hop, skip, sing, run, yell, shriek, cry, jump, pounce, and cause irreparable emotional damage to my cats -- while I just sit and concentrate on NOT having a stroke.

Still, there's a part of me that desperately wants them to accept and trust me and know that I've got their back. My girlfriend loves spending time with kids, so I want to, too. That's why I'll say yes when they ask me to play house, even though they always demand that I take on the role of the family dog. And that's why I'll sit there acting like it's the most interesting in the world when they show me their new Justin Bieber magazines and tell me what his favorite color and food are. (Purple and spaghetti.)

We were out shopping the other day, and when my girlfriend wasn't looking, I slipped a DVD copy of the Bieber concert movie into our cart. Not only do I come across as Mr. Awesome for getting the girls the movie, but it gives them something to do other than bounce, hop, skip, sing, etc. Win-win, right?

That's what I thought. Until this morning, when I woke up humming the most irritating earworm of all time:

"It's like bay-bee, bay-bee, bay-bee, ohhh, like bay-bee, bay-bee, bay-bee, nooo!"

I hadn't thought of the repercussions of devoting a small percentage of my life's soundtrack to Justin Bieber, and now his evil little song is stuck on autopilot in my brain. I can appreciate catchy yet blindingly stupid music -- that's why God made The Ramones, after all -- but have their ever been lyrics more insipid than Justin Bieber's "Baby"? That's when it dawned on me, and the answer is YES, I HAVE heard lyrics just as bad:

"Love, love me do, you know I love you, I'll always be true, so ple-e-e-ease, love me do."

Think about it: A debut album full of silly, catchy, G-rated love songs. Young girls shrieking in a near-riot pandemonium. A really bad haircut. Who am I describing? Justin Bieber or 1964 Beatles? They're one in the same. Okay, maybe the Fab Four worked their way to fame playing to seedy clubs in Hamburg and Liverpool. Well, Justin Bieber worked HIS way to fame playing to preteens and pedophiles on Youtube. Was there one single music critic on the face of the Earth in 1964 who would have dreamed that four teenagers singing a song called "I Want To Hold Your Hand" would end up revolutionizing pop music for the rest of time? Maybe before we cast Justin Bieber into the abyss of worthless teenage annoyances, realize that there's a chance he could be a longer haircut, an Indian guru, and a Yoko Ono away from real artistic greatness.

But another thought just crossed my mind: Justin Bieber also has a lot in common with Shaun Cassidy. In 1977, Cassidy launched from a Hardy Boy into a million-selling cover of "Da Doo Ron Ron" and the front page of every other issue of TigerBeat. Heck, even prepubescent Shane had a Shaun Cassidy poster in my room. Any dude who could solve mysteries AND rock out was cool in my 6-year-old world.

One of my friends is a Quad City-based musician who recently, on a trip out west, finagled his way into tickets to some posh L.A. event. And the way he tells the story, he was queueing in line when he realized that directly in front of him stood an aging yet still recognizable Shaun Cassidy.

After some debate, he tapped him on the shoulder and explained that his sister was a HUGE fan back in the day. That was Shaun Cassidy's cue to turn from Normal-Guy-In-Line to Complete Lunatic. "Who the (expletive) do you think you are? Do you know who the (expletive) I am? Don't (expletive) speak to me!" Etc., etc. My friend really thought that he was about to be decked by Shaun Cassidy, so apparantly one shouldn't da-doo-dredge up the past in front of Mr. Formerly Famous.

So who knows where insta-fame and Bieber Fever will take our pal Justin? I'm not convinced that he's destined to become a musical icon, but he's got as much of a chance as the next guy. After one particular incident that happened to me a few years back, I'll never take ANYTHING for granted.

We were in Chicago to see one of my favorite bands, a criminally under-appreciated Scottish group called The Trashcan Sinatras. They were the opener for a multi-band show at the Cabaret Metro. We pushed our way to the front row and had a fantastic time. Afterwards, we weighed whether or not to stay up front for the headline act. None of us were fans, but they had a silly song called "Creep" that was getting some MTV play, so we thought we'd give them a chance. The lights came up, and this ridiculous little blonde frontman strutted on stage looking like he'd seen "Sid & Nancy" a few too many times, grabbed the mic, and sneered "'Ello! We're Radiohead!" before spending the next song strutting around stage like a peacock to some wholly unmemorable tune. After ten minutes, my friends and I walked out, proudly announcing, "Wow. They suck."

Two years later, Radiohead would release the ground-breaking album "The Bends." Two years after THAT would come "OK Computer," which Time Magazine would later declare to be one of the 100 greatest albums of all time. Radiohead are now one of the most critically-revered bands on the planet. A few years ago, I was happy to be in about the 215th row when they played an open-air concert in downtown Chicago to 75,000 people.

So don't look a gift Bieber in the mouth, I guess -- which is no problem for me, since I can't get my eyes off his magical hair. And who knows, fellow Bieber haters, maybe we're witnessing the dawn of a new American -- err, Canadian -- hero. Or maybe he'll be the flash-in-the-pan that we're all expecting. All I care about is that I made two little girls super happy by buying a DVD. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go listen to something -- ANYTHING -- that doesn't involve the word "baby."

COLUMN: Mechanic

2011-06-20T11:18:00.002-05:00

Over the years, I've compiled a lengthy list of occupations that you couldn't pay me enough to do. After this past week, there's a new career atop that list: Auto Mechanic.

For starters, I know absolutely nothing about the inner workings of cars. I know where the gas goes. I'm pretty sure I know where the oil goes. I know that Brian Vickers is my favorite NASCAR driver and he's way overdue for another win. Beyond that, cars move by magic as far as I'm concerned.

Yes, yes, I know: the ignition ignites and causes the rotors to rotate and the pistons to, umm, pistate. But then the radio comes on and I forget about caring how the car works because I'm too busy singing along to "Baby Got Back." From there, it's all in the hands of the magical pixies that presumably live under the hood and make the car move until a little light comes on my dashboard telling me to "check engine" -- or rather telling me to tell my mechanic to "check engine" because MY version of checking the engine would be to open the hood and go, "Yep, that's an engine, alrighty."

I'm kind of okay with being clueless about cars. I mean, to each their own, right? I'm sure some of you can't beat match dance music or write a newspaper column (or, in one of my better moments, do both at the same time.) But in being an eternal noob at all things mechanical, it's pretty easy for me to get snowed over by mechanics.

I'll guarantee it's happened before. When I was in college, I had a beater car (it might rhyme with "Tord Fescort") that was in the garage more than it wasn't. And every time the car would demand service, I'd hear something like, "Well, you brought the car in for a blown headlight. Well, we replaced the headlight, but while we were down there, we just happened to notice that your flux capacitor's leakin' accelerator fluid all over the cam drive piston defibrillator. See the wear on this carburetor belt here? That means your timing chain's faulty and as a result, you're gonna need a whole new gasket bearing shaft. We can get you back up and running for, oh, $850 or so."

And invariably, I'd have to get my dad on the phone and listen to the two of them talk Martian for a while before settling on some weird automotive compromise wherein they replace only HALF the faulty stuff that they've probably just made up, and then the car would run fine until the OTHER headlight would blow out a month later and they'd find another $850 of imaginary problems.

Finally, though, I found a mechanic that, freakishly, I trust. It takes a lot of patience to work on a Beetle given that the entire engine's crammed under the dashboard, but my current mechanic's never complained once. In the five years that I've been going to him regularly, I've gotten nothing but great service, fair prices, and the patience required to deal with an automoron like myself. If I go there with a problem and he thinks I can get a better rate elsewhere, he refers me. If he thinks I can get a cheaper part on my own, he tells me how to order it. It's the kind of service that almost mandates I tell all my friends and refer anyone and everyone I can.

This brings me to last week. I thought I'd swing by the garage for a quick oil change. In addition, I'd just blown the fuse to my accessory plugs, and a roadtrip sans iPod is a roadtrip sans Shane. So there I was, waiting in the lobby, when in walked, shall we say, a less-than-pleased customer.

I'm not normally an eavesdropper -- oh, who am I kidding? Yes I am. But this guy was almost yelling, so it wasn't really a chore to get roped in. Here's what I quickly gathered:

This guy was the ex-husband. He and the ex-wife had recently bought a car from an out-of-towner for their daughter. The car had some problems right away, so they spent $250 at an out-of-town garage that was unable to diagnose the problem. Ex-hubby had to leave town for work, so the ex-wife brings the car back to the QC and to my local garage. They find the problem easily and give her the estimate. But they ALSO find an internal oil leak that was rapidly destroying other parts of the engine. They explained to the wife that the other problems wouldn't stop the car from running, but if they weren't addressed, all sorts of higgeldy-piggeldy would be on the horizon. The ex-wife gave permission to do the whole fix for a four-digit figure of some kind, and now ex-hubby was marching in livid to accuse them of doing the same kind of snow job on the wife that I'm pretty sure other garages had pulled on me in the past.

So while my mechanic was trying to talk this guy down from the ceiling, it made me think a lot about trust, and what a precious commodity it really is these days. Should I NOT be trusting my mechanic after all? If I was in this guy's situation, would I be just as livid? Should I go through life with an eyebrow raised at everyone and their motives?

After sitting there for a bit, I decided my answer would be a resounding NO. A world where you can't trust your fellow man is a world worth avoiding. Sure, you may end up getting burned once or twice by a scumbag or two, but I'd like to think that human nature isn't consistently evil, shallow, and self-serving. All I know is that in five years, I've never gotten service from this garage that was remotely suspect.

After a few minutes of almost-yelling, the guy had to pause while my mechanic took a call. That's when he spun on ME.

"I hope to hell you're not letting them work on YOUR car, buddy!" the guy said.

"Actually," I replied, "I let them work on my car anytime it breaks down. This is the first garage I've ever been to in town that treats me and my car with respect. I trust them, plain and simple. They're good guys and they do a good job."

The guy shut up (a small miracle in and of itself.) And after giving my mechanic a little more static, he left. Afterwards, I found out that the rest of the family had been in earlier and had to be forcibly removed from the premises. We both agreed that if they had to be hot, why not be hot at the out-of-town garage that charged $250 to find nothing? At least their hefty repair bill fixed the problem.

As for MY oil change and fuse replacement? My total bill was a whopping $18 -- yet more evidence that I've picked a great garage. Sometimes it just feels good to trust someone else. Here's where I'd make a passioned plea for everyone to put a little more trust in your fellow man -- but I keep losing my train of thought. I'm too busy singing along to "Baby Got Back."

COLUMN: Grill

2011-06-20T11:09:00.003-05:00

When it comes to shopping, I demand immediate gratification.

We live in the age of internet commerce, and you'd think someone as lazy as me would love it. The prospect of walking five steps from my couch to my computer sounds a heck of a lot better than an afternoon spent tromping through the mall. Too bad, then, that I just can't buy something without immediately possessing it.

Some people like to comparison shop for the best deals. Not me. If I take that much time, the yucky voice in my brain -- you know, the smart, mature, and thrifty one -- starts invading my inner monologue with such awful thoughts as "you don't really need this" and "you really can't afford this." I've found it's MUCH better to surprise your Inner Responsibility with a well-timed strategy of impulse shopping and credit cards. At the end of the day, you might end up broke -- but at least you'll have a brand new Blu-Ray player to pass the time until the repo man comes.

The same goes for e-shopping. If I needed new underwear, I could quite easily hop on my computer, go to Undies.com, and have bountiful amounts of skivvies delivered to my door in 7-10 days. But you know what happens when I get up from that computer? I'll still be wearing ratty undies for 7-10 days. E-commerce sucks the fun out of the quintessential shopping experience: Want -> Buy -> Have. It should NEVER be Want -> Buy -> 7-10 days of yearning mixed with a healthy dose of fiscal regret. Every time you click that "buy" button, it's like being a kid on December 15th and knowing there's an interminable 10-day wait until Christmas.

My girlfriend Amy is one of those annoying smart shopper types. She researches her purchases, clips coupons, makes lists and checks them twice. She'll walk in with bulging bags of new purchases under each arm and I'll be tempted to give her grief for over-spending when she'll proudly announce that she spent less than $20 on the whole pile. She claims I'm the one who needs the occasional lecture on over-spending, which might have filaments of truth were it not so darn fun. Take last weekend for instance.

It was Friday night, and we had just pulled into my garage. As I opened the door, I caught the most magical scent in the world wafting our way. Neighbor Russ was grilling out, and it couldn't have smelled better. I was making excuses to linger in the back yard, mouth watering -- and did I mention that we'd JUST returned with full bellies from dinner ourselves?

So when Amy asked me what we should do with our weekend, I didn't even have to breathe. "LETSGOBUYAGRILLANDGRILLOUTANDEATGRILLEDFOODANDITWILLBEGOOD!"

Neighbor Russ didn't give up any of his chicken wings, but he DID tell me that he saw a great deal on grills at a local grocery store, so that's where I pulled Amy.

"Let's take a look at the features," Amy said.

I already had: (a) It was silver, (b) it was shiny, and (c) it looked awesome.

"We should go home and do some research and see if this is the best grill for the money," said Amy. At least that's what I assumed she said. I was already on my way to the checkout line.

Five minutes later, I was proudly marching outside with my new grill. Well, okay, more like proudly sweating and grunting and almost killing an innocent family while precariously balancing a giant box on a less-than-giant dolly. That's when I got to my car and realized the first bump in the road of this impulse buy. Some thirteen years ago, I decided a Volkswagen Beetle would be a neat impulse buy. I love my car, but of the many things it's known for, space isn't one of them. One look at the box, then one look at the car, and then one ache to the head because this grill wasn't coming home in the Wonderbug.

Ever want to confuse a grocery store clerk? Buy a huge grill, then ask for a dolly to get it to your car, lug it all the way outside, then lug it BACK and tell them to keep an eye on it while you go get a bigger car. Amy's car was a tight fit, but we eventually got it loaded.

"We should go to your house and see what we need to assemble this thing," Amy said. Or maybe she didn't. I dunno. I was too busy calling up all of my friends.

"DUUUDE! GRILL PARRRRTY!! BRING YO SELF!! FOOD'S ON ME!!"

Ever want to REALLY confuse a grocery store clerk? Buy a grill, leave with it, come back with it, leave with it again, then come back WITHOUT it. Next thing I knew, I was running down aisles grabbing anything grillable. Hamburgers, veggie burgers, brats, corn on the cob -- a smorgasbord of flavor just waiting to be charred and carcinogized.

Then I opened the box. Rather, once all my hungry friends were pulling up, I opened the box. It turns out that grills do not simply pop out of the box pre-assembled. It also turns out that it was a bad move to NOT have ever impulse-bought a course in Mandarin Chinese. With boxes inside boxes handily marked in hand-written Chinese, this thing was the Rubik's Cube of grills. While Friend Jason and I were on hands and knees staring at an incomprehensible array of tiny grill parts, Amy called her dad.

Within ten minutes, he was over, toolbox in hand. Within twenty minutes, parts weren't fitting right. Within thirty minutes, he was asking if Amy was out of earshot so he could appropriately curse. Within forty minutes, we had given up for the night. And within thirty minutes or less after that, dinner was served -- thanks to Domino's.

So maybe it's possible to be a TAD bit too impulsive sometimes. But this story doesn't end with pizza. Amy's dad was back over at the crack of dawn, and by the time I was even awake, my dream of a shiny new fancy grill was a reality. My friends might not have come back the next night, but it was okay -- more food for me. And when Amy's little sister told me that she was eating "the best corn of her life," I swear I almost started crying.

So, unless you're immune to the heavenly smell of cinged meat, you might want to give my house a wide berth this week. I'm going non-stop until I run out of propane or stomach room, whichever happens first.

COLUMN: End of the World

2011-06-20T11:07:00.001-05:00

Sooo... this is what the afterlife feels like, eh? And to think, all I wanted was a Thickburger.

There I was, in the drive-thru at the Rock Island Hardee's, innocently living my carefree life, when I glanced to the right and spotted the billboard:

"BLOW THE TRUMPET... WARN THE PEOPLE -Ezekiel 33:3. Judgement Day is May 21, 2011." Or perhaps it said "judgment day." Frankly, I'm always a bit leery of words that can be acceptably spelled in more than one way. That's why I always knew Gaddafi (or Khadafi or Qaddafi or Gadhafi or Khadafy) was bad news.

The point is, I KNEW I'd forgotten something on my to-do list for this week. Buy deodorant? Check. Make mortgage payment? Check. Write newspaper column? Check. Prep for judgement day? Oh, shoot.

Now, I'm no expert on Christianity or anything, but the last time I checked, I'm pretty sure the Book of Mark tells us about Judgement Day that "of that day and that hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels which are in heaven, neither the Son, but the Father." Well, the Father and, apparantly, a guy in California named Harold Camping.

I've written about Harold before. He runs an organization called Family Radio Worldwide, and it's Harold's opinion that we'll NEVER know who wins "American Idol" this season. No, we'll all be far too busy dealing with the end of days. Employing some creative math and an odd quasi-literal interpretation of the Bible (something about the Noadic flood and "one day is with the Lord as a thousand years,") Camping has taken to the internet and the airwaves with the revelation that Judgement Day comes on May 21st, 2011. I even wrote it on my desk calendar a few months back: "May 21st - End of World." Its right there between Rhubarb Appreciation Day and National Old Time Player Piano Day (the latter of which may be postponing celebrations indefinitely.)

There's just one problem. May 21st was (gulp) yesterday. This column, which I'm sitting down to write on the Monday prior, won't publish until May 22nd. Which means it may not publish at all. In fact, if you ARE reading this now, I'd imagine that one of two scenarios must be at play:

(1) Camping was wrong. Surely this can't be. I mean, he already got it wrong once before when he proclaimed twenty years ago that the Rapture would occur on September 6, 1994. Instead, this turned out to be the date that Michael Jackson and Lisa-Marie Presley made out onstage at the MTV Music Awards, so I can kinda see his confusion. Camping later blamed this on a math error. Surely he can't have made TWO errors, right? I mean, what are the odds?

(2) The Rapture has occurred, and you, unfortunately, were left behind. Bummer. Of course, this would also mean that a majority of the layout, printing, post-press, and distribution departments of our paper suffered the same fate, since your Sunday issue was apparantly still delivered on-time. Frankly, I'd prefer a happier ending for my co-workers. Also interesting: it's nice to know that, even if the world DID end in a hailstorm of fire and brimstone and trumpets aplenty, we still saw fit to include an Arts & Living section in your Sunday edition for you to peruse in your apocalypse down time.

Clearly, I think Camping's claims are bogus. More so, it's tragic that his followers have basically quit their jobs and emptied their bank accounts to travel the world and spread the news. Unless, of course, he's right, in which case I'll plead a hearty "D'oh!" to whomever (or maybe Whomever) I can. But frankly I hope that every one of us gets to live a colorful and spiritual life until a ripe old age. That said, something DID happen the other day that scares me a bit. Something that might just be a clear-cut sign that the end of the world COULD, in fact, be nigh:

I MADE DINNER FOR MYSELF. SEVERAL TIMES. IN A ROW.

Those who read my column on a regular basis (thanks!) know that I'm rather pre-disposed to eating out. In fact, I could usually count on one hand the number of home-cooked meals that I consume in a year (and that includes those cooked by my mom during major holidays.) That is, until I miraculously landed my super awesome girlfriend. Over the past two years, Amy has taught me that the kitchen is NOT, as I was previously unaware, for display purposes only. She's helped me stock the fridge, cooked many a meal, and even done most of the clean-up afterwards. For a hapless and helpless man-boy such as myself, it's been a dream come true.

But last month, Amy was gone. First on a business trip, then on a vacation to visit an old friend. For almost fourteen days, I was once again responsible for feeding myself. Instinctively, my thoughts turned to my old pal Taco Bell, until I realized that a whole lot of food in the fridge would be going to waste if I didn't figure out how to get it in my mouth. Take these eggs, for example.

Eggs are fun. They're goofy shaped, you get to crack them, and you can make them in a kajillion different ways. I just didn't know how - 40 years old and eggs remained a mystery to me. But I'm a smart guy with access to modern technology, common sense, and untold resources. So I did what any intelligent person faced with an uncooked egg would do:

I googled "how to cook an egg."

Funnily enough, there's a website devoted to it. And I'll guarantee you that it's last 20,000,000 visitors have all been single guys. Still, I learned how much Pam to spray in the pan, how hot to make the stove, and when to flip. At the end, I had some not-too-bad-if-I-do-say-so-myself eggs. And that was just the start. My culinary talents soon extended to sandwiches, milkshakes, fish sticks, and beyond. By the time Amy got back, I was grilling burgers and experimenting with the best homemade sauces to accent my broccoli florets. It turns out I CAN COOK. And thus far, no flying horsemen as a result.

If only I'd discovered this earlier, I'd have been making my OWN thickburger and living in blissful ignorance of our pending doom. I'm playing the odds, though, and marinating some chicken Friday night - if the world DIDN'T end yesterday, I'll be celebrating with a full stomach.

COLUMN: Snakes

2011-06-20T11:05:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, the house that I now call my own was built. This was about a decade ago. And way back then, whoever owned the place cared about the lawn. Hostas and decorative bushes lined the front of the house. Hydrangeas were planted on the south side to add some floral edging. On the north side, the new home was christened by the arrival of a small Japanese maple sapling. Home sweet home.

And from what I can see, that was the last time anybody looked at or cared about the lawn of this property until I moved in one year ago.

The Japanese maple? Dead as a doornail. The hydrangeas had grown together, merged, and transformed into some kind of Optimus Prime hydrangea monster -- half taller than my girlfriend, the other half collapsed under its own weight. And as for whatever the heck these bushes out front were supposed to be? Your guess is as good as mine. The whole mess had become so overgrown with weeds that I was clueless as to what was supposed to be there and what was an opportunistic passing seed in the wind forging a new homestead. The front of my house was little more than a habitat for passing chupacabra.

Because I bought the house in mid-summer, I let things slide last year. This spring, though, it was time for a little creative editing of Mother Nature.

That's when I set forth my Yard Work Action Plan, and I've got to tell you, it was exhausting. And now that I'm an expert in yard maintenance, perhaps it's unfair to hold all this knowledge myself. Many of you are first-time homeowners yourselves, and I couldn't sleep at night knowing that I'd failed to mentor those who so desperately need it.

Therefore I will share with you all my expertise. The hard work that I put into my lawn care can be divided into three major steps:

(1) Looking out the window and assessing the situation.
(2) Picking up the telephone and calling a lawn care service.
(3) While paying careful attention not to strain fingers, sign check and hand to lawn care guy.

I told you it was rough.

My lawn guy did an awesome job. I found him thanks to an ad right here in the Dispatch/Argus, and I'll even give him a personal plug later in this column. In a whirlwind, the maple was gone, the hydrangeas pruned, and my bramble patch out front totally obliterated.

While they worked, my girlfriend and I sat inside, watching TV and feeling horribly guilty about sitting inside and watching TV. We kept the window open, though, as if to somehow be part of the action. That was when I heard this exchange from outside:

"Blah blah blah." "Blabbity blah blah, blah blah." "Blah. Blah-blabbity-bab SNAKE blah blahity." "Blah blah GET IT!"

Say whaaaa? Did I hear SNAKE?

And that, dear friends, was the moment of my lawn care retirement. I hate spiders, bugs, and bees, but I'm deathly afraid of snakes. They're abominations of nature. If you're gonna be a creepy reptile and live in my yard, at the very least you should man up and grow some legs. I sincerely thought that living in the city, the last thing you had to worry about was snakes.

I grew up in the country, in an earth-sheltered "underground" home built into a hillside. "Cave sweet cave," as my dad said. One day, my mom and I were alone in the house while my dad was at work. Earlier, he'd been working on the roof to re-seal a skylight window that hung over the house's central courtyard. I was laying on my bedroom floor, reading a book, when I heard a noise and saw some movement. I looked up in just enough time to see a very unamused garter snake fall from the skylight onto the floor some six feet away and start slithering straight at me. My scream was so loud I almost broke my larynx. The whole nasty episode ended with my mom - a fellow snakeophobe - grabbing the thing with a pair of kitchen tongs while the two of us shrieked together like banshees. It was NOT my best moment.

I went out around sunset to admire my new lawn only to find a snake (the same one? a new one?) sunning himself under the newly-exposed porch. I took a rake and tried to toss him off my land but snakes don't fling as far as you'd want them to. Instead, it landed in the middle of the yard, coiled up, rose, and tried to take a big ol' chomp off the rake. I held back my scream and instinctively flung him into the street, where he immediately slithered into a storm drain and is now probably working at great lengths and expense to figure out how to snake up my toilet to bite my butt with gleeful abandon.

I got home tonight, now constantly looking straight down as I walk, when I noticed two of my neighbors surrounding his basement window well. He had just found THREE snakes hiding out down there, including one that had somehow made it inside the first of his two window panes. This is thoroughly unacceptable. If you're good with math, that makes 4 if not potentially 5 snake sightings in spitting vicinity of my yard in a 24-hour period. And my neighbor just told me, "Oh yeah, we get 'em all the time. They'll get in your basement window, just wait."

I'm not waiting. When I moved in, my dad replaced and insulated the basement window, so I called him up at light speed.

"DAD!" I said before he could even get a word out. "Can you promise me that no snake will get through my basement window and come say howdy while I'm watching TV?"

"Well," my dad replied. "Let me ask you a question. Now, these snakes that you've been seeing... would you say they're bigger or smaller than a molecule of air?"

"Umm... bigger?"

"Then stop worrying, because I sealed that window airtight."

There are times when it's good to have absolute and total blind faith in your father, and this is one of them. I am equipped to do MANY things in this life, but running a snake ranch is NOT one of them. As I type, I'm pretty sure I can hear them outside, speaking in parsel-tongue, conspiring to bite whomever mowed down their habitat.

Which is why I name-drop as promised and remind all snakes that the blame falls squarely on John at QC Quality Lawn Care. I'm just the dude who signs the checks. But if any of you snakes insist on requesting a meeting, I'll be available the next time I step out onto my lawn. How's December sound for you?

COLUMN: Royal Wedding

2011-06-20T11:03:00.002-05:00

As a weekly columnist prone to writing about whatever's happened in my life over the past seven days, occasionally I worry about revealing TOO much. Not that I have any particularly embarassing skeletons in the closet or lead any kind of exciting double life -- but still, I can't help but feel that some things should simply remain private.

However, there's no good way to begin this story except to admit to you all that, in the wee morning hours of April 29th, I had bad gas.

So bad, in fact, that it woke me in the middle of the night. "Ugh," I simultaneously thought and said as I zombie-walked to the bathroom. By the time it was all over (a column I'll save for the next issue of Gastrointestinal Digest Monthly,) I sauntered back to bed far more awake than I ever cared to be at 4:30 a.m. That's why I decided to turn on the TV for a few minutes in hopes of getting lulled back to sleep.

And THAT, my friends, is how yours truly got an unintentional last-minute invitation to the Royal Wedding. The TV sprung to life at the exact moment Kate Middleton was entering Westminster Abbey, and by the time I fell back asleep, she was Mrs. Prince William Arthur Philip Louie Louie Me Gotta Go And The Revolution. And once again -- with all due apologies to ladies, Britons, and Elton John fans worldwide -- I just don't get it. But I think I've narrowed it down to a few select reasons, which I shall bestow upon you as an essay entitled...

Why Shane Doesn't Give A Flying Fascinator About The Royal Wedding

(1) I'm a guy. This means that I'm biologically predisposed to roll my eyes at any event featuring dresses, flowers and hats as major selling points. I'm just not a wedding kinda guy. Don't get me wrong -- when I get married, I'm going to care a heck of a lot about dresses and flowers -- but that's only because I know the future Mrs. Me enjoys that kinda stuff. But if it's a wedding that affects me in absolutely no way, shape, or form? Watching it unfold was about as exciting as watching paint dry. I found myself viewing it not unlike a NASCAR race -- waiting for any kind of trip, stumble, or misspoken name to liven things up. Sadly, the whole affair went as smooth and boring as I'd feared. Yawn. And as for the hats? No one can ever mock me again for my beloved ill-fitting Greek fisherman's cap, because the hats and fascinators on display that morning fell squarely into two camps: (a) things that looked like dead animals and (b) things that I'm pretty sure I saw Judy Jetson wear. If THAT'S what's passing for high fashion these days, my smelly cap should land me a GQ cover any day now.

(2) It's amateur hour for Anglophiles. For years, I used to run a website devoted to US fans of UK pop culture. I've got lifelong American friends who still to this day insert words like "loo" and "petrol" into everyday conversation. I used to stay up until 4 a.m. just to place mail orders with London record shops. If anybody's a fan of British culture around here, it's me. Yet last week, Americans were coming out of the woodwork to drink tea, wave the Union Jack, and cry over two people getting married a thousand miles away. There were girls in our office that held 3 a.m. Royal Wedding parties and talked endlessly about the Middleton clan as though they were on a first name basis with the entire extended family. When I used to DJ down in the District, we joked that no regulars ever came out on New Year's Eve. Same rule applies here. Let the amateurs have their royal wedding - come see me once you own the entire Smiths discography and can act out every Monty Python sketch from memory.

(3) What purpose doth the royal family even serve any more? Maybe I'd care more if these folks actually RAN the country they're supposed to represent, but they don't. As far as I can tell, the entire purpose of the royal family is to occasionally put on royal weddings. And if that's the case, well then I say "Brava!" Mission accomplished - it was a perfectly opulent pomp and pointless ceremony to befit such a pomp and pointless monarchy. Perhaps I'd have more of a vested interest in the whole affair if the Queen occasionally, oh I dunno, declared war on Iceland or something. And then she could force her army of knights into battle -- you know, such brave souls of combat like Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Elton John, Sir Ian McKellan, and Sir Anthony Hopkins... and they all have to occasionally don swords and fight Bjork. Then maybe I'd care.

(4) Hi-definition ruined the magic. I have vague memories of the wedding of Prince Charles & Diana Spencer, though I hope I didn't wake up at 4:30 a.m. for that one, too. What I remember was the same sort of spell-binding, fairy-tale, gag-me-with-a-spoon regal splendor of this one, but with a bit of a difference. With Charles & Di, it really did seem like you were watching a movie and catching an illicit glimpse of a Cinderella world you'd never be a part of. THIS wedding, though, I enjoyed in crystal clear hi-definition -- and I think it stripped the magic right off the affair. Suddenly, Westminster Abbey seemed royally REAL. It wasn't a fairy tale. It was just regular folk with the same pock marks and balding heads as you and me. We got to see the entire wedding as though we were there -- and that's no place for common folk like us.

(5) But most importantly, I don't give a flying fascinator about the royal wedding because no one asked me to come DJ the reception. You'd think the royal wedding planners wouldn't have made such a terrible oversight, but it appears they forgot to have me come play "Y.M.C.A." for the bridal party. What would be more fun than teaching Queen Elizabeth how to shake her royal fanny to the Cha-Cha Slide? And let's be honest, nothing brings out regal splendor quite like a good Chicken Dance (some people certainly had the right hats for it, that's for sure.) And tell me they wouldn't have made a KILLING from some well-timed dollar dances, no? It's all a huge missed opportunity.

It's enough to give me a stomach ache. Wait, nope, that's just gas again.

COLUMN: Celebrity Apprentice

2011-06-20T11:00:00.002-05:00

It's no real secret that I've had a long-standing, sordid, and emotional love affair with bad TV.

I grew up on a steady diet of "Knight Rider," "The A-Team," "BJ and the Bear," and "The Dukes of Hazzard." My favorite show as a kid was a swiftly-cancelled series called "Salvage 1," starring Andy Griffith as a junkman who builds a rocket out of scrap metal and flies it to the moon to harvest space junk. (No foolin'. Look it up.)

In college, bereft of cable, my friends and I would spend hours in the dorms watching the home shopping stylings of John Cremeans aka The Late Nite Doctor of Shopology. Just the other day, I reached an "I'm-too-lazy-to-find-the-remote" mode and ended up watching an entire afternoon's worth of "Sonny With A Chance" on the Disney Channel. My girlfriend can testify that she once caught me in midst of an entire afternoon of down-with-men Lifetime movies.

In other words, I know bad TV. The denizens of the D-List have long been my life's companions. Yet there's one major pitfall of lowest common denominator television that I have, until recently, managed to avoid.

I like to split reality TV into two categories: Classy and Trashy. On the classy side exist shows that I watch without shame: "American Idol," "The Amazing Race," paranormal shows, and anything involving deadliest catches and/or ice road truckers. On the other side? The shows even MY thick skin can't sit through: The Hills, Jersey Shore, teen moms, "real" housewives, and anything involving "celebrities" dating, skating, and/or dancing around.

That said, I've recently fallen under the spell of a show I would normally throw in the trash bin: the current season of "Celebrity Apprentice."

Have you guys seen this fabulous trainwreck yet? Surely by now you know how the show works. Twelve "celebrities" compete against each other for charity in a series of blatant product placements disguised as simple marketing tasks. At the end of every episode, the task results are assessed, resulting in one celebrity being "fired" by famed entrepreneur, hair maven, and (can I REALLY be saying this?) arguable GOP presidential frontrunner Donald Trump.

This year, though, Trump's spotlight-hogging has taken a backseat to the wondrous shenanigans of the almost-perfect cast of celebrity has-beens and wanna-bes. In the mix this year? Former "View" co-host (and mega diva) Star Jones, "Real Housewives" star (and mega diva) Nene Leakes, singing sensation (and mega diva) Dionne Warwick, possible Martian (and mega diva) LaToya Jackson... get the pattern? On the men's side, you've got doting rock god Meat Loaf, hip hop mogul Lil Jon, nefarious "Survivor" winner Richard Hatch, and the always bat-poop crazy Gary Busey.

The result is the most hysterical television I've seen all season. Just the other day, Busey's insane antics caused poor grandfather-ly Meat Loaf to scream at him like a mental patient, while the claws have come out full throttle on the women's side and evidence mounts that Dionne Warwick might be the most evil person on the planet. When the sanest character turns out to be a rapper whose biggest contribution to society thus far is yellin "Yeeeeeeah!", you know it's a show worth watching.

The whole thing's got me thinking, though -- could it be even BETTER? Could there be an even better trainwreck of a cast to torment each other and The Donald to the brink of sanity? I think I've figured out the perfect mix. If I was casting director of the next season of Celebrity Apprentice, here's who I'd go for:

* LADY GAGA - A good chunk of the tasks thrown at celebrities involve putting them into embarassing, slightly awkward situations. But is it possible to embarass someone who wears a meat dress to the MTV awards? The only downfall is that every idea she'd bring to the table would have probably been done by Madonna a decade ago.

* ROSIE O'DONNELL - Why should only the CELEBRITIES have to squirm? Rosie and Trump's war of words have been going on for years now - let's let them duke it out in a boardroom cage match and make life rough for The Donald for once.

* MIKE TYSON - In case Rosie chickens out. I just want to see Donald Trump wag his finger at Tyson's face and tell him he's fired. He might not make it out of the boardroom with both ears intact.

* BILL CLINTON - To survive in The Apprentice, you've got to give good boardroom speech, and no-one's better at covering their own butt than our pal Bill. Say what you want about his presidency, the man might just be the best debater of this generation. Plus I just want to see him have to sell ice cream or make a painting or whatever ridiculous task Trump dishes out.

* PAUL LYNDE - Because a team just isn't a team without a snarky effeminate deviant, and no one did it better than our favorite center square. Just one problem -- he's long dead. Which means we need:

* RYAN BUELL, host of A&E's Paranormal State, to communicate with the ghost of Paul Lynde and be there just in case Trump challenges the team to rid a farmhouse of a demonic poltergeist. Hey, always be prepared, I say.

* MUAMMAR KADHAFI - "Muammar, you've been Project Manager of Libya for a record 42 years, and frankly, it's a friggin' mess. Muammar, you're fired." And you thought Trump would make a BAD president, didn't ya?

* KATIE HOLMES - Because of her exceptional leadership skills and business savvy and NOT because she's super cute because I clearly don't find her attractive because I clearly know my girlfriend reads this column. But when one's girlfriend makes one too many references to having a crush on a certain local weatherman (back off, Greg Dutra,) one feels slightly justified in making a passing Katie reference.

* OPRAH - Because it'd be fun to try and watch The Donald boss around someone with MORE money than him, wouldn't it?

* CHARLIE SHEEN - Because a tiger-blooded warlock armed with violent torpedos of truth might just have the winning edge in this circus.

Ah well, a fella can dream, eh? In the meantime, my money's on Lil Jon. Actually, my money's probably on a new present for my girlfriend to make up for calling Katie Holmes cute in print. Either way, you'll have to excuse me. I'm certain there's something horrible on TV that I need to be watching.

COLUMN: Porch

2011-06-20T10:55:00.002-05:00

9:02 p.m. "Man, I wish there was someplace we could go and just sit around outside for a while."

It was Saturday night and me, Amy, and my best friend Jason had just left D'alessandro's in Rock Island with full bellies and good moods -- and it just seemed like a waste to end the night. Early spring is my absolute favorite time of the year. It's that small fragile window when you can be outside without humidity or spiders or mosquitos or moths or mayflies or all that other gross stuff they call "nature."

That was when Amy pointed out the obvious.

"Umm, duh," she said. "You DID buy a house. You have a porch now."

Wow. I DO have a porch now. Growing up in the country, our patio looked out on a serene view of a massive front yard, drifting hills of pasture, and nature aplenty. It was a midwestern paradise for some, I'm sure, but I never thought about hanging out there. If I was going to be outside, I wanted to look at something more exciting than grass.

When I first moved to college, my dorm window overlooked the parking lot, and I remember spending those first few nights away from home with the lights out, just staring out and people watching. In Rock Island, people watching is a way of life. You can drive around anywhere in town and spot folks on their porches just watching the world go by. Now, I've got a porch of my own, and that's where the three of us headed as soon as we got back.

9:12 p.m. Talk immediately turns towards the giant tree that grows in my front yard. It's majestic, but is it growing out over the road too low for passing tall trucks? Amy thinks maybe. Jason and I think it's fine.

9:14 p.m. Jason is now standing in the middle of the street, holding a 5' rake over his 7' frame to demonstrate that it touches the lowest tree limb at 12'. This is a nifty science experiment, except none of us know the height of the average truck. We decide that not enough trucks run down our street to care.

9:18 p.m. Amy: "What's the verb for when you invent something and then make it?" This is the intellectual high point of the entire evening.

9:20 p.m. We are now quabbling over whether "create," "produce," or "manufacture" is the best answer to this question.

9:22 p.m. A dude walks by, swearing into his cell phone -- but we rapidly realize he's not swearing INTO his phone, but AT his phone, which has apparantly failed to send a text message of some importance.

9:23 p.m. We agree that "manufacture" is definitely best. Trouble is, I can't remotely remember why she asked this in the first place.

9:25 p.m. Our two neighbors across the street couldn't be more different. House on the Right is a bit of a fixer-upper -- collapsed porch, overgrown lawn (already?!), and blocked windows emitting dim light from rooms in which I can only assume boiling vats of soup await curious neighborhood children. House on the Left is so immaculately landscaped that dark magic MUST be involved.

7:28 p.m., Three Days Into the Future: I just went to type, "our two neighbors across the street," but it came out "our two neighbors across the hall." Parts of my brain still live in my old apartment, methinks.

9:28 p.m. We notice that behind the two houses and across an alley, there's activity in an upstairs window, but it's too far away to see anything except a blob that may or may not be in a shiny red dress. Amy lectures us that leering into a stranger's window isn't just creepy, it might actually be illegal. Point taken, but are you a peeping tom if you're too far away to even ascertain the sex of your target? It's up for debate.

9:35 p.m. A guy walks by and asks us if we have seven cents. I'm pretty sure the same guy asked me for seven cents over five years ago down in the District. I hope he hasn't been seeking the same seven cents all these years.

9:40 p.m. Red Blob keeps repeating the same motions over and over again: She steps in front of the window, and then back... and to the left. Back... and to the left. It's like watching the peeping tom version of the Zapruder film. We try not to stare, but it's the only motion at the moment, and it's red and shiny. But what on Earth is he/she doing? The cha-cha slide?

9:45 p.m. You know a car stereo is impressive when you can clearly hear song lyrics while it's parked at a gas station over a block away. A rapper ensures us that it's alright to smoke narcotics because "that's how it's supposed to be when you're living young and wild and free." I, meanwhile, wonder if I should take a Claritin.

9:47 p.m. Amy heads inside. We worry she's become bored of the porch life until we realize she's running around the house, performing every mundane task she can think of to see if ANY of them involve the back-and-to-the-left motion of Red Blob. "Maybe she's doing dishes... oddly." Are you a peeping tom if you ask your girlfriend if she knows where the telephoto lens for your camera is? The answer is a definite yes and we think twice.

9:50 p.m. Awesome! My wireless works on my porch. Amy and Jason talk about how nice nature is or something lame like that. I, meanwhile, watch highlights of tonight's NASCAR race.

9:55 p.m. The three of us are staring squinty-eyed at Red Blob when a Rock Island police cruiser drives by. The officer waves and asks how we're doing. The answer? SHAMEFULLY, that's how we do. Thank God I didn't grab that camera. Time to look at ANYTHING but Red Blob. Our choice? The black blob that appears to be hanging on the wall behind Red Blob. We are sad, sad people. But what IS that thing?

10:01 p.m. An opossum wanders across the street, onto my lawn, looks at us, and clearly says with his eyes that we don't belong here. We decide to start packing up the lawn chairs.

10:05 p.m. In a flurry of activity, Red Blob shuts the window and turns out the light. Sadly, this is the most entertaining Saturday night any of us have had in an awfully long time.

7:00 p.m., One Day Into The Future. Amy asks me what my column's going to be about. I tell her it's about our exciting night on the porch. She tells me definitely NOT to make us look like creepy pervs who like to leer in our distant neighbor's window. I tell her not to worry. I just like my porch.

COLUMN: Million Dollars

2011-04-11T17:00:00.001-05:00

I spent last Saturday night in the company of a good friend and fellow writer. And, as the evening progressed, our discussion turned towards the sorts of heady, highly refined intellectual discourse that you'd naturally expect from two literary giants.

Namely: one million dollars, and why neither one of us has managed to earn it yet.

I went to college, I worked hard for that degree that's currently sitting in a dusty box somewhere in my basement. I've paid my dues time after time, as Freddie Mercury might say. It's been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise, I've had my share of sand kicked in my face, and now it's high time somebody ponied up cold hard cash for my trouble.

I know, there are a LOT of folks out there who have it WAY worse than me, and I'm not taking for granted the awesome job and life I've already been blessed with. But sometimes you turn on the TV and you just can't help going green with envy. Snooki from The Jersey Shore is now a multi-millionaire. That just ain't right. Charlie Sheen, before exploding and telling the world that he deserves MORE money, was making an estimated $1.25 million per episode of "Two and a Half Men." That equates to roughly $53,000 per MINUTE. In ONE SECOND of work, Charlie Sheen makes more than most of us do in a week.

So, yes, jealousy is an awful side to show, and we're truly not supposed to covet our neighbor's anything, but the painful truth is that I'm likely to be out-earned this year by the little girl who sings that "It's Frii-EEE-Day, Frii-EEE-Day" song, and I can't help but think this means that society is somehow irreparably broken.

Clearly, though, a million dollars isn't going to be falling off a tree in my vicinity any time soon (I've checked into it.) So, if I truly want to start earning mad loot, I need to get a little proactive, stop whining, suck it up, and write me a New York Times best-seller. The way I see it, I've got the skills to attempt a couple of endeavors here:

(1) I could harness my one true passion and write a non-fiction charmer celebrating pop culture in all its glory. The only problem is that it's a crowded field already and most of our celebrated pop culture writers come with a celebrated pedigree. I can't quite imagine a dustjacket about-the-author going, "Shane Brown is some dude from the Midwest who likes to sit on his couch and watch loads of TV. It's kind of sad, really."

But as much as I admire my pedigreed pop culture nerdist elders, I'm still convinced that I could do a better job. I recently picked up Rob Sheffield's acclaimed new high school memoir, "Talking to Girls About Duran Duran" (which, incidentally, in MY school would have been titled, "Getting Beat Up By Girls For Trying To Talk To Them About Duran Duran. p.s. Def Leppard Rules!")

It's a great book that uses 80's nostalgia to kick up a dustbin of forgotten memories, but I wasn't 4 pages into it when I came upon this sentence: "When 80's darlings Depeche Mode come to town, my wife, Ally, begins picking out her dress weeks before the show, even though I already know its going to be the short black one. And I know I'm her date for the show, and I know she will look deep into my eyes when Dave Gahan sings 'A Question of Lust.'"

Fine and dandy, except for the fact that any REAL 80's music nerd knows that "A Question of Lust" is one of a handful of songs in the Depeche Mode canon NOT sung by Dave Gahan, but instead by their songwriting guitarist Martin Gore. You just failed the nerd test, Rob.

(2) I could also see myself writing (or at least attempting to write) young adult fiction. Given practice, I think I'd be pretty good at this. After all, I still think like a young adult. I pretty much have the maturity level of a young adult. I should be able to speak to this demographic. I have a friend who's horribly gifted at writing young adult novels, and she's even landed her own agent. Sadly, though, to this day she remains unpublished. Her agent tells her the reason is simple: the only stuff that sells these days to the YA market is supernatural romance.

Thanks a lot, Stephenie Meyer. Because of your subpar Twilight schlock, the only way I can make a million bucks writing books is if it involves a disaffected youth, a brooding vampire, a shirtless werewolf, and loads of pensive staring. Greeeeat.

Recently, though, I read an article about a girl named Amanda Hocking. She's a 26-year-old writer of young adult fiction who, after failing to get a book deal, opted to e-publish her books for 99 cents a pop on Kindle and iTunes, and now has over 4 million dollars as a result. She seemed cool in the article, and an accompanying photo even showed her wearing the very same ironic t-shirt I have on at this very minute, so I thought I'd hop on Kindle, download one of her books, and see what the fuss was about.

"Switched," her biggest seller, is the tale of a disaffected girl who falls hard for the brooding new kid at school. All's well until brooding kid shows up at her door, informing the girl that she is, in fact, a troll. And not just any troll, but the troll PRINCESS, which means she's got to be whisked away to Troll-land in time for the grand troll debutante ball. And, of course, she's in love with brooding kid, but he's from a lower class of trolls and unfit for a princess.

On one hand, I've got to hand it to her. She just managed to merge "Twilight," "The Princess Diaries," and "Romeo & Juliet" into one book, and if that won't sell copies, I don't know what would. But TROLLS? Really? If we're that desperate for untapped supernatural characters, what's left for me to write about? Disaffected minotaur? Brooding elves? A shirtless cthulhu?

My novelist career may be a ways off yet. And it's time to stop focusing on what I don't have and start appreciating what I do. The truth is, I wouldn't trade my life, job, friends and family for a million dollars. And besides, if I really get desperate for money, I've got a backup plan: "It's Thurr-SSS-Day, Thurr-SSS-Day!"

COLUMN: Tofu

2011-04-11T16:57:00.002-05:00

I knew it... I KNEW it. I told you guys in last month's column it would happen, and it took less time than I'd even imagined.

Backstory: My girlfriend, as you all plainly know by now, is pretty awesome -- and one of the many facets of her awesomnity is that she really likes to cook. On many a night, she'll show up at my door with a bag or two of groceries and within minutes, we're eating home-cooked dinner num-nums.

The up side of this, beyond a full belly, is that, for the first time in my adult life, my refrigerator serves purpose. Thanks to Amy, I actually now have FOOD in my house. Usually, my fridge is little more than a repository for aging condiments and a rest stop for wayward pizza boxes. Now it's got, like, real stuff in it. And not just leftover stuff either. I'm talkin' stuff that you can combine with other stuff to make even more delicious stuff. It's an entirely new concept for me.

And a concept I've been taking advantage of, let me tell you. Having groceries around might not be the best for my waistband, but it's sure good for the psyche. This brings us to the other night, when I was home alone and got a craving for a midnight snack. Amy had been over before and made dinner, and I thought I'd spied her putting a carton of milk into the fridge. Milk and cookies before bed? Yes, please.

I sauntered into the dark kitchen, grabbed a glass, poured some milk, took a swig... and promptly spit-taked, cartoon-style, all over the floor. Something had gone drastically wrong with this milk. That's when I flipped the carton around and saw the two most evil words to ever grace the interior of my refrigerator: "RICE MILK."

Nooooooooooo! I immediately sensed a great disturbance in the Force. I opened the cupboard where Amy often stores snack treats that she brings over. I hoped and prayed with all my might that I'd open that door to the soothing blue of a Chips Ahoy bag. But, just as I'd feared, no Chips Ahoy had made this voyage from Hy-Vee. Instead, I was greeted with their bastard black sheep cousins: a bag of (shudder) rice cakes.

There was no denying it: my girlfriend was on a health kick. I quickly surveyed the contents of the refrigerator with growing horror. Polenta... some kind of gross bird-seed looking stuff called quinoa... a bag of snap-pea chips... veggie burgers... and there, in the corner of the refrigerator, lurked my multi-pound white gelatinous evil nemesis. I had been unknowingly co-habitating with tofu.

I knew it a few weeks ago when Amy joined Weight Watchers. I suppose a good boyfriend would have been supportive and proud of their girlfriend taking a pro-active stance on healthy living. Instead, I chose to focus on the various evil ways this development could affect ME. Little did I know that Weight Watchers would be a gateway diet... to a trial run at veganism.

This isn't the first time I've had to deal with the dreaded V-word. I like to surround myself with fun, arty, nerdy, creative types - and when you run with that crowd, there's a good risk of them also subscribing to the tree-hugging, salad-eating lifestyle. And I find myself the Ernest Hemingway of the bunch - gnawing on a well-cooked steak whilst my friends graze on their twigs and berries. To each their own, I say. But here's MY take on veganism:

The other day I watched a show on the BBC called "Human Planet." In this ground-breaking documentary, naturalists discover one of Earth's last uncontacted tribes somewhere deep in the Amazonian rainforest. An entire society of people, unexposed to the modern world, living undisturbed for generation after generation. Which is why someone decided that the best course of action would be to buzz them in a Cessna and scare the living bejeepers out of the poor folk.

When the plane approaches the tribe, what do you suppose happened? Did they hail the passengers and invite them down for tea and Pictionary? Nnnnope. Did they bow and worship the great shiny bird in the sky? Not hardly. As the plane flew by, those not paralyzed in fear or running for their lives stood their ground and shot at the plane with arrows, spears, and sticks. Why? Because even an undiscovered tribe of primitive humanity knows that BIRDS TASTE GOOD, even if they're shiny and made of metal.

With all sincere apologies to my herbivoric friends, we are genetically engineered to hunt and eat meat, just as cows are genetically crafted to eat six stomaches' worth of grass. We did not develop incisors in our mouth in order to better taste the savory goodness of tofu. One of my vegan friends once told me that they preferred their diet because of how "natural" it was. Well, sorry to break it to you, but if I had to come up with a list of the least natural things on Earth, I'm pretty sure tofu would be at the top.

Yes, yes, it's made of soy -- nature's wonder. But when it becomes white, gelatinous, mushy, and gross, it becomes less nature's-wonder and more I-wonder-how-this-could-have-possibly-come-from-nature. It's more like soylent white. I say we give it the ultimate test: let's hop on that Cessna to Peru, find that uncontacted tribe, and, without any directions or explanation, let's drop a big ol' brick of tofu right in the middle of their village and just see what happens. If that uncontacted tribe bum-rushes the tofu with primitive forks and hungry bellies, I'll publicly apologize to the tofu-loving masses and eat every one of my words. Just don't make me eat the tofu.

In the short term, I'll live. Amy tells me she's trying the vegan thing just for a few weeks as sort of a personal challenge. And I respect that and give her kudos for having the gumption to see it through. Maybe we'll all learn a little about how to appreciate that which we oftentimes take for granted. She has my support. And I've got to admit, tonight we just had pasta made with quinoa -- and it was actually pretty tasty.

Just don't ever insult my intelligence by calling something "rice milk." Until the day I see an infant grain of rice suckling from its mother rice's bosom, I remain unsold. Then again, when you actually sit and think about what milk is and where it comes from, it kinda makes tofu sound a little more appetizing after all. Now if you'll excuse me, my girlfriend just left so I've got some hot dogs to microwave. Man can't live on quinoa alone.

COLUMN: If I Ruled The World

2011-04-11T16:56:00.003-05:00

People ask me all the time, "Hey, Shane, why would a legendary man-about-town such as yourself want the extra burden of writing a humor column every weelk?"

The answer, as I've said before, is quite simple:

I plan to use this column as a stepping stone to global domination, where I hope to one day rule the world with a cold iron fist. Don't worry, though -- all of you loyal readers are encouraged and welcome to sign up as my minions to one day perform my evil bidding. I'll never forget my fans.

Let's face it, the world is a bit lax these days when it comes to super-villainy. It's a niche market that I think I could really expand upon if given the opportunity. There's some stiff competition these days when it comes to power-hungry idiots, but I think I can take on the best:

* There's Moamer ("Muammar") Gadhafi Kadhafi Gaddafi, the clown prince of evil villainy. Admittedly, you've got to give the guy some style points for having a name that can be spelled 27 different ways. But as soon as he began insisting that his people actually love him but are being drugged by terrorists into hating him, he lost a good chunk of his mojo. Besides, there might not be much of him left by the time this column even prints.

* There's good ol' Ann Coulter, who this weekend claimed that Japanese folk were lucky because scientists have explained to her that radiation is, in fact, good for the skin and a cancer preventative. Evil incarnate? You betcha, but sadly too crazy to be taken seriously (I sincerely hope.)

* And lest we not forget the Right Reverend Fred Phelps and his army of nutjobs at the Westboro Baptist Church, who really should get a standing ovation of evil for forcing First Amendment supporters like yours truly to take a stand for freedom of speech, even if it means allowing this pondscum to picket at funerals. But I sincerely believe there's a difference between being a classy evil villain and just plain being an abomination. Don't worry, brother Fred, if the Hell you speak of truly exists, I imagine you'll get a real in-depth tour of their facilities soon enough.

Truth be told, my only real competition for Grade A classy and captivating evil villainy right now is Charlie Sheen, and there's no telling how much longer he's gonna hold up. I suppose if having access to gobs of money and illicit substances whilst lovelessly dating a harem of porn stars is, in fact, "winning," then maybe Chuck's got me. But there's just one thing, though. Charlie Sheen can drink all the tiger blood and declare himself a worlock all he likes, but it doesn't change one important thing: the man is an exceptionally BAD actor. And if you're gonna be famous, you'd better be good at the one thing you're famous for. Kim Kardashian, for instance, is only famous for being hot - but at least she's pretty good at being hot.

So, see? My ascention to super-villainy could work. I mean, I'm in no rush, really. While ruling the world with a cold iron fist is a lofty and impressive goal to aspire to, on the short term my couch IS pretty comfy. Plus I'd like to see who wins this season of "Celebrity Apprentice." It's good to not be in a huge rush for global domination, because it gives me time to sit back and seriously ponder the most pressing of all statements:

"IF I RULED THE WORLD..."

- For starters, McDonalds would serve breakfast all day. REAL evil is when you deny an innocent man an Egg McMuffin just because it's 10:32 a.m.

- I would barely have time to write this column, because the 21st season of "Twin Peaks" would be one of its best. It's on just after new episodes of "Lost," "Firefly," and "Freaks and Geeks."

- I would be able to have ONE day -- just ONE day -- of getting to and from work without being impeded by road construction.

- The following would be immediately and without hesitation demoted to irrelevance:

* TMZ. I love pop culture, I really do, and I like to live vicariously through celebrities from time to time, sure. That doesn't mean I need to bear witness to them walking down sidewalks, jogging, and/or buying coffee. It's bad enough that you're on my internet, but now you're on my TV, too. I'm starting to feel sorry for Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan, and that's unacceptable.

* Lady Gaga. "Baby, I was born this way!" No, you weren't. You were born Stephani Germanotta, and you languished playing to seedy clubs in the lower east side of NYC until a producer came along, gave you a dance beat, and told you to act weird for the sake of weird. Baby, you were MARKETED this way. Trust me, the schtick will get old soon.

* Katy Perry. My girlfriend's gonna hate me for this one, but I'm sorry, honey. She sings like a troll and perpetually looks like a kewpie doll in pain. Aren't your fifteen minutes about up? Russell Brand, you can stay, though.

* All Quad City nightclub DJ's... okay, no, because most of them are my friends. But SOMEBODY better decide it's time for early retirement. I left my decade-long club gig last fall for another club that promptly went bankrupt. Now I can't get on anywhere because every club's booked up. Not cool. So if you're a club owner in town and want new blood in your DJ booth, let me know. I'm clearly awesome and I work cheap(ish.)

* The Jersey Shore. And I don't mean the show. I mean the ENTIRE geographic area. Apologies to the Garden State, but the sorrowful MTV show you allowed to be filmed in your confines has ruined the reputation of your coastal region henceforth for all time. It also doesn't help that my life's dream is to become a cherished novelist and I've now been beaten to the New York Times best-seller list by someone named "Snooki." (Note: I grew up with a dog named Snooki. I'm pretty sure it was smarter.) I can't wrap my head around being jealous of anyone associated with this atrocity. Hence, it must be destroyed.

The bad news is that I guess none of these requests are especially evil or villanous. I guess I'm still a ways off from becoming the next Ming the Merciless. It's okay, though. I've got loads of time to practice -- "Celebrity Apprentice" has WEEKS to go.

COLUMN: Girls (Tippy Tippy Tippy HIDE!)

2011-04-11T16:54:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I worry about the next generation of society... mostly because it's numbnutzes like me who'll be raising them.

It's no secret that I'm weirded out by kids. As an only child who grew up in the middle of the country, I havent been around kids since I WAS a kid. I don't know how to act, walk, or talk around kids, and the only way I can relate to them is as Slightly Less Skilled Video Game Players Than Myself.

To kids, I'm an ADULT, but I don't feel like an adult. I feel like a college student who's been on one looong paid internship. But the truth is, I'm now 40 years old. I'm a homeowner. I'm supposedly responsible. By the definition of the word, I AM an adult -- and that means children should be able to look to me for guidance, influence, and as a (I can't even type it without laughing) role model. I can barely tie my own shoes, let alone teach children right from wrong. Good thing, then, that I have my practice children.

My girlfriend teaches first grade at a small private school. However, since small private schools tend to issue small private paychecks, she makes ends meet by babysitting a pair of precocious girls four nights a week. One's five and one's six. Or maybe they're six and seven now. Or five and seven. They're TINY, that's all I know. And on many evenings, the four of us get to hang out like a miniature little family.

When I'm with the girls, my goal is simply to get through the night without causing any undue permanent emotional scarring -- to them or myself. Just how easy is it to influence wee children? I found out the other night.

My girlfriend and I had planned a home-cooked dinner date at her place. Usually, the girls' Nana drops them off around 8:30 on the verge of catatonia. Amy puts them into pajamas, kisses them goodnight, and they're out within seconds. This is what initially led me to believe that raising kids is a breeze. But this night was different.

It turns out Nana had a shindig to go to, so she dropped the girls off an hour earlier than usual. And instead of being on the verge of asleep, I think Nana had them hooked to an IV drip of Hawaiian Punch all day, because the girls literally exploded through the door. One of them started screaming, "SHAAANE! AAAAMY!!" while the other just jumped up and down for little to no reason other than it sure looked fun. We looked dumbfounded as they bounced around the house like human pinballs. Uh oh.

We made the mistake of having music playing in the background. That was all it took for one of them to start doing a surprisingly adept take on the Peppermint Twist while yelling, "SHAKE YOUR BOOTY! SHAKE YOUR BOOTY!" The other one, meanwhile, had looked to the table and honed in on the gift I had bought Amy that night. She's a huge fan of all things cute and furry, and I'm a huge fan of all things kitschy, so when I spied a stuffed Easter bunny that sings "Jesus Loves Me" when you push its belly, it was a must-buy. So in less than thirty seconds, our relaxing night turned into a booty-shaking, Peppermint-Twisting jamboree with the dueling soundtrack of Amy's stereo and "Jesus Loves Me" on an endless loop.

As quick as I could, I grabbed the remote and turned on the Disney Channel. Within seconds, the girls were zombiefied in front of "Phineas and Ferb," the two best babysitters a babysitter could ask for. Even I've got to admit, it's a pretty funny show. Five minutes later, both of the girls were snuggled up to me on the couch and I was second-guessing my ineptitude. It's ridiculous to feel intimidated around kids, I told myself. They're just kids, and see, everybody's all cute and cuddly on the couch and there's no reason to feel insecure or awkward or --

"Shane?" one of the girls asked.

"What is it, honey?" I said, newly secure in my role as World's Greatest Temporary Dad.

"I love your fat belly!"

I hate children. Okay, not really. But at that moment, I was pretty much satisfied as a cat owner. I'm pretty sure my cats like my fat belly too, but they're at least mannered enough to keep their mouths shut.

"Why don't you read the girls a story?" said Amy in a perfect subject-changing moment. Ooh, good call. I grabbed the top book from their pile and started to read.

"Tippy-Tippy-Tippy, Hide!" is the heart-warming tale of an innocent man's slow, spiraling descent into madness at the hands of sociopathic bunnies. In the book, the spritely Mr. McGreely gets his house all weather-proofed for winter when three bunnies come tippy-tippy-tippying through his mail slot. Creepy, right? So just as you and I would in such a case, he nails his mail slot shut. That's when they come in through the window. BAM! Nailed shut. The chimney? BAM! Every time poor Mr. McGreely seals one entrance, the bunnies come through another, leaving nose smudges in his tub and, eventually, "bunny drops" on his pillow. Now, I'm a sane and somewhat patient guy, but if I ever woke up to find myself snoring into a pile of rabbit dookie, I'd be killy-killy-killing some bunnies and dippy-dippy-disposing of their bodies. Eventually, poor Mr. McGreely seals up his entire house and likely falls victim to carbon monoxide. At the end of the book (spoiler alert!), he looks out his sealed windows to spring weather and the bunnies eating all his flowers.

Moral of the story? Let's see... Bunnies are evil? It's cool to drive people insane? In MY day, the three little pigs ATE the big bad wolf, Cinderella got Prince Charming, the giant fell down the beanstalk, and Jack and Diane were two American kids doin' the best they can. If the best we can teach kids THESE days is the joy of felony trespassing, I shouldn't care HOW I'm influencing the girls.

That was about the time that I passed by the bathroom. Inside, one of the girls was showering and singing to herself. And, as I caught the lyrics she was loudly belting out, I realized exactly how massive my sphere of influence was. And as I doubled over laughing, I realized just how awesome it is to have kids around in my life. Imagine you were in a vast room full of children and you had to guess which ones I helped babysit. Sounds like an impossible task, no? It turns out you'd figure it out pretty quick. They're the ones singing joyously:

"Shake my booty to and fro! For the Bible tells me so!"

I'm so proud.

COLUMN: Kopi Luwak

2011-04-11T16:53:00.001-05:00

In these years that I've been fortuitous enough to call the Moline Dispatch Publishing Co. my home, I've only managed to accrue one major complaint about working in the newspaper industry:

All the dang news.

Don't get me wrong -- I like to be a well-informed person, and there's none better at the information game than newspaper folk. Every day, I walk in to the center of a global information hub. Well, okay, I walk to a dimly-lit corner cubicle a flight up from the hub, but still. At the press of a button, I have access to local and national news events pretty much as they occur. But occasionally there CAN be such a thing as too much news.

Specifically, I hate health stories. Sometimes, it's simply better to be happy and naive than informed and freaked out. Every time I look down, there's some new study informing us that something we do, own, and/or eat is, in fact, a silent killer of deadly deadliness. That is, until the NEXT study comes out a few months later refuting the previous study and informing us that what we previously thought to be a silent killer is, in fact, a miracle drug that will let us live forever.

Just a few years ago, scientists told us that aspirin was bad on the stomach and should only be taken sparingly. Now it's bad on the stomach but good for pretty much every other ounce of your body. Dark chocolate used to be a guilty delicacy; now it's a recommended addition to your diet. You practically need a scorecard to keep track. And now it's happening to coffee.

We all know the hazards of coffee, right? It stains your teeth, stinks up your breath, and keeps you wired on caffeine. But just this week, a new study passed by my desk. Scientists have now discovered that coffee also prevents cancer, minimizes inflammation, deters diabetes, and might just stave off Alzheimer's. So drink up, everybody!

At least that's what was on my mind when I found myself at my parents' house the other day. My mom owns one of those fancy new single-cup coffeemakers, and let me tell you, it is an absolute breakthrough in overpricing. Actually, it makes some pretty good coffee -- if you can afford the little one-shot packets of coffee that it requires. But if there's a way to screw it up, I'll find it. And I found it.

I wasn't aware of one little fact. When you stick the little coffee packet into the machine, the machine pokes a hole in it and then brews the water through thusly. No one explained that to me, which explains why I ripped the packet open before putting it into the machine. This, it turns out, is ill-advised.

My coffee came out black as midnight on a moonless night, slightly soupy, and topped with floating coffee grounds. It was pretty much coffeepocalypse. I wouldn't touch the end result; my mom, however, was braver.

"Bleh!" she said after a timid sip. "This coffee tastes like poop!"

But as I was about to find out, perhaps that wasn't me being an idiot so much as a trend-setting gourmet.

In my quest for non-stop knowledge and entertainment, one of my weekly rituals is Hollywood Babble-On, a free weekly podcast available on iTunes. It's one of the funniest hours you will ever hear, and, if you can handle the raunchy language, I can't recommend the show enough. Thanks to a recent episode, I learned about Kopi Luwak.

It is among the rarest and most expensive coffees in the world. In America, a cup of the stuff could run you around $100. It's said to be among the richest, smoothest, and most robust coffees ever made. But it's the "how it's made" part that's completely terrifying. Kopi Luwak begins its life as coffee cherries growing in Indonesia. For years, Indonesian coffee farmers have been plagued by cute little animals called civets. These adorable bug-eyed mammals (who are, incidentally, also adorably responsible for the global outbreak of the SARS virus) enjoy snacking on coffee berries.

There's just one problem. Their little civet bodies aren't fully equipped to digest and process the coffee cherries. Ergo, they pass right on through. Like the children's book says, "Everybody Poops" -- up to and including the Asian Palm Civet. It's nature, it's life, and we're adults and can handle it.

What I CAN'T handle, though, is the deranged fellow who must have been walking along one day, came upon some civet droppings, and thought to himself, "I bet this would make a MEAN cup of joe." That's right -- the civet droppings are harvested, the coffee beans are extracted (I'll leave that to the imagination,) and the end result is Kopi Luwak (translation: any two words that sound better than 'civet poop.')

Apparantly there's acids and enzymes within the innards of the civet that gives Kopi Luwak that mmm-so-good taste that you just can't get from Juan Valdez and his boring previously-undigested coffee. And since the entire population of Asian Palm Civets can only (ahem) "produce" 1000 pounds of Kopi Luwak every year, one pound of the stuff can pull in thousands of dollars, which would, were this not a family paper, cause me to write a joke involving the word "shineola."

There's good news on the horizon, though! Up-and-coming researchers at the University of Florida have developed a process wherein they can take regular old coffee beans and treat them with the same acids and enzymes found inside the digestive tract of the civet, supposedly replicating the taste of Kopi Luwak at a much more affordable price. So to sum up: the economy is faltering, gas prices are soaring, and we can't figure out how to pay government workers without entire states descending into near anarchy... yet a crack team of scientists have spent countless time, money, and resources to successfully create the world's first artificial butt, which we then use to pass stuff through to see how it tastes. And to think, some people think our generation doesn't know its priorities.

So I say, if civets are capable of "producing" the world's best coffee, why stop there? Now that we've got an artificial method of "production," let's just start feeding all kinds of food through the Fake Buttinator 2000 and see what happens. Why stop with coffee? Let's give ice cream a shot, or maybe peanut butter!

At the end of the day, I guess a LOT of stuff we put in our mouths is pretty gross. If you really stop and think about it, milk is pretty gross. Eggs are pretty gross. Bacon is pretty gross. Yet that's how I started my day today. But we have to draw the line somewhere, and my somewhere is that I simply will not eat any food that's seen both ends of an Asian Palm Civet -- not even if we publish an article tomorrow saying it's the healthiest food on Earth.

COLUMN: Chupacabra

2011-04-11T16:52:00.001-05:00

When I first considered purchasing my own home last year, I sat back and tried to form a gameplan for every future challenge that would come my way. I thought about lawn care, snow removal, electrical problems, mortgage payments… you name it, I was braced for it. I bought my house confident and secure in my ability to handle any problems that may come along, or at least in my ability to pick up a phone and call someone overpriced who could handle it for me.

But in all of my fantasizing about lightning strikes, burglaries, and broken dishwashers, I somehow failed to form a contingency for CORPSE REMOVAL.

Have you guys seen a compulsive little show on SyFy called "Destination: Truth"? It's TV crack and I'm a junkie. Like its sister show, "Ghost Hunters," D:T features investigators who go traipsing around with video cameras and an assortment of gadgets in hopes of capturing proof of the unexplained. But instead of wandering through dark buildings seeking the supernatural, Destination: Truth concerns itself with even more outlandish creatures: from Yetis to aliens, Nessies to Leprechauns, D:T is a one-stop for mythical monster hunting.

There seems to be only one condition to the Destination Truthiverse: If you've got a bogeyman in your suburban backyard, they'll probably take a pass (which is bad news for me as you're about to read.) D:T hunts down all kinds of creepy crawlies, but only if they crawl around the most desolate, exotic, and entirely out-of-the-way places in the world.

The show's host -- a snarky, Indiana Jones wannabe named Josh Gates -- informs viewers of reports about an unusual creature terrifying the villagers of Randomtown, usually a remote island, nomadic campsite, or abandoned Chilean mountain mine only accessible by hot air balloon. The monster is usually fanged, often winged, indescribably powerful, and invariably carniverous. Then the show follows Gates and his team as they fly, drive, pedal, paddle, repel, and hike to the middle of nowhere.

Do they ever find anything? Nope -- just more of the same "OMG SOMETHING MOVED" or "I HEAR A WEIRD NOISE" that's kept "Ghost Hunters" in business for a decade now. But the show is edited in such a fantastic way that you are ABSOLUTELY CONVINCED that every rustle in the bushes has GOT to be some kind of vorpal ManBearPig ready for dinner.

This brings us to the other morning. I woke up to newly-fallen snow and set out early for some shoveling. As I stood on my porch surveying the task at hand, I happened to look down at the bushes surrounding the front of my house. "That's funny," I thought to myself. "Those twigs over there look just like animal legs." And those twigs were attached to another altogether larger twig that strangely looked exactly like a torso. And two more leg twigs… and, umm, a tail twig, and…

Ewwwww. It WAS an animal. And "was" was the appropriate word, because this fella wasn't sleeping. It was a frozen dead critter-sicle. My stomach churned as I realized this sort of thing was now my responsibility to clean up. Yes, I know, I'm supposedly a man, and both stereotype and evolution dictate that my role is to shoot cute and fuzzy animals with arrows and proudly display my kill to the tribe. Screw that. Dead animals are ucky and I'm not ashamed to say it.

But what WAS this belly-up buddy in my bushes? My outdoorsman instinct and years of classroom training took over and I performed the most exacting scientific methodology possible: I poked it with the longest stick I could find.

Now, I realize that you probably didn't pick up today's Arts & Living section with the intent of vomiting, so I'll keep this description blessedly short. My newfound former critter had brown fur, a wiry rat-like tail, and what appeared to be muscular, over-developed hind legs. It was too big for a rat yet too small for an opossum. This left only one conclusion: I was staring at the legendary chupacabra, the Puerto Rican goat-sucker of lore.

Thanks to Destination: Truth, I knew all about the chupacabra. With eyewitness reports claiming resemblances from a small bear to a kangaroo to a spiny reptile, this "mythical" creature has been blamed for mysterious vampiric livestock deaths throughout Latin and North America -- and I was positive one of them was now lying dead in my bushes. All I needed to do was see the head to bear witness to its goat-sucking fangs…

That's when it got kinda gross. This thing, whatever it was, was fully intact -- as if it were pleasantly strolling around my bushes and thought, "Well, then, here's a fine place to die." Except when I poked it with my poking stick, it rolled over -- and where the head SHOULD be, nothing remained but a skull. Two immediate theories sprung to mind:

Theory #1: I have found a mythical creature far scarier than any description of the chupacabra, and I hate to tell you all that our town may be plagued by giant death-rats with skulls for heads.

OR

Theory #2: I should stop worrying about this gross dead thing in my yard and instead worry about whatever ate its face off. There's a good chance I was right here in my living room watching Destination: Truth while ManBearPig was right outside my window chomping on hors d'rat head.

I decided then and there what my best move would be: never speak of it again and just go about my business living a life wherein face-eating monsters are NOT stalking the perimeter of my home. Like I said, I'm confident and secure in my ability to handle most any crisis, or at least my ability to pick up the phone and call someone to do it for me.

That's why I called my dad… who graciously came over and sent my critter-sicle to Destination: Trash Can. I suppose a braver man would have handled it himself. But YOU try watching a marathon of "Destination: Truth" and then go carcass-disposing and see how much you like it. You show me on my mortgage where it says I'm responsible for chupacabra clean-up and I'll man up. Until then, I remain your humble, yet fairly wussy, homeowner.

COLUMN: Wisconsin Pt. 2

2011-04-11T16:45:00.002-05:00

For as long as I can remember, I've had a love affair with England. For this, I blame my dad.

When I was a wee Shaneling, my folks were pretty rigid when it came to bedtime, and I routinely hated them for it. I despised bedtime, and I still kinda do. Sleep is wasted time as far as I'm concerned, and even when I was a kid, I'd do anything to avoid it. Whether it was reading a book under the covers or silently tiptoeing across the room to plug in my headphones to the stereo, I was a master at dodging my parents' maliciously-imposed mandatory deadline for day's end. But there was always ONE event for which my dad would temporarily lift my life sentence: I could stay up late with him whenever network TV aired a James Bond movie.

Ergo, James Bond instantly became the coolest guy in the universe. Not only could he defeat the bad guys, travel the world, and get the girls, but he could do it AFTER 9 p.m.! Add cars that shoot fire, pens that shoot lasers, and dudes with armored teeth and razor-edged bowlers? Nerd-vana!

So if James Bond was the coolest guy alive, my young mind postulated, then it must reason that EVERYONE who spoke with such a brilliant accent and hailed from England had to be equally awesome, right? Adam Ant dressed in warpaint and was just untouchably cool; Bananarama were the hottest girls ever; Sting had great songs AND acted in sci-fi movies on the side; the Pet Shop Boys wore trenchcoats and sounded like the future; and you could never figure out what the hell Duran Duran were up to in their non-sensical music videos, but you knew for certain it was cooler than whatever YOU were doing. And they ALL had British accents.

As I grew up, so did my Anglophilia. I discovered the treasures of the BBC, the lure of Premiere League soccer, the mysticism of Stonehenge, and the taste sensation of kidney pie. Eww. Okay, so maybe British food isn't the best, but all these years later, England is still my go-to place for pop culture. In fact, I spent over a decade running a website devoted to US fans of UK music, where I got to bond nightly with fellow Anglophiles. We'd spend our nights swapping bootleg recordings of Radio One, planning our dream British vacations, and staying up til 4 a.m. to place orders with our favorite London record stores.

Now that I've reached my 40's, I've mellowed some and come to realize that some parts of British life are shockingly less great than our own (see: Revolution, American), but I've still got a soft spot in my heart for Old Blighty and I hope that God keeps on saving the Queen for years to come.

That said, I've recently run into grievances with a couple of Brits, and their incessant taunting has tested my Anglophilia to the breaking point. It might come as heresy to some of my long-term friends, but thanks to these two rechid women, I'm thiiiiis close to chucking in my Union Jack and buying a Bruce Springsteen record.

The first is the shrill woman who yells at me on the phone every day. See, as part of my day job here at the paper, I call on our customers who've placed classified ads to ensure their satisfaction. If you've ever placed a classified in the Dispatch/Argus, we've probably spoken.

Back in the day, it was fairly easy to determine where I was calling based on the number. But thanks to our cellular world, phone numbers are assigned all willy-nilly and I don't know when I pick up the phone if I'm calling Milan, IL or Milan, Italy. Sometimes, it's a guessing game as to whether a number is long distance or not, and I have no idea whether or not to add a 1 and the area code. All I can do is hope and pray that I get it right, because when I don't, that's when SHE shows up.

"THE NUMBAH YOU AHH DIALING IS NOT A LONG-DISTANCE NUMBAH! HANG UP AND MAKE YOUR CALL UH-GAIN."

Now, I'm no expert, but I would imagine that in the wide field of contemporary voiceover artists, there are LOTS of choices out there. I'll guarantee that you could get a golden-voiced Casey Kasem type to record a few polite sentences for a bargain. Explain to me, then, why our phone company opted for Nanny McPhee's evil, elderly cousin. She doesn't thank you, she doesn't apologize -- she justs scolds, corrects, and hangs up on you, all with a voice that sounds like my thoughtless and incorrect dialing has absolutely ruined her day.

But she's not the worst. No, no. That award goes to a woman whose hostility knows no limit. A woman named Garmin.

Last weekend, I surprised my girlfriend with a daytrip to a concert in Milwaukee, and Mapquesting revealed that Milwaukee is a downright confusing town with no less than 63 turns between here and there. Factor in my fear of expressway driving, and I decided that the easiest way to navigate Milwaukee was to pull an old friend out of the trunk -- my trusty Garmin GPS navigator, whose voice is that of a slightly p.o.'d Mary Poppins.

"In... 2 point 3 miles... turn... left," she ushers in mildly hostile tones.

I thought I could deal with it, but here's the thing. In the center of Milwaukee, every interstate convenes downtown in what can only be described as the graphic representation of a migraine. Nothing makes sense. Ramps spin around and deposit you onto weird roundabouts from which there is little to no escape. And, it appears that ALL of this fun was built AFTER the last update to my Garmin. As we attempted to navigate, Ms. Garmin was determined to inform me that we were not, in fact, driving on a road. And, at precisely the most confusing part of the journey, she tragically suffered a stroke in the middle of barking out non-sensical commands.

"In... point one mile... turn... RECALCULATING... in... 1.2 mi... RECALCULATING... RECALCULATING... KEEP RIGHT, EXIT LEFT, KEEP RIGHT, EXIT LEFT, KEEP RI..." And with that, her whole poor British-accented system crashed. It was the happiest moment of the trip, and I had already spotted the marquee of the concert venue in the distance.

So why is it that the same land that brought us the Sex Pistols and The Office is also responsible for some of the most annoying voices in history? And why, Garmin Co., would you think that legions of drivers would want to get directions from a British-accented school marm? My proposal is that all Garmins immediately be re-recorded with the voice of Keanu Reeves.

"Okay, dudes, are you ready? In, like, 2 miles... go right. Wait, that isn't right. Go left, right? Or is it right, left? Duuude. I am SO confused."

COLUMN: WIsconsin Pt. 1

2011-02-21T09:33:00.002-06:00

Last year, I went on a road trip to Missouri and stopped at an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant. Upon my return, I wrote a column that may have questioned the fiscal prudency of such an enterprise in the Show-Me State -- because, at least based on that afternoon's clientele, folks down there know how to eat.

I thought it was a funny column and it drew a few funny responses from folks with Missouri connections, but it also got at least one former Missourian mad enough to demand an apology for my admittedly insensitive stereotyping of an entire populace. And I did apologize for poking fun -- it wasn't my intention to mock anyone, let alone a whole state, especially given the fact that I'm a card-carrying member of the chub club myself.

Ergo, you'd think that my days of careless sweeping stereotypes were behind me. You would think. Instead, I'm about to make another one of those controversially unfair and broad generalizations, so get your letter-to-the-editor typing fingers all warmed up, coz here it comes:

BY AND LARGE, PEOPLE FROM WISCONSIN ARE ALL SUPER DUPER NICE.

There. I said it. It's committed to paper and too late to take back now. I'm sure that right now, someone somewhere is reading this going, "Hey, I'm from Wisconsin and I'm proud to be a total rude jerk-off. How dare he accuse me of being nice? Ooh, he makes me MAD..." Don't worry, I've already cleared space on my desk for your letters.

But this time, there's ample reason for my stereotyping, and it all started last week while I was still in good ol' Rock Island. I was on my way to work, driving absent-mindedly down 7th Avenue, when I noticed one of the rims on the weathered old truck in front of me. Specifically, I noticed the rim because it was near horizontal, hanging onto the tire for dear life.

"Oh jeez," I thought to myself. "One more bump and that thing's gonna go..." BUMP.

Just as I'd predicted, the truck hit a pothole and the rim went flying off, nearly defootitating some innocent Augie student headed to class. The driver of the pickup just went rolling on, not even noticing what had happened. At the next stoplight, I found myself beside the truck, so I motioned to the driver and rolled down my window.

"Hi!" I said. "Hey, just in case you didn't see, you lost one of your rims back there by the last intersection. It's probably still laying back there on the sidewalk."

I am super awesome, I thought to myself as I imagined them handing me my Good Samaritan of the Year medal in a ceremony of much pomp and circumstance. I don't know anything whatsoever about cars, but I know that some people pay absurd amounts of money for custom rims. Those dumb little circles can be super valuable, and here I was taking the time to alert the driver. I didn't expect much. Maybe a thank-you, maybe a smile, maybe an I-am-the-mayor-of-this-town-and-for-your-selfless-act-of-kindness-I-bestow-upon-thee-a-key-to-the-city. Instead, here's what I got in response. Ready?

"@#$% YOU!"

It took me by such surprise that I literally went, "Wait, what?"

"YOU HEARD ME! @#$% YOU, @#$$^%!!"

The first unprintable was an obscenity. The second, a gay slur. Awwwwesome.

I rolled up my window and kept driving. At every stoplight we hit, I stared straight ahead while I could see the redneck yokel out of the corner of my eye still yelling at me. At one point, he made as if he was going to leap out of his truck and assault my car. At another point, he leaned out and spit all over my passenger window.

The moral of the story? People suck. For the rest of the day, I couldn't shake the image of this random jerkwad irrationally screaming at me so venomously that the veins in his forehead looked like they were about to leap out his skin in a desperate and suicidal bid to escape life attached to such a schmuck. And, without bringing this column down to woe-is-us levels, it got me thinking about society.

I mean, what on Earth happened to decency these days? Common courtesy, social niceties, and just plain being human to strangers and your neighbors alike. It seems like the more and more I go through life, the less and less friendly people become. At some point, you have to start drawing conclusions. Either (a) I am so dislikable of a human being that I instantly bring out the worst in people like moths to a light, or (b) we as a people are becoming measurably schmuckier.

I'm not saying we're all at the level of irrational road rage like my newfound foul-mouthed friend, and I know there's still a lot of truly decent folk milling about out there. But think about this. How many times have you made a head nod or issued a casual "w'sup" to a stranger to have them totally ignore you? Or check out of a store and have the clerk act like it's truly paining them to wait on you? How many times have you had a stranger let a door swing in your face? Or drive past you like you're invisible when you're trying to merge or turn left through oncoming traffic? Some days, I'm lucky to get an "excuse me" if somebody bumps into me. More and more, we're losing touch with our decency.

But here's the thing. Last weekend, I surprised my girlfriend with an early Valentine daytrip to Milwaukee to see one of her favorite musicians. And I kid you not, the moment we crossed that border into Wisconsin, the weirdest thing happened: People started behaving better.

I first noticed it when driving. I hate big city traffic, and merging onto a crowded interstate gives me acid reflux. I was ready for the usual Chicago stomp-on-the-gas-or-die technique, but as I merged onto I-94 in downtown Milwaukee, I saw three different cars suddenly slow down and change lanes to make room for me. Two of them gave friendly waves, like, "Hi! Welcome to the interstate!"

I stopped at a gas station. "Hi! Welcome to Speedway! Do you have one of our discount cards? It could save you a few cents off that Coke! No need paying full price if you don't have to!"

At the place we stopped for dinner, the wait staff and bartenders grinned and danced around to the radio as if serving people was the highlight of their day. At the concert, we laughed and talked with strangers. Even the rough-and-tumble bouncers at the concert were helpful and courteous. That's when it hit me.

Maybe society isn't altogether hopeless -- maybe it's (gulp) just us. Who knows, maybe there's jerks aplenty all over Wisconsin and we were just lucky enough to miss them. Maybe the Wisconsin jerks are having a secret summit with all the skinny Missourians. Either way, it merits more investigation.

The one thing that DID grate on our nerves in Wisconsin, though, was our uninvited British guest. More on her next week.

COLUMN: Grammy Picks

2011-02-21T09:31:00.002-06:00

It's a good thing I'm not a gambler by nature -- 2011 is NOT starting out well for my mojo.

I called pretty much ALL the bowl games wrong. I was convinced the Bears were headed to the Super Bowl -- and when they didn't, I could at least take solace in knowing that the Steelers would surely stomp the Packers into the ground. Heck, I even "guaranteed" my friends that last week's evil storm would dump over 20" of snow on us in one day. When it comes to predictions this year, I have NOT been wired in.

But there's one thing I'm known for prediction-wise, and it happens TONIGHT -- the only time of year when I turn from mild-mannered columnist into Shane the Greek. It's the annual showcase for me to demonstrate my knowledge, apply my many years of study, and impress you all with my mighty might. For tonight, dear friends, are the Grammy Awards.

Now, I realize that in some circles, folks don't routinely place heated bets with their friends about the outcome of music award shows. Actually, I realize that most forms of unlicensed gambling are both ethically and legally wrong, so I certainly don't routinely place heated bets with my friends about the outcome of music award shows. But as the fanciful and whimsical storyteller that I am, let me craft for you an entirely fictional Shane who DOES place fictionally heated bets with his fictional friends about the outcome of fictional award shows. And let's just say that fictional Shane is fictionally AWESOME at it -- and netted a sweet pot of $23 fictional bucks for winning last year's Grammy pool.

Every year, fictional Shane goes to an invite-only party on Grammy night. On the guest list, a glittering array of Quad City music nerd illuminati: record store owners, musicians, DJs, entertainment writers, concert venue employees, and a guy who once built an entirely purple room as a shrine to Prince. On the surface, it's an annual get-together of old friends over home-cooked chili and bad jokes. But seething underneath, it's a high-stakes competition, as everyone in attendance has one whole dollar riding on the outcome of the awards. Pick enough winners, and you might be able to afford enough gas to get home that night.

And, while I've only won the sweet $23 pot once, I've come super close on many an occasion. Close enough that I feel confident enough to share my 2011 Grammy picks with you all, just in case YOUR fictional friends want to have a fictional wager over one of the worst award shows of the year. Let's look at the major categories:

RECORD OF THE YEAR:

Nominees: "Nothin' On You," B.o.B feat. Bruno Mars; "Love the Way You Lie," Eminem feat. Rihanna; "@#$% You," Cee Lo Green; "Empire State of Mind," Jay-Z & Alicia Keys; "Need You Now," Lady Antebellum.

Who Should Win: Cee-Lo all the way. Even if you didn't think it was the best song of the year (which it WAS,) you've got to root for a tune so anti-establishment you can't even say it's name on the radio.

Who Will Win: B.o.B's too unproven and Cee Lo's too controversial. That Jay-Z & Alicia song was the jam, and Lady Antebellum made a heck of a crossover this year, but I always say if it's close, go for the most boring song of the lot -- that's why my money's on Eminem & Rihanna.

SONG OF THE YEAR:

Nominees: "Beg Steal or Borrow" (Ray LaMontagne); "@#$% You" (Cee Lo Green); "The House That Built Me" (Miranda Lambert); "Love the Way You Lie" (Eminem feat. Rihanna); "Need You Now" (Lady Antebellum).

Who Should Win: About a million other songs from 2010 that weren't considered. Of THIS list, though? Eminem.

Who Will Win: Record of the Year is given to producers and artists; SONG of the Year is given to songwriters. The first step is to look for any sappy love song that's used in a movie where (a) the world's at war, (b) a boat sinks, or (c) Bette Midler learns an important life lesson (double bonus points if her character dies by the film's end.) Sadly, this year, Bette lived. Ergo, you have to go with the schmaltziest song of the bunch, and that's Lady Antebellum.

BEST NEW ARTIST:

Nominees: Justin Bieber, Drake, Florence & The Machine, Mumford & Sons, Esperanza Spalding.

Who Should Win: No one, since this category's the kiss of death. Marc Cohn, Paula Cole, Debby Boone, Milli Vanilli... all once declared by the Grammys to be the great hope for our musical future. In 1976, the world saw debut records from Blondie, The Ramones, Boston, and Tom Petty. Too bad the Grammys didn't. Their Best New Artist that year? The Starland Vocal Band, makers of "Afternoon Delight," perhaps the most hated song in the history of songs. In 1979, The Cars and Elvis Costello were Best New Artist runner-ups to... A Taste of Honey, who, if I'm not mistaken, released upon the world the disco anthem "Boogie Oogie Oogie" before promptly vanishing into a puff of insignifigance. So if we're saying that Best New Artist is thereby Most Likely To Immediately Disappear, the answer is simple: for the sake of saving modern music, don't just stand there - give the award to Justin Bieber as fast as we can hand it to him.

Who Will Win: Drake, who also SHOULD win if we're judging on talent.

ALBUM OF THE YEAR:

Nominees: "The Suburbs," Arcade Fire; "Recovery," Eminem; "Need You Now," Lady Antebellum; "The Fame Monster," Lady Gaga; "Teenage Dream," Katy Perry.

Who Should Win: A tiny band out of Rhode Island called The Brother Kite, who put out an album last year called "Isolation" that had more emotional depth and sonic brilliance than any of these records combined. But since the world's not fair, we've got to pick from these five, and the clear victor is Arcade Fire.

Who Will Win: Easy. Arcade Fire scares the bejeepers out of most mainstreamers, so look for them to take home all the alternative rock awards but not the big prize. Lady Antebellum should sweep the country categories, but their efforts to crossover to the pop world were only marginally successful. Lady Gaga's record was just a teaser for her real album out this year. And Katy Perry? Well, with apologies to Russell Brand, she's just awful. Put your money on Eminem -- Grammy voters will pat themselves on the back and call each other edgy for voting in a rap album despite it being one of Slim Shady's more boring releases.

So there you have it. I'm not saying I've picked a sweep -- indeed, there have been years where I've called every single one of the big categories wrong, so don't come yelling at me if you place fictional high-staked bets of your own by following my advice. But clearly, I'm on a roll this year -- just ask your Super Bowl champion Pittsburgh Steelers (umm...)

COLUMN: Bad Day

2011-02-21T09:30:00.002-06:00

Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

I woke up today in a fairly optimistic mood. The weekend was spent cleaning (and, let's be honest, belatedly de-Christmasing) the house and notching another charity trivia night victory in the belt. The birds were singing, the cats were purring, and sunshine was streaking through the window. It was a "Zip a Dee Doo Dah" kinda morning. Little did I know that the soundtrack of the day should have been more like Norweigan death metal.

On most mornings, I find myself spending 2.5 minutes running into the gas station for coffee and provisions, and on most mornings I find myself getting to work 2.5 minutes late to face the evil deathstare of my boss. But on this particular day, I thought ahead. Coffee and provisions were already waiting for me in the refrigerator, and I congratulated myself on this newfound maturity and early arrival to work.

Of course, when I arrived at work, one side of the parking lot was blocked by a utility truck, ergo I had to drive the long way around to the other entrance... to find it blocked by a partially unloaded tractor-trailer. By the time I sorted out how to get IN the parking lot, I was 2.5 + 2.5 minutes late to my desk.

As I tried super hard to avoid the aforementiond evil death stare, I noticed the blinking light of my voicemail, letting me know a message was waiting. Awesome, I thought. Maybe I'd score a new sale right away. Maybe it was someone calling to say how much they loved this column. Nnnnope. Instead, it was a message from some yahoo -- excuse me, I mean, some CHERISHED LOYAL SUBSCRIBER OF OUR PAPERS -- who took offense at last week's football-related column. I'm gonna take a wild stab and guess they're a Packers fan. I'll spare you the details, but it ended with the guy inferring I would spend eternity in Hell, calling me "pitiful," and hanging up. Neat-o!

Now, there's a lot of things one can brace oneself for at 8:30 in the morning. Being told that you're destined for Hell? Didn't see that one coming. Normally, my usual response to something like this would be to sit indignantly and mutter phrases like "Well, I never!" and "The nerve!" while fantasizing about crafting the perfect incendiery vitriolic rebuttal e-mail that would likely cost me my job. But as I sat there trying to get a good mutter on, my eyes kept focusing on a few unrelated numbers and words on the QCOnline.com homepage in front of me. Namely, the numbers "12-18" and the words "inches," "snow," and "tomorrow." Say WHAT?

As you'll recall, last week's column was about forcing my girlfriend the football-hater to suffer through the Bears' NFC Championship defeat. Well, THIS weekend Amy got her revenge by making me sit through countless reruns of "Desperate Housewives," a 100% girly show that, thanks to her, I am now sadly 100% addicted to. This would have made for a funny column of its own -- except for one thing. Because we spent all weekend plugged into reruns on Netflix, I missed the fact that Weatherpocalypse (dubbed better by someone on Facebook as The Snow-torious B.I.G.) was bearing down on the Quad Cities.

At work, as in life, we all have roles to fill, and one of the roles I dutifully perform is that of Weather Worry-Wart. If there's even a cloud looming in the sky, I'm the one to pronounce it The Greatest Storm in the History of the Midwest and spend much of the work day staring at radar screens and informing coworkers of our eminent demise. Well, here it was, a storm that really MIGHT be The Greatest Storm in the History of the Midwest, and I didn't even know it was coming. I immediately went into panic mode.

Provisions? Check. Snow shovel? Check. Rock salt? Check. Candles? Check. Flashlight? Well, it's around here someplace. In all honesty, I'd just gone grocery shopping and I'm pretty much fine for about the next 14 days of food, but my brain still wants to hoard. "Do I have enough oranges? I don't want to get scurvy!" I don't even eat oranges.

The one thing I didn't have, though, was enough Coke to see me through a possible snow-in, so after I got off work, I hustled to the drug store for some soda. On the way out, I saw the shining neon of nearby fast food and decided to buy my girlfriend and I one last pre-apocalypse meal. I called her up for input.

"Hey, I'm gonna buy dinner at [an un-named fast-food restaurant that specializes in fried chicken.] What do you want?"

"Ooh, make sure you get cole slaw!"

No problem. I pulled into the drive-thru lane and placed my order. After a lengthy wait, I made it to the window, paid for our meal, and then was greeted with this:

"Uhhh, sir? We outta chicken."

"Um, okay," I said. "Like, as in, altogether out? Like you maybe shouldn't be open or taking people's money?"

"One moment." Slam! goes the little window. Two minutes pass and she returns.

"Oh, don't worry, we found some. But, umm, we out of cole slaw."

I don't know what was more disturbing - the fact that they were out of cole slaw or the fact that they "found" some chicken. Found it WHERE, precisely? Still, I took a deep breath and settled for some corn on the cob. "Okay, sir." Slam!

Two minutes later: "Umm, sir, while I was tellin' you that we was out of cole slaw, we ran outta corn. How about some green beans?"

At this point, I just wanted out of there. "Yeah, that's fine," I said. Slam!

Two minutes later, and I swear to you I'm not making this up: "I am SO sorry, sir, but we're out of green beans."

So my last meal pre-Snowgeddon consisted of some "found" chicken, cold mashed potatoes, and some congealed mac-&-cheese, which appeared to be the only menu item actually in stock at the restaurant. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

Who knows what the future may hold. By now, you know the answer, but as I write this, the snow is just beginning to fall. Maybe the big one will miss us entirely. Maybe we're about to get a record dumping. Maybe I'll catch scurvy. Maybe the restaurant will find the rest of its lost chicken. Maybe I'll spend eternity in Hell for hoping the Packers get crushed by Pittsburgh.

For now? I'm going back to bed.

COLUMN: Da Bears

2011-02-21T09:28:00.002-06:00

"@#$%!" I announced to no-one at all.

"HONEY!" scolded my girlfriend with a stern expression. "Stop getting so worked up! It's just a stupid game!"

There are lots of things that one can do with one's Christian schoolteacher girlfriend of outstanding moral turptitude, and hurling obscenities just isn't one of them.

But if there was ever just cause to holler out some verbal naughties, it was this. Amy was wrong - this wasn't a stupid game. This was THE game. It was barely four minutes old, and already the Green Bay Packers had mowed down the Chicago Bears' defense and strolled right into the endzone with nary a problem. It was to be NOT a fantastic afternoon in front of the TV.

I will freely and publically own up to the fact that I am an unapologetic fair-weather sports fan. You know, the kind of person that REAL sports fans despise. Apart from my inexplicable year-long fetish for NASCAR -- a character flaw for which I've apologized quite enough times, thank you very much -- I tend to shy away from sports. I'll read the occasional story and watch the occasional highlights, sure, but truth is: most games are booooring.

But once one of our local team succeeds at enough boring games to potentially make it to the BIG game? Well, suddenly things start getting a little less boring. And when I started to hear whispers of the Bears actually being good enough to make the playoffs? Well, that was when the usually-dormant testosterone in my body started waking up (look out, facial hair!) Suddenly watching the last few games before the playoffs started to take priority. Suddenly I started feeling bad for not owning a single piece of Bears outerwear except for a (shiver) Rex Grossman jersey that lives its life in shame on my closet floor. Suddenly "the" Bears had morphed into "our" Bears, and I needed to see this playoff run through.

It all led to this moment -- and of all the teams in all the world to face in the NFC Championship, the good guy Bears (OUR Bears) were up against the pond-scum devil-spawn known as the Green Bay Packers. Forget the Super Bowl, THIS was The Big Game. And for a while, I'm not sure what was worse: watching our Bears get soundly trounced by Cheesehead Nation, or having to watch the carnage with my girlfriend.

For as little as I know about the world of professional sports, when I'm with Amy, I feel like Shane the Greek. Sports aren't just absent from her radar, they're absent from the world in which she lives. Still, she knew the importance of this game AND she's pretty cool, so while I was watching the tragedy unfold in high definition, she sat on the other side of the couch surfing Facebook.

Except a funny thing started happening. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept seeing her glance up at the screen. Again... and again. Weeeird, I thought. Maybe she's getting into it. Maybe she just thinks Jay Cutler's hot. Eww. Still, she picked one heck of a bad game to gain sudden interest in football. It was pretty clear from the get-go that our Bears did NOT bring their A game to Soldier Field last Sunday. And when Cutler went out with a bum knee early in the third, it was pretty much over. But not for Amy.

"So, what's that mean?" she asked out of the blue.

"What's what mean?"

"When the man said the Bears were 3 and out."

"They weren't able to convert their third down possession. So now they have to kick it away."

"But they're losing. Why would they give it to the other team? STOP LAUGHING AT ME!!! I don't even want to watch this stupid game and I have absolutely no idea what's going on and I just wanted to know and you're treating me like I'm stupid."

"Okay, I'm sorry," I apologized. "Each team has four tries to get the ball past that yellow line. But if they barely move the ball the first 3 times, they can use their fourth try to kick it so that the other team gets the ball waaaaay down there at the end of the field."

When the Bears' second-string QB called it a day, so did all my remaining optimism. Out strolled third-string quarterback Caleb Hanie and it might as well have been a singing fat lady.

"I don't even know anything about this guy," I told Amy.

"I don't like him," she replied. "He's got a 70's porn mustache."

The substitution brought to mind many questions: What was Lovie Smith thinking? Was Jay Cutler seriously injured? And why does my Christian schoolteacher girlfriend know what a 70's porn mustache looks like?

Shockingly, Hanie brought some life back to the flailing Bears. His first outing resulted in a Chicago TD, and he was working on a second when a pass got intercepted by 348-pound Green Bay lineman B.J. Raji, whose endzone dance actually helped lessen the blow.

Amy was silent until five minutes later when she turned to me with clenched teeth and uttered, "If we lose the game because that fattypants stole the man's ball, I'm gonna be mad."

The rest of the game was entertaining -- not in its contents, but in the fact that someone was relying on ME to explain it. I got to teach about punt returns ("they kicked it out of bounds? Can they DO that?") and onside kicks ("that sounds CRAZY!") and when Hanie connected with Earl Bennett for a late touchdown run, I wasn't the one screaming the loudest.

And when Sam Shields made the game-winning pick-off to seal the deal for the Packers, I've never been prouder of my girlfriend, who stood up with all her moral turptitude and summed up the afternoon perfectly:

"NOOOOOOO!!! KILLLLLLL HIIIMMMM!!!! RIP HIS HEAD OFF AND STOMP ON HIS HEART!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!"

And then she turned to me.

"Why do you WATCH this? I'm shaking, my stomach's in knots, and I feel sick!"

"HONEY," I replied. "Stop getting so worked up. It's just a stupid game, remember?" I think I just made my girlfriend into a Bears fan. Gulp.

COLUMN: Weightwatching

2011-02-21T09:26:00.001-06:00

Well, I was worried that the moment I turned 40, life would become an immediate downhill slide into the sweet and loving embrace of death. It's good to know that karma hasn't let me down. A tragedy of epic proportions has befallen me, and there's little I can now do to prevent the remainder of my life from being a cacophony of misery and woe. "It's a new day," indeed: My girlfriend has joined Weight Watchers.

Now, before I open up myself up to any number of lawsuits, letters to the editor, and/or lynching parties requesting my head placed on any number of sticks, a clarification: Weight Watchers is the only diet plan on Earth whose positive results I have witnessed first-hand. From what I know, it is a cherished, intelligent, and scientifically validated weight loss program. It's also an organization that appears to care about the health and welfare of its members. Plus Jennifer Hudson looks totally bangin' now, so good on them. Just so we're perfectly clear, I am in NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM criticizing Weight Watchers or any of their programs and/or members.

I just hate it when the people around me get sucked into their vortex of healthy living. Let me explain.

I know that Weight Watchers works because when I was a kid, I saw my mom lose 98 lbs. on their program. She was such the ideal member, in fact, that she was one of the finalists for Illinois Weight Watcher of the Year back in the day, and had to go give speeches and motivate other members towards their goals. I was, and still am, proud of my mom for her accomplishments.

What I wasn't figuring, though, was how her success at Weight Watchers would destroy my adolescence.

It started without any warning. There I was, sitting in front of my trusty Apple IIe, innocently attacking some orcs or something, when I felt my stomach growling. I put the game on pause, ran out to the kitchen, opened the cabinet to grab some snacks, and... the horror.

No chips. No cookies. No Twinkies, Cup Cakes, or oatmeal creme pies. At my mother's silent encouragement, Little Debbie had just packed up and moved out overnight, ending our relationship with nary a goodbye. In her place? Little circles of marginally-edible packing foam that someone somewhere had the gall to call "rice cakes." I took one bite and barely made it to the trash can.

Now, I'm not even a big fan of Rice Krispie Treats -- and that's rice held together by molten marshmallow goodness. Imagine that same rice MINUS the marshmallowy goodness (and, heck, ANY kind of taste whatsoever,) being held together by what I can only surmise to be the dark power of Lucifer.

And that was only the beginning. The lies came next. Some of the better ones:

"After a while, Diet Coke tastes better than regular Coke." LIE. Not only is Coke the world's greatest liquid and the key to my life-force, Diet Coke tastes like a horrible, horrible error at the Coke factory.

"You'll NEVER believe this sausage is made of TURKEY!" LIE. I like turkey. I like it just fine. But call a spade a spade, people. Turkey tastes like turkey. And no matter if it's cut to look like bacon or sausage or a cheeseburger, it still tastes like turkey. Don't try to fake me out. Just say, "Hey, we're eating turkey tonight." I'll go "yum!" But if you go, "we're having bacon and sausage tonight" and then present me with a deformed turkey, I won't be amused.

"If you season this baked zucchini juuuuust right, it tastes exactly like a french fry!" LIE. Either that or my mom never ever figured out how to season the baked zucchini juuuuust right, because it pretty much juuuuust sucked.

It came to a head one night when I got home from school to find the house smelling of what could only be described as a culinary experiment gone horribly, horribly awry.

"You'll love this," my mom lied. I'm not sure what she was taking out of the oven. It was green, spongiform, and quite possibly alive. "It's a celery casserole!" she exclaimed proudly.

My mom served me first and tidied up the kitchen as I sat staring at this plate of multiple greenish hues of unknown origin.

"Nope, I can't do this," I said. "This looks like puke, it smells like puke, it is NOT going in my mouth."

I don't remember exactly what followed, but it wasn't good, and probably involved finger wagging, voices going up by half octaves, and the dread usage of my full name (Mom only ever pulls out my middle name in the heat of battle.) There was no choice -- I had to eat it.

I put one forkload in my mouth, which was exactly long enough for my tongue to go, "No, no, this shouldn't be here at all." It even FELT gross. Mushy casserole mush loaded with bits of crisp, crunchety celery. You know the guy on the Food Network whose job it is to travel the world and eat incredibly disgusting exotic food? Even he wouldn't have been able to keep this nonsense down.

I started whining again by Bite #2. By the time I'd managed two or three more, I won't kid you -- there may have been tears involved. I tried swallowing without chewing and nearly died when celery began pasting itself to my esophagus. Finally my mom made her way to the dinner table with her own glop of goo. "You're so dramatic," she scolded me. "This is really good. See?"

That was when I got to watch her take a bite. And hold it in her mouth. And try to go, "Mmmmmm! See?" She tried, she really did. Instead, she spit hers out onto the plate and said, "Okay, where should we order pizza from?"

Even though my mom came to HER senses, what's to say my girlfriend's not headed down that disastrous slope? One of the best parts of going to her house is that there's usually always some kind of cookie/cake/ice creamy deliciousness in her kitchen. It's only a matter of time before I go her freezer for some ice cream and find myself staring at a box marked "Pasteurized Frozen Digestible Tofu Non-Dairy Dessert Product." Et tu, Amy?

She's already got her points counter and menu planner. The other day we went out to eat and she pulled packets of Truvia out of her purse -- just like my mom. Next, it'll be packets of fat-free salad dressing, trust me.

My life is now deja vu, but I suppose I can't complain. There's nothing wrong with taking strides to live better. And if there's one person in this picture who needs to watch weight, it's yours truly. Instead, though, I'll live in denial and continue to whine that my girlfriend's turning into my mother, despite her promise of NEVER presenting me with a celery casserole.

I just think she'd be better off focusing on REAL problems -- like finding out why all my clothes appear to be constantly shrinking and ill-fitting.

COLUMN: Dream

2011-02-21T09:24:00.002-06:00

In last week's column, I had a good 'n' proper 1000 word whine about turning the dread 4-0. Little did I know just how exciting a birthday it would be.

As I was busy whining about how my life was over, forces were at work. Chief among them: my girlfriend, her family, my family, and my friends, working together to create a birthday shindig of epic proportions.

It wasn't a surprise party -- I knew about it in advance. But I had no clue how cool the end result would be. A hall was rented, food procured, the obligatory embarassing baby photos donated by my mother, and even my two favorite local bands booked. As party day approached, I had actually forgotten all about the horrors of my evaporated youth and was instead focused on having an amazing night with family and friends. That was when the evening turned into something straight out of a dream.

I was on my way to the party and, like usual, running late. I decided to defy my age by cranking the iPod up to levels that tested the structural integrity of the Beetle. I was so busy rocking out that I barely saw the figure dash across the street in front of me.

I slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. I watched in horror as my front bumper clipped the man, sending him onto my hood, over the roof, and flopping onto the pavement behind me. Minutes before, I had wondered how I would be spending my 40's. And now, thanks to my distracted driving, I now knew the likely answer: PRISON. I leapt out of the car and steeled myself for the grisly scene that surely awaited me.

But as I reached the back of my car, I saw no traumatic display of entrails. Only, in the glow of the taillights, a stunned figure sitting up unexpectedly from the pavement.

"Omigosh!" I yelled. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," came the reply. "But I need your help."

"Do you need to go to the hospital? Should I call 911?"

"No, no telephones," said the voice, now sounding a bit more familiar.

"Aren't you...?"

"Vince Vaughn," said star of stage and screen Vince Vaughn. "And you just hit me with your car."

My mind was spinning. How? Why? What on Earth was Vince Vaughn doing in the Quad Cities dashing across a deserted street after dark? It really WAS like something out of a dream.

"Can you give me a ride? I've got to meet a friend."

"Sure thing," I said. He climbed into my car and gave me simple directions to a nearby office park.

"Wait here, I'll be right back."

The people at my party might wonder where the heck I was, but when I tell them I hit Vince freaking Vaughn with my car, methinks all will be forgiven. Just then, the car door opened, but Vince wasn't alone, as a second man climbed in back.

"MATT DAMON?!?!" I said in astonishment, looking at the familiar face in my back seat.

"No, I get that all the time," he replied. "My name's Bourne. Jason Bourne."

"Matt Damon's just one of his aliases," explained Vince. "He really IS a secret agent, and we need your help."

After Vince's explanation, it all made sense. The two were in town to thwart a plan concocted by Sarah Palin and, strangely, Jimmy Carter to funnel money to corrupt members of Congress via the sale of blood diamonds from Sierra Leone. Their mission: intercept these diamonds and expose the conspiracy.

"You need to come with us to pose as our Midwest friend, otherwise it'd be suspicious for just the two of us to be travelling together," said Vince. See, TOTALLY made sense.

"Umm, I guess," I said. "Where are we going?"

"Hawaii," they said in unison. The next thing I knew, I was on a plane for Hawaii. It took forever, too. Had to have been at LEAST five minutes before we got there. We landed at Hawaii, and I drove them to a local jewelry store. In minutes, they came out fleeing with bag in hand, but something was wrong.

"We've been compromised! Head for the airport!"

By the time we reached the airfield, police were swarming everywhere. We had no choice but for me to pose as a kidnapper, holding my hostages, Vince and "Matt." My demands were simple: a fueled plane and a federal no-fly zone over Hawaii to thwart pursuit. I knew the no-fly zone had been enacted when giant lasers shot into the sky and created a green laser field over the entire island. We jumped into the plane, Vince took the pilot's seat, and we were airborne.

Once clear of danger, Vince and Jason/Matt put on chutes, told me their identities couldn't be compromised, gave me instructions to fly the diamonds to a secret base in Greenland, and parachuted away. Unfortunately, Vince Vaughn had failed to ask me whether or not I was trained to pilot a small Cessna over open water, a skill which I fear I remain woefully under-educated on. That's why I decided to bail out of the plane myself, once I saw a rescue speedboat on the horizon.

The jump was rough, but I made it to the boat and was pleased to find it captained by Cameron Diaz. But when I saw that the other occupant of the vessel was former first daughter Amy Carter, I realized I had fallen into a trap. One swift ninja kick took Cameron overboard, but Amy pulled a gun and fired, causing me to fall off the back of the boat. It was a good thing, then, that the boat had an outrigging that I could grab onto and stealthily ride all the way from Hawaii to Greenland.

It was like something out of a dream. Because, of course, it WAS, which I sadly realized as my cat jumped on my sleeping head just as I was to reach Greenland with the diamonds and hopefully beat the snot out of that evil Amy Carter. But as I sat there on my couch, laughing at the most insane dream EVER, I realized somthing. 40 might have taken away my figure, my coolness, and a little bit of my hairline, but as long as my subconscious is capable of amusing me to THAT degree, it's still a life worth living.

I'd also make a joke about how my party was kinda boring in comparison to Vince Vaughn and diamond smuggling, but I can't lie: I think the party was more fun.

COLUMN: Forty

2011-02-21T09:21:00.002-06:00

The other day, I caught a rerun of the spectacularly tacky 70's sci-fi epic, "Logan's Run." Hopefully you've experienced the so-bad-it's-good flick for yourself. If not, the premise is pretty simple: In a Utopian futureworld, mankind lives a pleasurable existence under giant domes where computers cater to your every wish. It's a paradise city where the grass is green, the girls are pretty, and your weird leisure suits of the future come in a dazzling array of pastel awesomeness.

There's just one problem: When you turn 30, a little glowy light in your hand starts blinking and you get rounded up and thrown into an arena where you fly around and get disintegrated by bad 1970's special effects while all your friends cheer.

When I saw this movie as a little kid, I was HORRIFIED at the prospect of a society gone so wrong as to arbitrarily put a limit on human existence. This time around? I was like, "Eh. Kinda makes sense." I'm starting to realize that life's a big downhill slide after 30. Maybe Logan's people had it right all along. After all, who am I to deny my friends a nice fireworks display? Okay, sure, I might be dead, but I'd be spared yet another night of watching a "Billy-the-Exterminator"-a-thon on A&E.

It's time I faced a cold, hard fact. By the time you read this column, I will be FORTY years old. I couldn't even type that sentence without my stomach tying up in knots. The way I see it, by age alone, I am now officially disqualified from the primary motivating factor in my life: I can never be cool again.

Not that I ever particularly WAS cool, mind you. It was just something nice to strive for.

Forty year olds just aren't cool. Name one, I dare ya. At the very best, you can come up with some people who once WERE cool, but lost it mightily when they hit my age. Look at the evidence. Paul McCartney was a cool dude once upon a time. What happened when he hit forty? "Ebony and Ivory." M. Night Shyamalan was once the coolest film director in the world. He turns 40 and - bam! - "The Last Airbender." Brett Favre went sexting. Madonna thought it'd be a good idea to cover "American Pie." Forget Buddy Holly - Don McLean should have written a tragic hit about your 40th birthday: It IS the day your coolness dies.

The biggest problem I've got with this particular birthday? It pretty much makes me over-the-hill for ANY of the activities I enjoy doing. ANY of them. I just wrote out a list of my all-time favorite leisure activities, and every last one of them sounds patentedly ridiculous for a 40-year-old to be doing, unless that 40-year-old is an aspiring child predator. Don't believe me? Let's go through it:

#1 - VIDEO GAMES. When was the last time you saw a 40-year-old playing video games? Steve Carell's character did it in "The 40 Year Old Virgin." But it was a plot device. It was in the movie to point out what his life was lacking and make you laugh at what a sad little dweeb he was. Well I'm 40 years old and I like playing video games and I don't care what people have to say about it. Call me a nerd all you want, but doggone it, I still swear it's cathartic to get home from a long day at the office and shoot some kid in the face on "Call of Duty."

The problem with today's video games, though, is that they're not designed for the gracefully-aging 40-year-old. They're designed for the white hot reflexes of your garden variety hyperactive 12-year-old. That's why in actuality, I'm really quite horrible at "Call of Duty." By the time I've figured out how to aim my weapon, I've already taken a sniper rifle to the chest and can hear some 12-year-old laughing hysterically that I've been "pwned," whatever that means. The other day in a 5-minute round, I had 0 kills and 19 deaths. (Translation to OTHER 40-year-olds out there: That's baaaad.) I'm being edged out of my love for video games by natural selection.

#2 - DJing. I love mixing records at nightclubs. It's my primary passion in life and practically the only hobby I've ever known. Any idea how hard it is to convince a club owner that you're the best DJ in town when you're also the OLDEST? 40-year-old DJ's don't usually work nightclubs; at best, they're the guys in the lame smelly tuxes trying to teach your Aunt Edna how to do the Electric Slide at your wedding reception.

#3 - MUSIC. A terrifying thing happened to me the other day. I normally have my morning alarm clock set to the Top 40 attack of B100 or my pal Jeff James on Star 93.5. But the other night, one of my cats must have brushed the dial, because I woke up to the sugary melodic soft rock of KUUL-FM Oldies. More specifically, it was the soothing melody of "Ventura Highway" by America. And, as I lie there in bed struggling to find my brain's power button, the only thought that went through my head was: "WOW. What a great song this is." I LIKE SOFT ROCK?!?! SINCE WHEN?!?! If you EVER catch me listening to Celine Dion in a non-mocking manner, you have my full blessing to assassinate me in the promptest of ways.

#4 - AIMLESS DRIVING. Nothing clears the head quite like getting in the car with no agenda or destination and just driving. At least, it USED to clear my head. Nowadays it fills with thoughts like, "Gee, I should really add some Heet to the gas tank." "I wonder how the tread's wearing on these tires?" "Did you remember to pack your emergency kit and blanket in the event that your car breaks down?" Maturity is a FUN-KILLER, folks.

So I'm just gonna pretend this week's birthday didn't really happen. As far as anyone's concerned, I'm 39 until further notice. And based on the number of co-workers who went "WOW! YOU'RE 40?!?!" when it came up, I think I'm holding my own for now. I've still got my hair, I'm still relatively wrinkle-free, and I'm still the guy who turns the volume on the car stereo up instead of down. And if you need me, I'll be the guy in a fetal position over in the corner, sobbing and rocking back and forth, probably to the beat of "Ventura Highway." My name's Shane, and I'm in my forties.

COLUMN: Best o' 2010

2010-12-28T10:59:00.005-06:00

Somebody asked me the other day what the biggest payoff of having a column in the newspaper was. The fame? The ladies? The creative freedom? The fact that I'm lucky enough to have my own weekly sounding board to prattle endlessly about pretty much anything I fancy? Nope. THIS right here is my payoff: the annual New Year column in which I can shove my eccentric and/or exceptional musical taste down your throats by this, my list of The Best Albums of 2010.

#10 - Alphabeat, "...The Beat Is" (Polydor UK.) America is SO far behind the times when it comes to pop music. I'd love to tell you to march straight down to the nearest retailer and pick up a copy of "The Beat Is." Sadly, you can't get Alphabeat records in North America without importing them (which, it must be said, our local Co-Op Records CAN do. Tell 'em Shane sent you.) The Dutch phenoms have been entirely overlooked in the U.S., and it's almost criminal. Their new record is once again laden with infectious, unashamed pop, evoking ghosts of 90's dance culture like Black Box and Roxette, but with the goofy and lovable charm that makes Alphabeat a true pleasure to listen to.

#9 - Lissie, "Catching A Tiger" (Fat Possum.) Wow. Talk about a local girl done good. We never heard much of Lissie Maurus while she was growing up in Rock Island, but these days you can't find a music magazine that hasn't given considerable press to her astonishing debut record. Now a resident of Oja, California, Lissie's brand of homemade bluesy folk meshed into the 2010 coffeehouse crowd and earned her tours with Lenny Kravitz, and, oddly enough, a Billboard Top 10 dance track thanks to a DJ collaboration. But it's alone with little more than an acoustic guitar where Lissie really shines, with a voice that runs the gamut from Stevie Nicks to Bobbie Gentry and an unparallelled knack for crafting stick-in-your-head gems.

#8 - The 1900s, "Return of the Century" (Parasol.) Chicago's 1900s became instantly buzzworthy in 2007 with their debut release. Back then, the umpteen-membered band was known for their near flawless recreation of folksy 60's pop pastiche. But in true Fleetwood Mac fashion, inter-band relationships crumbled and members walked. Now down to a 6-piece, the more streamlined and focused 1900s wow us with a follow-up that's more concerned about the music than the retro family vibe. It's jam-packed with challenging yet direct earnest songwriting exploding with hooks -- and did I mention it's a concept record about an underworld cult?

#7 - Robyn, "Body Talk" (Interscope/Konichiwa/Cherrytree). When Scandinavian chanteuse Robyn announced her plans to release THREE albums in 2010, we wondered if the feisty diva had finally bitten off more than she could chew. Nope, and "Body Talk," the latter of the three, serves as a best-of from the previous records PLUS five new songs. It's a full-steam-ahead example of why this small-framed firecracker packs more of a whallop than Madonna or Lady Gaga. She's a superstar in almost every other country in the world, and with just a little luck (and a huge 2011 tour in the works,) the US will soon follow.

#6 - Kanye West, "My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy" (Roc-A-Fella). So let's recap: You call the President a racist on live TV, then you follow it up by stage-crashing the MTV awards and making America's sweetheart Taylor Swift cry. And you do it all while declaring yourself a more important performer than the Beatles. Career suicide has never looked easier. So what do you do next? Hold on, I'm-a let you finish, Kanye West, but you just made one of the best rap albums of ALL TIME. There's a part of me that wants to hate the boorish ego of Kanye West, but it's that same ego that drives him to make the most revolutionary, creative, and ground-breaking hip-hop of our time, and this just might be his "Sgt. Pepper."

#5 - Sleigh Bells, "Treats" (Mom+Pop/N.E.E.T.) Every once in a while, you just need a record to get your frustration out and perhaps test the structural integrity of your car audio system. "Treats" is NOT Mozart, but it's the most fun record of the year. It goes like this: Derek Miller had just left the hardcore band Poison The Well and was making ends meet by waiting tables at a Brooklyn restaurant. In walks Alexis Krauss, a former singer with the failed girlgroup Rubyblue. The two get to talking and Sleigh Bells is born. The formula is simple: Krauss sings sugar-sweet pop hooks while Miller assassinates them all with a sonic maelstrom of jagged guitars and drum machines so intense that no speakers are safe. It ain't rocket science, but it's as loud as one.

#4 - Tame Impala, "Innerspeaker" (Modular.) Most people think of cool bands as always hailing from big city scenes (Seattle, London, New York City, etc.,) but sometimes the most creativity comes from bands in fringe areas without a scene to influence them. Perth in Western Australia is about as fringe as you can get, and that's where Tame Impala were stuck making bedroom records for their own pleasure until a demo on Myspace led to a bidding war and loud critical buzz. Worthy accolades, too, as "Innerspeaker" runs the gamut from Beatles-esque psychedelia to 70's arena rock. Easily the most adventurous record I've heard all year.

#3 - Yeasayer, "Odd Blood" (Strictly Canadian.) Yeasayer are one of those bands easily written off as weird for the sake of weird, mixing tribal percussion with vaguely mystical lyrics - you know, the kind of stuff for hipster kids to power up their cool factor and drive their parents insane at the same time. But a weird thing happened on this, their second album: the band discovered the power of pop music. When their Eastern influences meet killer pop hooks, the end result is an uplifting record of unsurpassed charm and catchiness. If The Talking Heads were still around making music today, they'd probably sound a lot like these guys.

#2 - LCD Soundsystem, "This is Happening" (Virgin/Parlophone/DFA.) When music critics first hailed James Murphy and his one-man dance showcase as the Coming of the Great Musical Messiah, I wasn't buying into it. Finally, I get it. On his third (and purportedly final) LCD Soundsystem record, Murphy channels the ghosts of Eno, Bowie, and Iggy Pop, then rams them head-first into a drum machine. The end result is a thinking man's dance record that works just as well in your headphones as it does coming out a subwoofer at your favorite club.

#1 - The Brother Kite, "Isolation" (Claire.) This unknown little band from Providence, Rhode Island won my heart with their last record, but when the band announced they were ditching their trademark wall-of-sound in favor of a more sparse and intimate feel, I was horrified -- until I heard the end result. "Isolation" brings with it all the pomp and explosiveness that made me fall in love with The Brother Kite, but by trading in their layered guitars for a more subdued approach, the newfound breathing room lets the emotion and intensity in the songs shine. What we're left with is once again nothing less than the best record I've heard all year.

COLUMN: Back to the Manger

2010-12-28T10:58:00.001-06:00

"The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts, but is also the return of art to life."

The legendary Oscar Wilde uttered those words in 1885, and ne'er have they rung more true than today. Every weekend, countless performances come to us courtesy of our local theatre scene. Our area perfoming arts collective is a culturally-rewarding underground zeitgeist of passion, sweat, tears, and joy.

Still, for all of the great dramatic fare that graces our local stages, rare is it when a performance comes along that transcends the stage and becomes a living embodiment of pure art. A dramatic presentation so moving, so full of emotional depth that those lucky enough to be in attendance will be fundamentally changed as people forever.

I refer, of course, to this season's most sought-after ticket: Morning Star Academy's K-6 2010 Christmas Program, the epic saga "Back to the Manger."

There's no arguing that this musical tour de force was THE greatest stage production in the history of human existence, but now we acclaimed critics of great acclaim must tackle the impossible question: why? What makes "Back to the Manger" burn with a fiery fervor, captivate with visceral intensity, and do other big words with other big words?

Clearly, it's all due to the performance of the break-out star of the year. "Back to the Manger" is a tale of love,loss, redemption, and a time machine -- but without the pivotal portrayal of Mr. Olson The School Janitor, the entire production would have fallen flat. To find an acting talent to handle such a challenging and coveted role had to be an arduous process, but the actor chosen not only commanded the part, he brought the inner nuances of Mr. Olson to life in a way that left everyone in the audience that night a better person for it.

That actor's name? Okay, fine. It was me.

It was another one of those "hey babe" moments. My grade-school-teacher girlfriend knows just when to spring things like this on me. "Hey babe?" she said, back in, oh, June or something. "My school needs someone to play a tiny little role as a janitor in their Christmas program. Would you do it?"

It's no secret that I'll do anything for my girlfriend.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" I replied. "I'd rather be stung by bees. I'd rather watch a marathon of 'Full House.' I'd rather listen to the complete discography of Celine Dion in quadrophonic surround sound than act in a school play. Sorry, it's not for me."

Thus followed a campaign of puppy-dog eyes and back scratches the likes of which the world has never seen. Eventually, after WEEKS of goading, and I think after some totally unrelated squabble that required a colossal make-good on my part, I relented.

"Fine. I'll be in your dumb little play thing."

"Eeeeeeee!" came the wide-eyed response. "Really?" Sigh. Sucker, thy name is Shane.

Now, when I hear "tiny little role as a janitor," I think to myself, "I bet I'm in the background sweeping or something." But, lo, this role had LINES. MULTIPLE lines, in MULTIPLE scenes. And worst of all? At the very end of the play, I had, like, a triumphant epic half-page speech. It was the "Back to the Manger" equivalent of Linus' monologue at the crux of "A Charlie Brown Christmas." This little role had MEAT.

I got into drama in high school because drama geeks were the coolest of the nerd hierarchy. I had no natural acting talent, but I could remember lines and usually had no problem scoring supporting roles that allowed me to hang with the cool nerds and occasionally put the moves on arty theatre girls.

But in high school, I vowed to put an end to it. During a performance in the round with me in a wee side role, the scene ended with the actors freezing in place before the lights went down. I froze on cue, but I happened to freeze staring directly at a white-hot stage light. When the lights went out, I went temporarily blind, missed the exit tape on the floor, and proceeded to walk straight into the audience, plummeting into the first four rows and shoving my hand down the esophagus of the Galesburg High School version of The Little Red-Haired Girl I Had Longed To Date for Years. It was the epic fail of all epic fails, and the precise moment I decided that the stage was NOT for me.

Yet here I was, ready to tackle the role of Mr. Olson, the money-hungry janitor who builds a time machine that the kids steal to go back in time to teach me the true meaning of Christmas. Oh boy. Well, at least I'm good at memorizing lines...

Correction: At least I WAS good at memorizing lines back in the '80s. Twenty-some-odd years later? Not so much. Eventually, after a rough cram session, I was good to go -- but I've got to confess that, for my pivotal final line, I had the monologue crib-noted and taped inside the Bible I had to carry, which might just be sacrilege, I'm pretty sure. Worse yet is that I forgot to take it OUT of the Bible afterwards, so the next time you're at Bettendorf Christian Church and need to read Psalm 32, there's going to be one confused parishioner amongst you.

Before the curtain, I was taking places backstage with the 11-year-old star of the show who turned to me nervously and asked, "Are you scared? Coz I kinda am!"

"No no," I lied profusely while holding the Bible that I had just desecrated, which I think might be reeeeal bad but I'm hoping someone upstairs will let slide on the basis of good intentions. "I'm just excited and full of energy because we're gonna go out there and do our best and have fun and show everybody the real meaning of Christmas!"

It was the best acting I would do the whole night. Truth be told, I was more scared than every one of those kids combined and already sweating like a jogger. But the lights came up, the kids sang their hearts out, I didn't botch any of my lines, and in the end we were ALL upstaged by a little first-grader who belted out the cutest solo of "Away in a Manger" that's ever been.

All told, it was a success, and it was really cool to see the kids of Morning Star beaming with pride and accomplishment afterwards. I'm happy I got to be a part of it. Well, kinda happy.

"Great job," said the director to me afterwards. "And now that I know you can act, we're gonna be calling on you NEXT year..."

I would, but I've got this Celine Dion CD to listen to...

COLUMN: VanDerGinst Pt. 2

2010-12-28T10:42:00.003-06:00

It's been confirmed: I am now officially a Local Celebrity of Great Importance.

I've been trying to tell you people this for years -- and now I've finally got the proof. Two weeks ago, yours truly was a celebrity bartender at the 2010 VanDerGinst Holiday Bash. I have officially reached the big time. Soon, I will be rubbing shoulders with the upper eschelon of local celebrity icons. Look out, Paula Sands. Step aside, Mary from Good's. Heads up, Orby the Super Van Man. Say it ain't so, Dave Necker. There's a new kid in town.

Actually, I'm guessing our important columnists were busy because offers like this do NOT routinely land on my desk. But land it did, and who am I to deny a charitable event the splendor of my presence? Ergo, I accepted their offer, and my girlfriend and I prepared for a long winter's night of bartending and celebrity-ing.

Too bad I know absolutely nothing about bartending and even less about being a celebrity. We'd have to wing all that. The first step was to get ready for the event, a process so epic and time-consuming in nature that it required LAST week's column to report in detail. If you happened to read that, you already know the skinny:

Our last-minute invite caused a last-minute panicked dash to the stores for ANYTHING we could refer to as "formalwear." As I detailed last week, our trek to one of the big box stores ended with my girlfriend in tears and me seething with rage, thanks to The Rudest Store Clerk Ever. For the first time in the history of Shane, I was mad enough to complain to a manager.

The clerk who handled my complaint got on a little walkie-talkie and asked for a manager because "there's an L.O.D. situation." The manager who came up was super nice and apologetic and got our day back on track, but days later, I still can't help but wonder just what "L.O.D." stands for. "Livid Old Dummy?" "Loud Obstinant Diva?" I'm gonna go with "Lively Original Dude Whom It Was A Pleasure To Assist" but they just didn't want to say L.O.D.W.I.W.A.P.T.A. on the walkie.

Regardless, it was time to stop being a LODWIWAPTA and start being a celebrity. We got to the party with plenty of time to spare and --

Wait. I need to backtrack one last time. One of the advantages of being an acclaimed celebrity is that I can now name-drop the other celebrities I know, and I'm pals with local radio guy Red Hot Brian Scott. I had heard on the radio that Red Hot was doing the announcements at the Bash, so I shot him a fun celebrity-to-celebrity text message, something like "TURNS OUT I'M CLBRTY BRTNDING 2NITE. CYA THERE. NEED A HAND?"

I was expecting some kind of "LOL" hob-knobbing response (like we famous people do.) Instead I get: "YES! NEED DJ FOR END OF NITE. CAN U DO IT?!?!" Like that, I was celebrity bartending AND celebrity DJ'ing. The things I do for charity...

So my girlfriend and I get to the event and it's a splendid affair of holiday merriment, fancy dresses, and boatloads of money being raised for a good cause. My fears were alleviated early on, as it turns out that I wasn't celebrity bartending so much as celebrity drink-handing-to-people. Our station served only one flavor of martini, professionally mixed by real bartenders. My job was to take the drink and hand it to the customers while they lined up in hordes for the honor of meeting someone as famous and engaging as myself.

Only one problem: No one there had any clue who I was. Let's face it, the aged photo that runs next to my column is almost a decade old and looks nothing like me. And as I was a late confirmation, my name was missing from all signs and schedules. As I stood there proudly, I realized that I was no celebrity; I was just Some Dude Behind A Bar, a face-less unpaid employee. Awesome.

Still, it was for a great cause, so we soldiered on and had fun with it. Mostly we had fun watching people walk right on by. Eventually, a woman sauntered up to the bar. And nnnnnope, she had no clue who I was. Still, we had fun chatting and I perfectly executed my drink-handing task without fail. I was beaming with pride -- until the REAL bartender a minute later goes, "Wait, did you get her money?"

That's right, I think I'm the only celebrity bartender in history to COST the charity six bucks. I went to re-pay the till from my own celebrity pocket when I realized that, in the rush to get ready, the one thing I DIDN'T remember was cash. Right before my shift ended, the same woman came up for another drink, and this time I got her money. What I DIDN'T get, though, was her drink. While I was turning to execute my drink-handing task, she absent-mindedly picked up the drink already on the table and sauntered off. The drink the bartender mixed as a sample some two hours prior. So let's recap my performance as a celebrity bartender: I give one drink away for free, then charged a customer for a 2-hour-old stale room-temperature martini. I am CERTAIN to get asked back next year.

Eventually, my shift was over and I was replaced by KWQC anchor Jessica Tighe (super nice) and meteorologist Greg Dutra (also super nice, and bonus points for looking like Fred Savage from "The Wonder Years.") Suddenly, a flock of people showed up wanting THEIR martinis.

My girlfriend hob-knobbing with the other celebrity bartenders. She's the one NOT on KWQC.

I must say, my stint as celebrity DJ went far better than bartending. Red Hot didn't miss any opportunity to give me grief, adding more and more faux accolades to my name every time he announced me. I believe I went from "columnist Shane Brown" to "nationally syndicated columnist Shane Brown" (lie) to finally "Pulitzer Prize winning columnist Shane Brown" (biiig lie.) By the end of the night, it was how it should be: shirt and tie crumpled in a heap, t-shirt on, full dancefloor, laughing with friends, raising money for a fantastic cause. And one lone woman in the crowd came up and told me how much she liked reading this column, and that was all it took for me to have an amazing night.

I might make a lousy bartender, but I hope VanDerGinst invites me back next year. Maybe I can celebrity-park-cars or something.

COLUMN: VanDerGinst Pt. 1

2010-12-28T10:37:00.002-06:00

Every year around this time, I get the itch to find the Christmas spirit. I crave proof that this holiday amounts to more than crass consumerism. I want magic in the air, children laughing, and chestnuts roasting on open fires even though I had one last year and it was super gross. I demand nothing less than the living embodiment of the monologue at the end of A Charlie Brown Christmas. Will 2010 be that year?

It started, as most good tales do, with a phone call.

It was my friend from the newsroom, Jonathan Turner, with an interesting proposition. As most of you know, every year the Quad Cities has a gala Christmas bash put on by our friends at the VanDerGinst Law firm. It's a time-honored and heralded local tradition. Except, of course, for the fact that I'd never heard of it. Let's face it, my idea of a Christmas gala is microwave brownies and reruns of "Elf." High falutin' and cultured I am NOT.

Still, Jonathan was calling me because the folks at VanDerGinst wanted a known face from our papers to serve as a "Celebrity Bartender" at the event alongside other recognizable media personalities. Well, apparantly all the known faces at our papers were otherwise occupied, because the offer strangely ended up my way. I mulled it over for a night.

I know NOTHING about bartending, I have crippling social anxiety when it comes to milling about with strangers, and I'm about as well-known a celebrity as your average house-bound agoraphobic. I was already practicing my "thanks-but-no-thanks" speech.

But I also had a girlfriend who squealed when I told her the news. "Eeeeeee!" she said, "That sounds FUN! We should totally go!" Well, if nothing else, there's supposed to be complimentary "heavy hors d'oevres," and if there's one thing I'm a sucker for, it's some heavy hors. Besides, I figured, it's all for charity -- and maybe by giving back to the community, I'll capture some of that elusive Christmas spirit.

Last Saturday was the big day, and it started off with my girlfriend arriving with a garment bag the size of Rhode Island and a rousing game of "which-outfit-do-you-like-best?" (note to guys: the only acceptable answer here is to say "ALL OF THEM.") Upon her suggestion, I sent a text to my contact at VanDerGinst inquiring about dress code.

"OOH, GOOD THING U ASKED," came the reply. "GIRLS IN BLACK DRESSES, COCKTAIL TO EVENING GOWNS. GUYS IN SUIT, SOME IN TUX, SHIRT/TIE. THAT HELP?"

Well, "Help!" is definitely one word that crossed my mind. In my world, "dressing up" means "a shirt with buttons." When I wear a tie, it means one of two things: "Yes, I would like this job" or "I'm so sorry for your loss." I haven't worn a tux since Prom '88. I was in trouble deep. I showed my girlfriend the message. She took a breath, paused, and just said, "Get in the car. Now." I know when to shut up and when to move, and this was a shut-up-and-move moment.

Some people excel at athletics. Others excel at business. My Amy excels at shopping. She's the only person I've ever met who can come home with a new wardrobe and announce that the whole thing cost twelve dollars. She's a genius at thrifty shopping, and I was just along for the ride. And the credit card. And dealing with rude employees, of which there were MANY.

At one store, I was trying to buy a dress shirt despite the clerk NOT allowing me to try it on. And when I DID finally try on her idea of a perfect fit? Well, my neck is where I choose to store all the leftover pizza for the long winter months ahead, and let's just say my second chin grew a third and a fourth and they were all trying to escape the dreaded stranglehold of that collar.

But nothing could have prepped us for the rudeness of our final bulls-eye: a big box mega-store that shall remain nameless. This store is Amy's natural habitat; she knows its every nook, cranny, and clearance rack. With skillful precision, she swept down the aisles, grabbed five different dresses in a blur, and headed to the fitting rooms. Staffing the area was an over-worked clerk trying to balance two customers AND a telephone call. By this point, we were in a HUGE hurry and the fitting rooms were empty, so Amy bolted into the nearest one. Or would have, had Ms. Clerky NOT had a fit.

"MA'AM! MA'AM! MA'AM! YOU NEED A NUMBER!"

"Really?" muttered Amy under her breath. This woman was impeding our quick-shopping mojo. "This is ridiculous..."

And as the clerk returned to her desk, I overheard one of the customers say, "I'm so sorry that girl was SOOOOOO rude to you."

"Well," replied Ms. Clerky, "This time of year some of us are just jolly and some of us are just grinches!" SAY WHAT? DID YOU JUST CALL MY GIRLFRIEND A GRINCH?! My girlfriend is known far throughout the land for 3 things: (1) Her occasionally insufferable niceness, (2) her love of Christmas, and (3) her love of the very store we were standing in. I couldn't keep quiet.

"Actually," I leapt in, "we're just in a big hurry and you looked understaffed and busy and we were just trying to save you some..."

That's when Amy came out of the dressing room and handed her the number tag back.

The clerk shot us daggers and said venomously, "Thannk yooou. You have a niiiice day." It was the closest I've ever heard "You have a nice day" sound like a swear word. It's also the closest I've ever come to wanting to hit a woman. Or a man, for that matter. Or, well, ANYTHING. I don't even know how to hit something. Still, I was hot.

"Put down ALL this stuff and let's leave," I said to Amy. "Now."

"No," said Amy on the verge of tears, "I'm not letting some horrible lady ruin my favorite store."

So we held our grinchy heads high, found our clothes, checked out, and then complained to the store manager until we were blue in the face and red in the eyes. And as much as I hope the world finds Christmas joy, I wouldn't weep for Ms. Clerky if Santa stuck her with coal.

On the lighter side, we now had the clothes, the style, and a newfound holiday bloodlust for violence. Would we find the spirit of Christmas at the VanDerGinst holiday bash? Or would I end up going ten rounds with the coat-check guy? I'll finish the story... next week.

COLUMN: Vinyl

2010-12-28T10:32:00.002-06:00

This week's column might be a tough one. I fear I've lost my grip on the English language this week. I've been sitting here in front of this laptop waiting for wisdom to come pouring out of my fingers, but the only thing that my brain has emitted thus far is an off-tune "ABCDEFG." I fear I may be suffering from Post Traumatic Alphabetization Disorder. To fully understand the malady, you need to go on a brief yet fascinating ride into the mind of a self-confessed music nerd.

As I've written before, my project since summer began has been the transformation of my basement into a fully functional man-cave/media center, and we've finally reached a crucial stage. I'm proud to report that, over the past week, the shelving units for my music collection have been installed. The next step? Getting said music collection out of the mountain of cardboard boxes in my basement and into some semblance of alphabetical order. This is no easy task.

I have to own up here. I own a LOT of music. I mean, a LOT of music. There's a fine line between "wow-your-collection-is-quite-impressive" and "wow-someone-from-TLC-needs-to-come-document-your-life-as-a-hoarder," and I fear I may have crossed that line about a decade back. My music collection outgrew my first apartment, then it outgrew my second apartment, and now it barely fits snugly into my house. It is an unwieldly, impressive beast, and, depending on who you ask, is referred to as either "my life's greatest achievement" or "what the hell are we gonna do with this junk after you die?"

Now, I need to interject for a second here, as one of my co-workers just reminded me that it might not be the smartest move to mention one's massive music collection in a public newspaper column if one doesn't want one's house robbed... which brings me to an important sidebar entitled:

Reasons Why I Would Really Prefer It If You Didn't Rob Me
by Shane

(1) As such a goodly portion of my annual income goes directly into the hands of area record store owners, the result is that I have an impressive collection of near-worthless music, but live on the poverty line as a result. If you're looking for high-ticket items to steal, there's far better houses to case, trust me.

(2) Music is quite possibly the most ridiculous of all collectibles. Its resale value is slim to none. The minute you unwrap the plastic off an $18 CD from Best Buy, you've devalued your purchase to about 50 cents. If you're looking for a get-rich-quick haul, used CDs are NOT the way to go.

(3) Besides, what I'm REALLY into collecting are albums and CDs of, as my girlfriend puts it, "whiny British garbage." Most of my favorite bands are UK indie acts never heard of in America, so you should REALLY only rob me if you're a big Britpop fan -- and if that's the case, we should probably be friends instead of the traditional robber-victim relationship.

(4) As I've recently discovered, vinyl records en masse weigh A LOT. Just shuffling those boxes around from point A to point B in my basement is enough to do my back in. Trust me, it's not worth getting them up the stairs. I'm no expert on thievery, but if I were looking towards a career in professional pilfering, I'd specialize in more weightless pursuits, like, say, small diamonds or perhaps rare feathers.

(5) You could totally mess up my alphabetization. Then I'd get seriously mad.

The truth of the matter is, your average hoarding music nerd is often too busy alphabetizing their collection to bother listening to any of it. And now I get to start the organization process over completely from scratch, as all of my precious music was thrown in boxes rather haphazardly when I moved in.

You'd think that alphabetization would come easy for me. After all, I'm a professional journalisty-type dude, right? We're supposed to be known for our amazing grasp of grammar and the English language. When I took my first journalism class in high school, I was handed the ultimate guide to the English language: Strunk & White's "The Elements of Style," whose weather-worn cover still sits on my desk to this day. We know it is the ultimate grammatical resource because it was co-authored by the guy who wrote "Charlotte's Web," ergo I like to think that every time we make a grammatical error in print, a spider dies. Thankfully, as a resident of the Arts & Living section, I'm not quite chained to S&W's non-flinching rules. I don't have to have perfect sentence structure with nouns and verbs. I can write fragmented sentences for effect. Like this one. Or this. Cool, eh?

Too bad Strunk, White, or Charlotte can't help when it comes to alphabetization drama. And oh, is there drama. I kid you not, when I used to work at Co-Op Records fresh out of college, my fellow music nerds and I would have fights - and I mean raised-voice, clenched-fist fights - over where to file certain records.

Take, for instance, The Dave Matthews Band. Where's it get alphabetized, D or M? Since it's a singular band name, tradition says "D." I vote "M," only because Dave has band-less solo records out as well, and it'd be weird to have some of his stuff under D and some under M, no? But if that's the case, shouldn't it follow to put the Dave Clark Five under "C"? That seems weird.

Rappers are a particular headache. Do you ignore the prefixes of "MC" and "DJ"? What about "Dr." and "Li'l"? Kanye West goes under W, but Fat Joe goes under F. Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs changes his name so much his CD's are in, like, 4 different places. Ron C goes under C, but does that mean Jay-Z should go under Z? Missy Elliott gets filed under E, but does that mean Joe Sinister gets sorted as "Sinister, Joe"? It's a slippery slope until Meat Loaf becomes "Loaf, Meat."

These are the things that keep me up late at night. You can worry about the economy and rising Korean tensions and the situation in Darfur all you like. I'm a little busy trying to figure out whether Big Daddy Kane gets filed under B, D, or K.

COLUMN: Booty Got Swag

2010-12-28T10:25:00.001-06:00

It's a firmly held belief of mine that everyone on Earth should possess at least one skill that he or she can openly brag about without shame or repercussion. In the grand scheme of life, I'm kind of a weenie. I'm horribly out of shape, often completely bereft of common sense, and my social skills are iffy at best.

But there's one thing in life that I'm proud to be really, really, mind-bogglingly good at: DJing. Whether you're at a wedding or a party, a rave or a nightclub -- if I'm in the DJ booth, you're going to have fun.

Cocky? You betcha, but I've earned it through a LOT of practice. I've been moonlighting as a club DJ for almost every weekend since 1986, so if I wasn't any good by now, there'd be a problem. DJing parties and events fuels me. There is NO greater rush than mixing into JUST the right song at JUST the right moment to send the dancefloor into overdrive. I can't dance, I can't play any instruments, and I certainly can't sing. But for those fleeting moments when I'm in the DJ booth and the soundtrack to the evening lies in my hands, I'm a rock and roll star.

At least, I thought I was -- until some teenagers figured out a way to deflate my ego.

About two months ago, I worked for the final time at the Rock Island District nightclub that I've called home for the past ten years. Since then, I've been freelancing at various clubs around the Quad Cities. While I miss my old haunt, the prospect of change is kind of exciting. When you mix music for the same crowd night after night week after week, you run the risk of putting yourself on DJ autopilot. Instead, I recently accepted one of the most challenging gigs in town. For the past 5 weekends, I've been DJing the final run of the fall season at Energy, the under-21 teen dance club in Davenport.

In the dog-eat-dog, take-no-prisoners world of semi-professional DJing, excelling at a teen club is like reaching the summit of Everest. When you're at a college bar, the music is often the last thing on people's minds. Adult beverages are flowing and a majority of patrons are a bit too preoccupied by the mating rituals of the Drunken Human to fully appreciate the way you just deftly mixed "Sexyback" into "Billie Jean." But when you're in high school, your life revolves around pop culture. You're dead sober, judgemental as heck, and you know every nuance to every song on the Top 40 chart, even the ones you hate. Kids pay ATTENTION, and kids immediately know the difference between a good DJ and a sucky one. When you mix for teenagers, you'd better bring your A-game.

I thought I was ready. I didn't prepare a single thing. I showed up with my usual gear, my usual know-how, and my usual ego. As the doors opened, I hit a few of my better mixes to set the tone for the evening, while the kids lined up at the booth to write requests down. After about ten minutes, I had a full sheet so I grabbed it to take a look. That's when my ego got up and took the first cab home.

I stood there, staring dumbfounded, at a list of about 20 songs -- of which I knew precisely... one. Could it be that your faithful columnist, your pop culture hero, your hip and happening music nerd, was (gasp) UNCOOL?? Clearly I had some homework to do.

Whew. It turned out that most of the songs I didn't know were all non-Top-40 album tracks by a rapper named Soulja Boy Tell 'Em. And now I understood why I didn't know them. Soulja Boy makes juvenile and borderline risque songs that appeal to few except hormonal 16-year-olds who've yet to learn the difference between good and bad music. Like Justin Bieber, if Justin Bieber only rapped about butts.

Don't believe me? Half of the requests were for a gem of his called "Booty Got Swag." Say what? Whose booty got what? When I was a kid, swag meant free stuff, as in "I went to this job fair and got all this sweet swag." But then again, once upon a time, "booty" meant pirate treasure or free stuff as well. "Free stuff got free stuff?" Surely not. That's when I did the uncoolest thing of my life and went to the online Urban Dictionary. And "swag" now means "confidence, style, and demeanor." In fact, with help from the Urban Dictionary, this gem of a song reaches emotional depth of Shakespearean levels:

"Her booty got swag, her booty got swag, her booty got swag"
- Her buttocks have confidence, her buttocks have style, and her buttocks have demeanor.

"Now dip it down then roll with it"
- Which is why they should move about promptly.

"Her booty so big I can hang my chain from it"
- Her buttocks could theoretically be adorned with my necklace.

"I'm good if u wit it I'm wit it"
- How are you? I am fine.

"Souljaboytellem first verse let's get it"
- My name is Soulja Boy Tell Em. I will now rap about our activities.

"She got a donk part two was happenin"
- This fine tune is a sequel to my past song of equal intelligence, "She Got A Donk."

"New money and I got it from rappin"
- I routinely receive payment to discuss your buttocks.

"100 flips wrapped up in plastic"
- I possess a great amount of illegal drugs. Or possibly 100 Filipinos whom I speak of derogatively and cover in plastic.

"Shake it up and down can I grab it"
- I now wish to grope you. Is that acceptable?

"Mic check Gucci bandana, girl I see you in dem sandals"
- My microphone is functioning. I have expensive headgear. You have shoes. I see them.

"Might be too much to handle, Soulja Boy TV that's my channel."
- You are an intense dance partner. I have a streaming internet television station.

"Get it get it get it get it get it get it get it get it get it get it"
- Umm... Get it.

"Twerk twerk twerk twerk twerk twerk"
- I can make silly noises. I am done rapping now.

Clearly, the "American Pie" of our time. The good news is that I'm not uncool. I've just got grown-up taste in dance music. And maybe it's time to head back to employment in a grown-up nightclub. Anyone hiring?