COLUMN: Weatherpocalyse!

I've been a tad bit sneaky, Quad Cities. My last two columns were written well in advance of deadline. While you thought I was hard at work, I was actually on a well-deserved roadtrip to Florida and back with my best friend. I returned last week eager to share my tales of ocean-front exploration (and the strange land betwixt here and there which the natives refer to as "Kentucky.") That'll have to wait.

You see, Mother Nature had her own plans for this week's column. I had barely managed to haul my suitcase out of the car when nothing less than Weatherpocalyse (TM) came bearing down on the Cities of Quad.

Now, I won't be so crass as to make light of a serious storm that took one life and caused countless injuries and property damage. And to see The Union Bar -- one of my favorite haunts in Iowa City -- with its roof collapsed made me grimace the next morning. Storms suck. It's one of the many trade-offs we get to deal with in the Midwest. The south gets hurricanes, the west gets earthquakes, and we get stuck with the tornados. To not recognize the dangers and horrifying aftermath of a tornado strike is, well, stupidity incarnate.

That said, they ARE kinda cool, right? Maybe I'm a total idiot, but I've always had a thing for tornados. The fact that the happy little cloud puffs we see every day can occasionally get an attitude and send cows flying through the air makes my blood pump. When I was a kid, I honestly had dreams of one day becoming a meteorologist (until I realized that meterology is a science, and science requires math, and well, that pretty much leaves my mathematically-challenged brain out of the equation.)

Still, extreme weather continues to fascinate me. I'd love to one day see a tornado with my own eyes. Provided, of course, that I was at a safe and secure location, like perhaps at a Tornado Zoo or something. Plus, I'd hate to think that while I'm getting my jollies watching a twister, Farmer Joe's losing his entire life's work.

Regardless, while you and yours were probably doing the smart thing last week and seeking shelter in your basements, me and my tornado fetish were staring out windows and channel-flipping for news coverage. That's when I realized that, when it comes to tornados, there's one animal out there crazier than myself.

I speak, of course, of our local TV weathermen. What we see as an impending disaster, they see as a chance to finally roadtest their new-fangled Super Ultra Deluxe Doppler-o-Matic thingajigs. I was an eager viewer.

I started on KWQC TV-6, where our main man Terry Swails was doing a great job of sending people to shelter. Unfortunately, he was doing this against a background of total and complete neon nonsense. Can ANYONE without a degree in Meterology understand their new radar display? All I saw was a bunch of swirling circles in front of a sea of blinking, psychedelic colors. I couldn't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure the forecast was calling for a 40% chance of grooving to an Electric Prunes record.

Meanwhile, over on WQAD Newschannel 8, Neil Kastor was like a kid in a candy store. While Terry brought gravity to the situation, Neil brought the excitement. There he was, jacket off, tie loosened, head buried in a bank of computer screens, gleefully saying things like "Wow! This is a CLASSIC storm!" and "Look at that rotation!" You can tell that Neil's not just a weather MAN, he's a weather FAN. WQAD recently updated their Doppler thingy, too. And from what I could see, their kajillion-dollar upgrade pretty much consisted of: an arrow. A big, fat arrow on the middle of the radar screen that uses precision science to tell us: "Yep, the storm's movin' that-a-way."

I won't kid the weather guys too badly, though. It's due to their hard work and great coverage that more lives weren't ruined from this sudden storm. And it was good that Neil's SuperDopplerArrow thingy ended up pointing AWAY from the QC metro area, as much of our region got spared the brunt of the storm.

After seeing the news the next day, maybe I didn't want to see the tornado too badly after all. Looking at Iowa City made me yearn for a boring ol' 100 degree sweltering summer day in Rock Island. Actually what it REALLY made me yearn for was to be back on the beach... but more on that next week (barring, say, a typhoon or something.)

COLUMN: Congress

Well, it finally happened. After umpteen years serving our district, Lane Evans is calling it quits.

I've always thought that Lane's done a bang-up job for the area. I grew up in Galesburg (town motto: "If you've got jobs, we know a place in Mexico you can move them to!") We went through the hardships of a near-constant town recession, and we watched as Lane stood up, time and time again, and fought for us underdogs. Sometimes it worked. A lot of times it didn't. But the man was always there and always fighting. I like the guy.

You have no idea where I live, but if you're a Rock Islander, you probably know my apt. - rain or shine, election or no, I've had a Lane Evans for Congress sign in my window. I'd like to tell you it's because I'm politically minded. In all honesty, my late great cat did a number on my blinds the week I moved in and the sign just covered up the evidence from my landlord.

Point is, Lane's stepping down. And that means a myriad of people are stepping up and jockeying for the Democratic nod of the cap. Rock Island mayor Mark Schweibert was crying on the news the other night. Phil Hare was crying in our paper. Mike Boland's preparing to weep any minute now. All these guys and about a dozen more are looking for Lane's job.

The Democrats of the District, meanwhile, aren't even sure of the procedures to go about picking a new guy. Or so they claim. Me, I think they're stalling. The signs are perfectly clear. I'm a smart fella. I've been reading between the lines. They couldn't be more obvious. I wasn't going to... but, gee, since you're all being so pushy...

Okay, Democrats, fine. I'll be your candidate. I'll run for that Congress thingamajig.

And the Shane 2006 Campaign could work. Let me tell you how:

* THE MARKETING. The slogans come so easy, don't they? "Vote for Shane, he's a brain, he ain't no pain, your trust he'll gain, so don't complain, join the campaign!" Quad City Republicans need to face the brutal harsh reality: you can't rhyme a thing with "Andrea" OR "Zinga."

* THE ISSUES. I know how to sternly say words like "education," "health," "economy," and "veterans." I'm also pretty good at impressive-sounding non-sensical outbursts: "The community needs to be in synergy!" Then I can use your campaign funds to hire a staff of those kids we used to cheat off of in poli-sci classes and let THEM fill in the blanks. It's gold, baby!

* THE CHARISMA. I vow as your candidate never to pander to the community. You won't find me kissing babies for votes, no siree. Instead, I vow to ONLY kiss attractive girls. Besides, babies get all kinds of colds and cooties and stuff. I remain cold-free... to better serve the community. And the attractive girls.

* THE EXPERIENCE. I've sat through "Dave," "Bob Roberts," "Air Force One," "The Distinguished Gentleman," and I'm pretty sure I saw "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" one time in Civics class. Thanks to Schoolhouse Rock, I can still sing the Preamble to the Constitution to this day. And, if it means your vote, I might even stop on C-Span for a second or two next time I'm channel flipping.

* THE LESSONS LEARNED. Jobs - yes. Stinky pork processing plants - no. Got it.

If elected, I vow to make an impact on the community. I'll fight for this area every week, then make fun of it every weekend in this column. It's a win-win, right?

"But Shane," you say, "If picked as a candidate, you couldn't keep doing your column, could you?" Well, there IS that thing about equal media space for all candidates and stuff. But I've got a solution: Pick me as your Democratic candidate, and we'll simply tell Ms. Zinga that she's free to write a weekly humor column for the paper as well. Problem solved.

I tell ya, I'm your guy. Unless I'm not, in which case, to the chosen candidate I offer one very important question: Can I have one of your signs before my landlord sees these blinds??

Sorry for the delays...

Sorry it took so long to update... been out of town on vacation. And don't worry, you'll be reading ALLLLLL about it soon enough...

COLUMN: Politically Correct

Everywhere I've gone the past couple of weeks, people keep asking me the same question:

"How can one man be so funny AND so doggone sexy?"

Okay, maybe I'm embellishing a little bit. But honestly, I HAVE been getting pestered lately. Many people really HAVE been coming up to me lately, and everybody wants to know why I haven't written a column on the Virgin Mary's appearance on the I-74 Rock River bridge span.

I went out to Harold's Landing and checked it out when the news broke. I couldn't see it. Not even remotely. It just looked like a bridge to me. Perfect column fodder, right? Wrong.

I've sat and thought about it and I've decided: I'm not going to write a column about Our Lady of the Underpass. Why? Because I am an extremely large chicken.

There is NO way to make fun of a vision of the Virgin Mary without the possibility of horribly offending a large chunk of the population. It's tough being politically correct these days. Yet, society has pushed and pushed until none of us really understand the boundaries before us. I don't even know what the correct term for my own race is these days. Am I white? Caucasian? European-American? Just a plain ol' honky?

I just can't keep up. The last thing I ever want to do is innocently offend someone reading my column (unless it's Tom Cruise.) I'm happy to consider myself a pretty non-biased guy -- I have friends who are black, friends who are gay, friends who are Jewish, etc. I could care less. My buddy Bruce isn't "my GAY friend Bruce." He's just my friend, even if he IS my Friend Most Likely To Break Into a Dolly Parton Song in a Public Place.

But between Howard Stern's mouth and Janet Jackson's nipple, the FCC has turned mass media into a politically correct minefield, and we've all got to watch where we step. Nowhere is this more exemplified than in the tail sections of this very paper.

Classified ads have a surplus of opportunities to offend, and it's up to our staff to meticulously check those suckers for anything remotely offensive. If you want a good read, you should see the Equal Employment Opportunity guidelines for help wanted ads.

Some of the stuff makes sense: of course you can't say "Help Wanted: Latinos Only" or "Women Needed Now!" or anything like that. It's not just patentedly offensive, it's just common sense. But as you read on, you find out just how specific the rules can get. For instance, you can't specify the sexual orientation of a prospective employee. But there's an asterisk next to that rule, and the asterisk says "This rule does not apply to transvestites." Ergo, it's highly illegal to say "No gays" in a help wanted ad, yet it's perfectly legal to say "Transvestites need not apply."

Then you get to the terminology rules. "Waitress" is out; "wait staff" is in. "Handyman" is out; "handyperson" is in. The unions can give apprenticeships for "Journeymen Linemen," yet when the ads run in our paper, they have to say "Journey Level Line Workers." Which brings us to my favorite.

"Janitor" is an offensive word. That's according to Equal Opportunity Employment guidelines. Sorry, I guess I just never considered janitor to be a male-gendered word, but that's apparantly the case. If janitor is a sexist word, shouldn't it follow that there's a female equivalent? If so, what? "Janitette?" (FYI: the book says that "custodian" is the neutered word of choice here.)

Rules are good to have, though; without them, boneheads could get away with anything. One of my favorites was a guy who once called us to place a Roommate Wanted ad. No joke, this is how he wanted it to read: "Middle-aged man seeks young, attractive, blonde female roommate." And the guy seemed genuinely shocked when he found out he couldn't run such an ad with us, or with any other paper in the free world. That guy was probably SO proud of himself when he came up with this novel way to score a girlfriend. Sorry, buddy - keep dreamin'.

So I'm not touching the Virgin Mary with a 10 foot pole. Wait, that's offensive, too. What I MEAN is I'm not going to write about her, not even if she pops up on my cheese sandwich. I'll leave it to someone else to make the snarky comments, and someone else to clean up the mess. Just as long as the person cleaning up the mess is a custodian and NOT a janitor (transvestites need not apply.)

Braaaaains. Me Want Braaaaains!

Remember my column from last week? About how I NEVER take a good picture? How I discussed one being at a sales job where we took a group photo of our "smilin', happy team," only to have me look like a disfigured zombie in the back, ready to kill at the drop of a hat?

I found that picture. NOW tell me I'm lyin'.


Yes, "these are the friendly Classified Telesales team members," AND the gaunt, waif-like creature standing behind them who'll be murdering them in their sleep later that night.

A Couple Quick TV Bits

(1) Katie Couric? ANCHORING THE NEWS??? Are you KIDDING me? This is about as logical as "Meet the Press... with your host, Carrot-Top!" Katie Couric is a weak journalist at best. She's great with fluff pieces and flashing her perfect little smile, and I even think she's probably a really nice person in real life, but this gig is NOT for her. My prediction: she crashes and burns within a year.

(2) Speaking of things crashing and burning, you guys see "Sons and Daughters" on ABC? I finally got to see two episodes of the series tonight. For the longest time, I'd balked just because the incessant ads for the show leading to its premiere were quite possibly the most annoying thing on TV since "Hey man, is that FREEDOM ROCK?!" But I finally saw the show tonight... and... IT'S FRICKIN' BRILLIANT! I was laughing for an hour straight. Too bad it's bound for cancellation. Sigh.

COLUMN: Pic

There's a new promotional ad running in one of our papers this week. The ad showcases many of our fine columnists, and I'm proud to be included in the mix. There, in a neat box, are all of our photos, grouped together like mug shots with our names and specialties. I'm listed as "off-beat humor." (Personally, as a moonlighting club DJ, I like to consider myself always ON the beat, thanks.)

Here's my problem: I'm sitting and looking at the faces of my fellow columnists. They're all smiling. They're all vibrant. They all look their best. And then there's me. I'm the only "humor" columnist in the bunch, yet in my official photo, I look like my puppy just died. There's not a trace of humor in my face. In fact, I look downright despondent. If I'm the FUNNY one, I'd hate to see a picture of the person here in charge of obituaries.

What do you guys think of the photo that's used with my column? Sure, I look morose. And, yeah, my friend Tien was right -- the unfortunate tan/black shirt layering of the day DOES make me look a bit like a Jedi in training. But I've always kind of liked that picture, and I'll tell you why: In it, I do not look like a serial killer. That fact alone makes the photo better than 98% of the photos I've ever starred in.

Exactly just what IS it that makes a person photogenic? And, more to the point, where can I buy some? See, I don't just take bad pictures; I take the art of bad-picture-taking to exciting and heretofore unexplored terrain. I have a LEGACY of horrifying photos out there, just waiting to be mocked by friends and family. The camera is not my friend. In fact, I worry that I may have, at one time or another, made a disparaging joke against the camera's mother. The camera, I've discovered, has a grudge against me.

I know what you're thinking: Here he goes again, more self-deprecation. This kid's got the worst self-esteem EVER. But this isn't just me being hard on myself. I have photo after photo as hard proof. I know what I look like in a mirror, and I know what I look like in a photo, and never the twain shall meet.

When captured on film, my face often does things that modern science simply can't explain. My chin grows a double, and yes, occasionally a triple. My right eye becomes jealous of my left and grows to a bigger size, while both of them simultaneously decide to recede into my skull (perfect for that captivating zombie look that's all the rage with the kids.) Zits previously undetected pop out to say hello, as though unseen forces have just claimed my left cheek for the nation of Pimplonia.

Smiling is easy, one would think. The best part about life is that there's ALWAYS something or someone doing something stupid, ergo I tend to smile a lot. Yet, the second someone decides to point a camera at my face, this instinctive skill leaves my repertoire. In its place, I find myself attempting to analytically smile, issuing mental commands like, "Okay, first THIS muscle needs to move up, then THIS muscle..." The end result looks like a cross between The Joker and Bobcat Goldthwait, and appears decidedly evil.

Once, at a sales job, we took a group photo of the team for marketing to use. Our smiling faces adorned a banner that read, "Call our friendly telesales team!" Then there's me in the back, looking like a zombie AND smiling demonically. Call our friendly telesales team... and the guy who's going to follow them home later and eat their brains.

The other nifty trick I've learned is that as soon as I even SEE a camera, my head compulsively tilts to a 20 degree angle. I have NEVER understood this. Regardless, there are scores of family photos out there where everyone looks normal except me, now looking like (a) a zombie, (b) with a deranged smile, and (c) with my head cocked like a curious puppy. Needless to say, I expect the folks at G.Q. to call any day now.

I wasn't always this idiotic. My mom has a slew of pictures of me from my youth, and in all of them, I look shockingly NORMAL. A real smile, no sunken eyes, and no cocked head. So what happened? Your guess is as good as mine. I'm trying to figure out a way to blame the Reagan Administration.

So what do you guys think? Should I make a stab at a new pic to accompany the column, knowing the risk of Cocked & Deranged Zombie Syndrome? Or do I leave well enough alone and keep the Jedi pose? If enough people e-mail and demand it, I'll talk to the bosses about scheduling a new photo session. Otherwise, I'm leaving it alone and you'll have to get your off-beat humor with a slice of despondency.

Zombie Rave

So for those of you NOT distracted by the discovery of Our Lady of the Underpass down there by Harold's-Under-the-Bulldozer, you might have noticed the story in the news about the kid in Seattle who went mental and killed 6 other kids and then himself.

You might have ALSO read that the kids were all at an afterhours gathering after they had all attended some rave in Seattle.

This makes me have to talk.

For adults, "rave" is a dirty word. It brings to mind Dateline-esque horror stories about the abuses of Ecstasy and having your kids stay out 'til the wee hours of the morning doing all kinds of nasty stuff. And see, now, thanks to the Seattle story, we now have the added stigma that People Who Go To Raves Can Get Shot.

For kids, "rave" is a played-out word. Real raves died ages ago. The fad is dead. Nobody throws illegal all-night dance parties any more, and if they DID, hardly anybody would go. What's left is sort of a commercialized version of the classic "rave," usually held at clubs or concert venues with appropriate licensing. Often with paid, uniformed security and sometimes even a police presence. The only time you hear the word "rave" associated with one of these parties is if a promoter is (a) being corny, or (b) trying to capitalize on the rebellious stigma of a past phenomenon.

Why am I getting all riled up over raves? Because, prior to my cushy little job at the Dispatch/Argus, I spent 4 years of my life as a rave promoter in the Quad Cities area.

"But, but, BUT..." you're saying, "raves are baaaad, m'kay?"

No, they weren't. Still aren't (though there hasn't been a proper one in the Quad Cities in years.) If you think that raves are evil, bad places where evil, bad people hang out, you've seen one too many episodes of Dateline NBC.

If your kid has ever expressed any interest in rave culture, that means that your kid is into electronic dance music. You'll know it by the unending dance beats coming out of his or her bedrooms. It might be house, it might be techno, it might be trance, it might be breaks... and its pulsating rhythms may just keep you up all night routinely.

The problem is: If you're a kid into that kind of music... ESPECIALLY if you're in an area like we are, there's simply NOWHERE to go to enjoy it. You won't hear that kind of music at teen dances - it's just not sock hop material. You can't hear it on the radio (unless you've got Sirius.)

That's where rave culture comes in. At raves, DJ's spin electronic dance music all night long, from dusk til whenever the party ends. This is DJ culture -- DJ's fly into these parties from all over the world, and if it's your thing, big-name DJ's command the same kind of respect and fan worship that bands and movie stars get. (Think I'm kidding? We flew DJ's in from the east coast who spun records for the low, low fee of $1000 PER HOUR.)

At raves and like-minded gatherings, kids get together on the dance floor and just share their love for the music. Whether it's dancing like loons, hanging out in the corners, socializing, chatting, checking out the DJ... they're just there for the fun of it all.

The mentality of kids at raves is like nothing you've ever seen. Let me put it to you this way. In our day, we probably threw around 100 parties. Thousands and thousands of kids. AND NOT ONE FIGHT. IN 4 YEARS. That's a better average than ANY dance club or bar you might happen to frequent.

I've seen strangers become best friends at these parties. Race, religion, sex... it doesn't matter. Everyone's just ACCEPTED at these events. I work at a "proper" nightclub on the weekends now, playing the usual mix of Top 40/hip-hop. And I've seen people get RIDICULED in my club by others for looking different, dancing weird, what-have-you. At a rave, you could be THE WORST DANCER ON EARTH, and noone cares. It's just a melting pot for kids of all types whose ONLY common ground is their shared love for the music.

I WILL be a realist, though. Largely thanks to programs like 20/20, Dateline, etc., raves in the 90's became synonymous with drug abuse (primarily the "club drug" ecstasy.) Am I going to sit here and tell you that noone was on drugs at one of our parties? Of course not. I'm sure it happened from time to time, despite our diligent efforts to curb it (we frisked every kid who walked in the door, we confiscated any illicit substances we found, and we tossed anyone caught.)

But it wasn't prevalent. There was no peer pressure. No one ever offered me ecstasy in all my days. I've never even SEEN an ecstasy pill with my own eyes. The VAST majority of the kids at our parties were there for the music and the socializing and NOTHING else.

You're just going to have to trust me on that one. Just like you should trust your kids not to be stupid. I'd love to show you guys videos from our parties - you'll see that it's just a bunch of fun. Nothing sinister and nothing illegal. Nothing you wouldn't lose respect for your kids over.

The reason I decided to rant tonight? Because I can already imagine the producers of Dateline and 20/20, sitting around SALIVATING over the prospect of another "raves are evil" piece. Back when we were throwing events, those stories would run and cause us to roll our eyes.

If anything, the slanted news reports INCREASED our crowds, because, let's face it, kids want to go somewhere dangerous and cool. And when a concerned parent would show up? We'd welcome them inside so they can see "the dangers of raves" for themselves... not once did we get a negative comment.

At the VERY worst, your kids might have ringing in the ears the next day -- the music is LOUD, I won't kid ya there -- but that's honestly the worst of it.

So parents of the Quad Cities, don't flip out over this idiot in Seattle. The kid was toting around a truck full 'o guns -- the victims could have been in a McDonalds, wandering down the street, or doing homework in a library. They were just tragic victims of a crazy killer, and he just happened to pick a rave afterhours to go horribly insane.

If your kids are into club music, let them be. It's harmless and fun to dance to. Just be a good parent and make sure they're not hanging out with stupid kids doing stupid stuff... and they'll be just fine.

End Rant.

COLUMN: Coot

Do you guys doodle? You know, when you're thinking about something or talking on the phone, and suddenly you look down and realize that you've just absent-mindedly drawn a little spaceship and two aliens strutting around the margins of your notebook page, as though they're about to claim your piece of paper in the name of Betelgeuse? If so, what do YOU draw? Little aliens? Random shapes and designs? Epic pen-and-ink historical reenactments?

I occasionally worry about myself -- and one of the principal reasons is my doodles. I doodle all the time when I'm on the phone or preoccupied with portions of my brain switched to the "off" position. The problem is: I don't draw little pictures or little shapes. I SIGN MY NAME. Over and over and over again.

There's no way to make that come across well. I shudder to think what a coworker would make of me if they were to walk by my desk and see a page covered over and over again in my name. Surely I must be some sort of egomaniacal nutbag so in love with myself that I practice my own autograph for kicks.

Truth be told, I guess I just like the way the pen feels when I'm signing my name, skating from a swirling S to a harsh straight H and so on. The other day I looked down to find a page full of my signatures and once again it got me thinking about names.

I've said before in these pages: I like the name my parents gave me. It's unique, but not weird and unpronounceable. At least, I thought it was unique until I Googled myself and found out there's a whole lot of Shane Browns out there. One of them, in fact, recently released a Christian country album called "Thank You Lord." Just to spare the confusion, that's NOT me.

There's one thing that stinks about my name, though: it's highly uncooperative when it comes to nicknames. There's no way to shorten my name. James gets to be Jim. Robert gets to be Rob (or even Bob!) The best I could muster is "Ane," and I'll pass on that one, thanks.

I DJ on the weekends -- and I'm pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. Therefore, I should have some kind of equally cool DJ nickname. Usually these come in two varities: (1) name yourself after natural disasters (DJ Hurricane, DJ Typhoon, etc.), or (2) give yourself an edgy urban name (DJ Pimp Daddy, DJ MakeMoney, etc.) Well, natural disasters are pretty picked over unless I want to be DJ Mudslide (and I don't.) And the day I could pull off "DJ Pimp Daddy" would be the day Snoop Dogg releases an ode to Johnny Cash. It's not happening.

Therefore, I've just always been "DJ Shane Brown." This hasn't bugged me much. Some big-name DJ's go by their normal names. There's a popular trance DJ who just goes by John Digweed. Granted, it's likely not his real name as much as a guy named John who happens to dig, err, weed.

Back in the glory days of the internet, I used to hang out in a chat room full of fellow music geeks. One day, the founder of the chat room announced to the entire group that he had dreamt the previous night of meeting me in person, and that I weighed 300 lbs. and danced about with tacos in each hand. Within minutes, one of the regulars in the chat room called me "The Taco Lad." Sadly, it stuck. To this day, you can find me on IM under the handle "Tacolad." This is clearly an example of a Nickname Gone Wrong. Tragically, it may have happened again.

This weekend, I played with my usual team of friends at a charity trivia event. One of the questions asked was as follows: "The movie title 'October Sky' is an anagram of the title of the book it was based on. Name that book." I really suck at anagrams. Some people can see a bunch of jumbled up letters and instantly start turning them into words. These are probably the same people who do those Sudoku puzzles in the paper every day and have a completed Rubik's Cube somewhere in their homes. I, on the other hand, was born without the ability to process such puzzles.

Ergo, while my teammates figured out the anagram in record time ("Rocket Boys,") after ten minutes the best I could offer up was "Coot Skerby." No sooner had I shared it than my teammates started calling me "Coot." The next night, we had ANOTHER trivia event, and by the time I walked in, they had already registered me as Coot Skerby.

The more I think about, maybe Coot Skerby would make for a good nom-de-plume. I mean, noone's going to read The Great American Novel if it comes from Shane Brown, are they? I can see the About the Author now: "Shane Brown lives alone in Rock Island, IL. He, umm, watches a lot of TV."

But Coot Skerby? Coot's got some stories. You can't walk around with a name like Coot Skerby unless you've seen some action. Maybe you've even done some hard time. Coot might be an adventurer. Or he might be the sagely old guy who offers homespun wisdom. Or maybe he's just the backwards-baseball-cap wearing comic sidekick. Either way, he's far more interesting a guy than Shane Brown could ever be.

So maybe I'll take the Coot Skerby nickname in stride. Maybe one day you'll see him on the cover of a book. If nothing else, it gives me a new name to mindlessly sign over and over again. Then my coworkers won't think that I'm an egomaniac. They'll, errrr, just think I'm obsessed with a guy named Coot.

On second thought, maybe I'll just stick with Shane after all...

Be Ready for South Park

This week's South Park should make some SERIOUS waves. Wednesday night is the premiere of the show's 10th season, and it comes on the heels of some serious controversy. Following the show's HYSTERICAL attack on Scientology last season, Isaac Hayes (a devout Scientologist and the voice of South Park's Chef) quit the show. Last week, the Scientology episode was to rerun on Comedy Central, but was instead magically changed to an older episode instead. Word on the street is that Tom Cruise threw down the gauntlet and told Viacom that if they reran the episode, he'd pull all promotions for Mission: Impossible III. Now rumor has it that Matt & Trey have rush-produced the Season 10 debut in under a week, which means it's BOUND to have their response to the whole debacle in it. All we know for sure is that it features "the triumphant return of Chef!" But without Hayes' voice, apparantly.

I'm literally getting armhair tingles waiting for it. I've said it before, I'll say it again: Trey Parker & Matt Stone are the funniest, smartest two guys in television. Whether you can deal with the edginess of South Park or not, you have to respect Matt & Trey for their PERFECTLY timed social skewerings. This week's episode will make history, I'm thinkin'. Tune in Wednesday at 9.

Vote Early & Vote Often!

Don't forget, folks, it's Primary Election Day. The Quad Cities blogosphere is rife with people telling you who to vote for. In my humble capacity as a humor writer and columnist for the Dispatch/Argus, I'll rumler... err, I mean REFRAIN from making any endorsements. I'll leave the political blogging for the respective pundits. But DO go hit the polls. There's at least one underdog who needs your support today.

COLUMN: Motel Hell

I have always had a love/hate relationship with technology. I enjoy the advances of the Internet Age. I like that I can hop on the net and watch the news, download a podcast, even order a pizza. But every so often, the wonders of our era turn around and bite me in the fanny. This weekend was one of those deals.

My favorite band was coming through Chicago, ergo attendance was mandatory. (The band is Of Montreal. No, that's not a typo. No, you've never heard of them before. Yes, you should go buy their new album.) Some of my friends were interested in going as well, and we got together to plan our accommodations. That was when I opened my big mouth and suggested Priceline.com.

I've used Priceline in the past and loved it. I mean, come on, William Shatner is their spokesperson, and Captain Kirk can never steer you wrong. The idea of Priceline is fantastic -- you log on, name the price you'll willing to pay for a hotel, and Priceline tries to hook you up. When hotels have extra rooms that aren't reserved, they release those rooms to Priceline and, if your price meets theirs, the room is yours.

There's just one catch. Once you've entered your price, Priceline looks for a hotel within that neighborhood. If it finds one that accepts your price, it automatically books the room -- no refunds, no chance to go "Hey, I actually don't so much want THAT hotel, thanks." You're stuck with what you get.

This explains how I got booked into Motel Hell, almost an hour from where I wanted. I'm a tactful guy, so I won't come out and name the hotel. Let's just say it starts with a "C" and rhymes with Kandlewood Suites O'Hare.

I knew it was trouble when I got the directions from Priceline. Getting to my hotel was just as easy as (these are seriously the directions): Take I-88 to I-294 N. Proceed 9.3 miles. Exit onto I-90 W. Proceed 0.18 miles. Exit onto I-190 W. Proceed 1.16 miles. Exit onto I-294 S. Proceed 1.95 miles. Exit onto IL-19 W. Proceed 0.34 miles. Exit onto US-45. Proceed 0.46 miles. Do the hokey pokey. Turn yourself around. That's what it's all about.

Instead I found the hotel on a PROPER map and, after driving through 10 miles of what I'm pretty sure was the Sopranos set (nothing but strip clubs and Italian restaurants as far as the eye could see,) I finally arrived at my hotel. Priceline mentioned the spacious rooms, the kitchenettes, and the satellite television.

What they failed to mention was that the hotel was conveniently located on the edge of one of O'Hare's busiest runways. Yes, there's nothing like the tailwind of a departing 727 every 3.5 minutes to gently lull you to sleep. Still, I was positive. "It's like a free massage," I said to myself. The satellite TV was fantastic -- except when the signal got blocked by the 727's. "And I say to you all that the murderer is none other than ROOOOOOOOOOOOAAR! Further, you'll be surprised to learn that ROOOOOOOOOOOOOAR is really a man!"

My first order of business was shutting off the TV and testing out the bathroom facilities. Now, we're a family newspaper, and besides, you guys don't want the grisly details. Let's just say that toilets have a function, and I was happy to oblige mine. That is, until I flushed. That's when the toilet made a sound like "blorp" and I found myself racing to the water shutoff switch. Final score: The Mighty Gastroinestinal System of Shane - 1, Toilets of the Free World - 0.

After finding no plunger, I called to the front desk.

"Err, it appears that my toilet is clogged. Can I get a plumber's helper sent up to my room?"

"QUE?" came the reply.

"Umm, I need a plunger. The toilet's stopped up."

"QUE? HABLA ESPANOL?"

Faaaantastic. To each their own culture, but the only Espanol I happen to habla is the Taco Bell menu, and other than the word "grande!," that wasn't very helpful. So I had to wait until the next morning, when I called the front desk and was told they'd send someone straight up. Which they didn't. Same thing happened that night.

Ergo, by the time I had to leave Motel Hell, my bathroom was approaching biohazard status. I just hope the maid had a good sense of humor when she read my note: "Sorry - toilet clogged! Not my fault! Well, kinda my fault! But I called! Three times!"

The concert, by the way, was great. Plus, I got to see them dye the Chicago River green for St. Pat's festivities, and I ended up coming home with my body weight in new CD's, so all in all it was a good time. But until Priceline allows you to specify toilet pressure and preferred-distance-from-overhead-landing-gear, I'm going to be doing my future vacation planning with the computer OFF, thanks.

Whammy 1, Peter Tomarken 0

Peter Tomarken and his wife were killed tonight in a plane crash -- the story just broke on the wire. What a shame -- he was always the ultimate epitome of Sleazy Game Show Host -- without him, "Press Your Luck" woulda just sucked.

Here's to you, Peter. Let's hope the Afterlife has big money and NO Whammies.

COLUMN: Fast Food

Once upon a time, I wasn't an impatient person.

I don't know what made me change -- perhaps the overall cynicism of growing older, or maybe just 35 years of accrued frustration -- but I've definitely lost my patience. Last week in these pages, I mentioned my growing disdain for "convenience" stores and their lack of, well, convenience. This week, I'm all riled up again, but it's not over the Kwik-E-Mart. No, this time it's a far more annoying demon. I'm riled up over chicken.

"Can I take your order please?" was how the conversation with the outdoor speakerbox began this weekend.

"Sure, I'd like a #2 with a Pep--" I tried to answer.

"ORIGINAL OR SPICY?" came the intrusive interruption.

"Original. With a Pepsi," I replied.

"Alrighty. And what would you like to drink with that, sir?"

"A...PEPSI," I retorted through clenched teeth.

"Alright," said the Fastfoodian, "I've got a #2 with a medium Pepsi and a medium Diet Pepsi."

My head was craning in all directions, but, alas, no Allen Funt. This HAD to be "Candid Camera," right? Nope, it was just another round in my never-ending battle with Fast Food.

My main problem is two-fold. (1) I'm a busy guy. I work two jobs, plus I write this column. Time is a precious commodity in my world. (2) I'm also a lazy guy. This is NOT a good combination. This means that, in the few times that I'm NOT busy, I'd rather just park it on the couch than, say, cook a meal. And I'm too busy to go to a sit-down restaurant most of the time. This means that I rely HEAVILY on the fast food empire for sustenance. Not cool.

In our culture of expanding menus and countless side items, "fast food" is a thing of the past. What we're left with now is sort of a mid-tempo food. I've figured out one simple way for these restaurants to speed up a little bit, though: get rid of the wacky scripts they force employees to read.

The other day, I was driving around and got thirsty. Rather than stop at a convenience store (see: last week's column + aforementioned usage of the word "lazy,") I instead spotted an empty Arby's drive-thru. I pulled up and ordered simply a large Pepsi. The response was classic:

"Okay, sir, please pull around WHILE ME MAKE THAT FRESH FOR YOU." Ahh, yes, there's nothing like a fresh, home-cooked Pepsi, straight from the, err, fountain, just like Granny used to make it.

But the king of weird drive-thru scripts has been and always WILL be Taco Bell. Every time you pull into one of their drive-thru windows, you're treated to a Shakespearean-like soliloque of a flat sales pitch, usually offered in the one-word, monotone style. Something along the lines of...

"Thankyouforcrossingtheborderwelcometotacobellwouldyouliketotryournew triplecheesegorditacrunchgoaheadwithyourorderwhenyoureready."

Folks, when this happens to you, do not fear the Taco Bell. This is merely the Taco Bell's way of saying "Hello."

Some fast-food restaurants realize that their drive-thrus take forever, and have kindly taken notice of the situation. So what's the remedy? Add more employees to the drive-thru? Create another lane? Streamline their cooking process? Nope.

Their answer is to put up little signs apologizing for the wait. Don't believe me? Go to Hardee's. Go to Culver's. Go to Steak n Shake. All of them now have signs outside that are various interpretations on the same theme, "Our food is freshtastic and super awesome, and this means it takes longer to cook. But it's worth it, because it's so mmmm-good."

To these places, I say: don't try to pass yourself off as what you're not. Your food might be tasty, but your restaurant is NOT haute cuisine as long as your signature dish is referred to as a "Thickburger."

Is our sacrifice as consumers not enough for you? When you see us at your drive-thru window, recognize this: we have made a conscious decision to put convenience over our own health and personal welfare. About the only thing people can agree on when it comes to fast food is that 90% of it is astoundingly BAD for you. There's no way to fake good living out of a Butterburger. There are no Diet Fries.

But we ignore that. We put it, our cholesterol levels, and our well-being aside for one simple reason: your food is fast. If they figured out a way to make McBroccoli To Go, I'd eat it. Until then, I and my weakening patience remain your humble slave. But I only want ONE Pepsi. What? Okay, yeah, supersize it.

RIP Edgar Stiles

How could they kill off Edgar on 24 last night??? He and Chloe are the BEST parts about the show. Now Edgar's dead and Chloe's trapped in a room with pretty much everybody else who hasn't died yet. This sucks. And now the previews say someone ELSE is gonna buy the farm next week! Tenure is sure hard to come by if you're a cast member on the show. Here's hoping Louis Lombardi bounces (err... likely literally) on to future success. Until then, we toast to you, Edgar Stiles -- even though you never did the nasty with Chloe.

A Crash on Brokeback Mountain

Wow.

Didn't expect "Brokeback Mountain" to NOT win an Oscar for Best Picture.

Just like I didn't expect Three-Six Mafia TO win an Oscar for Best Song.

A few random wobbling Oscar thoughts:

* Jon Stewart did an okay job. Not a great job. Not a Billy Crystal job, as much as I hate to say that. But an okay job. His best line of the night: "Martin Scorcese... zero Oscars. Three-Six Mafia... 1 Oscar."

* Man, I wanted Michelle Williams to win for Best Supporting Actress. But only because she was on Dawson's Creek. And she's gorgeous.

* Of course, by that argument, Jessica Alba should win EVERY award. That kind of cute doesn't even seem possible in nature. They should make a movie of her just sitting around for a couple hours, I'd go see it. Maybe twice.

* Something about Reese Witherspoon really creeps me out. You know in the gossip columns, when they can't NAME who they're talking about, but they tell scandalous stories nonetheless? Like "WITNESSED! An unnamed diva hiring a limousine... for her DOG?" Whenever I read one of those, I just sort of automatically assume they're talking about Reese. I don't know why. She just strikes me as the sort of person who, once the cameras go off, screams about noone removing the green M+M's from her dressing room. I might be totally off on that, but there's something about the way she carries herself... plus her acceptance speech seemed just a bit too rehearsed. I also feel the same way about Renee Zellweger, even though I love her.

* Speaking of Reese, I finally got around to watching "Walk the Line" this weekend. Man, what a great movie, though I think I side with Roseanne Cash in thinking that some of the dialogue is stuff that the REAL Johnny Cash NEVER would've said.

Right, then. Oscars sorted. I'm off to go listen to some Three Six Mafia, coz, like the OSCAR AWARD WINNERS themselves say, "I gotta stay hi-i-i-i-i-i-i-igh until I di-i-i-i-i-i-i-ie."

COLUMN: Convenience?

Ha, ha. Good one, Quad Cities!

The joke's over now, though. You guys can stop. You sure had me going for a while there. But I'm a smart cookie -- I figured you out. So you can come out now, everybody. Umm... everybody? Anybody?? (Cough.)

This HAS to be some sort of malicious episode of Prank-The-Shane, it simply MUST. If it isn't a Quad City-wide conspiracy against me, it can only mean one other thing: that humanity is intrinsically evil. I'm not really in a big hurry to buy into all that "humanity is evil" stuff, so I'll just go on assuming it's a big game.

The game works like this, as I understand it. Let's imagine that you, Joe Quad-Citizen, are out and about on your daily business. Let's say you're at a store, a restaurant... heck, any business in town. Out of the corner of your eye, you can't believe it but it really IS him -- famed Dispatch/Argus/Leader columnist Shane Brown, live and in the flesh. This is then your cue to push, shove, maim, and do whatever it takes to get ahead of me in the checkout line. Once safely in front of me, all you have to do then is come up with your favorite method to make me late for work.

The winner of the game is apparantly whoever finally causes me to have a massive stroke. +10 bonus points for you if I hit the floor while still clutching a Frappucino in my hand.

I'm not a morning person, which means that I give myself precisely enough time every morning to leap out of bed, throw myself in the shower, assemble an outfit, and get out the door to work. Every second counts when you're me trying to get to work on time, so on those fateful mornings when the lure of the Frappucino proves too much to resist, I expect to be able to dash in and out of the nearby convenience store in prompt time. You know, CONVENIENTLY.

And it never works out that way. Just yesterday, I raced to the counter, Frappucino in hand, and surveyed the situation. Two clerks present behind the counter -- one helping two customers ahead of me in line, the other just there to apparantly make me mad.

Customer #1 is shopping for the Apocalypse. He's stocking UP. It's as if the news has declared that a Nor'Easter is on its way to Rock Island, and this guy couldn't dare ride out the storm without securing at least a month's supply of Laffy Taffy. Worse yet, he's paying in POCKET CHANGE. And his math skills are as bad as mine. I, meanwhile, begin checking my resting pulse rate with some alarm.

Customer #2 gets to the counter. She looks like an up-and-comer -- a young professional, a go-getter, a take charge looking gal. Most importantly, she looks like a girl on the move. This'll be fast. The clerk finally looks up from counting change with a "can I help you?" My go-getter opens her mouth, and, with the fury and speed I was so hoping for, utters the fateful words: "Umm, yeah, I need 50 Quick Pick tickets for the Big Game."

Nooooooooooooooooo. While I stood there, transfixed by my efforts to NOT break a blood vessel, listening to the "ca-CHUD" of the Illinois lottery machine spitting out my body weight's worth of Big Game tickets, I realized that nothing is the antithesis of speedy service quite like the lottery. "Quick pick," my fanny.

At the very least, if you are a business in possession of a lottery machine, you are hereby forbidden to use words like Speedy, Jiffy, or Express in your name. It's false advertising. By the definition of the poorly-spelled word, you are officially no longer a "Kwik" Shop. You are, in fact, a Sumwhut-Slo Shop.

I realize that I could have just put the Frappucino down and left in a huff, making it to work on time -- but in doing so, the terrorists, errr I mean, the CUSTOMERS would have won. Not a chance. I will not bow down to your games, Quad Cities. I stood there, I took my licks, and I walked out of there late but proud, Frappucino in hand.

Besides, if it wasn't for me having my patience tested that morning, I would've had no subject matter for this masterfully written column. Think about that for a second, all of you. Especially if "all of you" includes the one of you that's my boss here at the paper, who stared at me disapprovingly when I showed up yet again 3 minutes late for work.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm totally parched from all this typing. Anybody up for a Frappucino?

Go, Aaron!

About six months ago, I mentioned in this very blog how I respected former CNN anchor Aaron Brown. This story is perfect validation. From Contactmusic.com:

Former CNN anchor Aaron Brown has suggested that television viewers are responsible for the deterioration of broadcast news as much as the TV networks themselves. "In the perfect democracy that I believe TV news is, it's not enough to say you want serious news, you have to watch it," he told an audience in Medford, OR this week. As reported by the Medford Mail Tribune, Brown, speaking to a First Amendment forum, noted that while CNN was spending a fortune covering the 2004 tsunami, Fox News was channeling its resources into the missing teenager Natalee Holloway. The contest, he noted, was won hands down by Fox. The result, he suggested, was not lost on his former employer, CNN. "The news in this country is a business," he said. "You might not like to think of it that way, but it is." He suggested that television, instead of being diverted by scores of late-breaking trivial stories, ought to focus on the 6-10 "really important stories" that occur each day.

One Bloomburger With Fries, Coming Up!

So I've received more comments, letters, and e-mails over the Isabel Bloom column than anything I've ever written for the paper. SHOCKINGLY, not a one of them hate mail. I figured that making fun of the concrete critters would cause all sorts of higgeldy-piggeldy among the Isabel Army. Nope.

Instead I've been deluged with letters from like-minded folk, who also find the things repellant.

I did, however, receive one letter today that made me laugh a LOT. Annette of Leclaire writes that one of her friends owns an Isabel Bloom and has found a fantastic practical use for it: she uses it as a HAMBURGER PRESS!

I really like the idea of hamburger patties shaped like little chubby kids and deformed turtles. I'll take mine medium rare.

COLUMN: Olympics

Ahh, it's that rare time again -- when the entire country becomes transfixed by the thrill of human competition. Night after night, we sit in front of the television to watch it all unfurl. We listen to the human interest stories with heavy hearts. We pick our favorites (and hope that they're not brought down by scandal.) We revel in their victories; we cringe at their defeats. We boo the judges. In the end, there will be heroes and there will be forgotten faces. There will be tears of joy, and there will be tears of those who succumb to the pressures of knowing that the entire country is watching their shining moment.

But enough about the new season of "American Idol." I'd rather talk about these Winter Olympics going on in Torino. More specifically, why -- for the first time that I can remember -- I couldn't care less about 'em.

Usually I find myself glued to the tube every four years. To me, the Winter Games are WAY more exciting than the summer ones. It's the same reason I find myself drawn to NASCAR races -- in the Winter Games, the agony of defeat can be downright dangerous. The way I see it, if you're crazy enough to strap a piece of wood on your feet and go whipping down a mountain at 50 mph, you deserve to be watched. But this year it's different.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Team USA is underperforming this Olympics. Call me unpatriotic if you will, but if we're not going to win, there's nothing wrong with rooting for the underdog. You've got to admit, our nation usually has a heck of an advantage at the Olympics. We've got the money and training facilities to develop some seriously great talent. But how should that stack up against poor Thirdworldistan, one of the random countries to walk in a delegation of, say, 4 to the Olympics? A country whose entire training budget consists of a pair of Nikes, a stopwatch, and a guy to yell "Go!" (Or, in Thirdworldistani, "Geflugenscheide!")

No, this year it's different. The internet has ruined the Olympics.

Fifteen years ago, I couldn't have cared less about what happened around the world. Nowadays, I feel like a complete and total isolationist if I don't have round-the-clock access to CNN.com. It's as though my life would stop without the security of knowing Paris Hilton's whereabouts 24-7. Donne was right -- no man IS an island -- provided, of course, he has broadband access to Myspace.com. The internet OWNS me.

And thanks to the time difference, the internet also owns complete Olympic coverage, some 6-8 hours before we see it on NBC's nightly telecast. I've tried and tried to avoid seeing event results, but it's challenging when Yahoo! sticks it in big print on their main page. In short, the internet has become a huge Olympic spoilsport.

Case in point: I'm writing this Tuesday night. I just hopped onto the internet to confirm that Donne wrote the "no man is an island" line above (I'm really not that smart, people.) On that quest alone, I now inadvertently know who won the ladies figure skating short program that's airing later tonight. This just stinks.

What's the fun in listening to Scott Hamilton's over-the-top whisper-scream commentaries now? "This is simply a beautiful performance, provided of course that he sticks THIS TRIPLE TOE LOOOOOOOP...!" It just loses something if you know the skater in question is five seconds away from a faceplant on the ice.

About the only thing that the internet DIDN'T ruin were the Opening Ceremonies. That's because Italy ruined them for us instead. What some are calling "breathtaking" and "majestic", I'm referring to as "psychedelic monstrosity." Silly me, I thought Italy was just about spaghetti, scooters, and mind-blowingly bad techno music. But between the disturbing masks, the creepy face-balloons, and the Ferrari whipping donuts on center stage, Italy reminded us that they're also about a wide array of tackiness. It was like watching something Fellini hacked up after one too many hallucinogens. Really, all it needed was an inflatable pig and a Pink Floyd jam session to fully set the mood.

But the point remains: thanks mostly to the internet, I officially don't care about the Olympics this time around. There's an easy answer around this problem, though. From now on, we simply need to hold all future Winter Olympiads somewhere in the Central Time Zone. In fact, I suggest Barstow. It'd at least give us something to worry about other than the impending pork plant, and with any luck we'll temporarily stop running pictures of pig carcasses on our front cover. The 2010 Barstow Games might be a bit stinky, but hey, I'd at least watch.

COLUMN: Isabel Bloom

Okay, so for those few of you outside of the Quad Cities who read my column, a little explanation is due here. Isabel Bloom was a local artist whose big claim to fame is that she once studied under Grant Wood, the guy who painted "American Gothic" (which still strikes me more on the dogs-playing-poker side of art than the Mona Lisa, but hey, that's just me.) Isabel went on to produce weird little concrete statues out of her home studio, which has since grown into Isabel Bloom Co. here in the Quad Cities. Isabel died a few years back, but they still crank out her concrete creations to a thriving small local business. A business which proceeded to systematically p*** off the whole town last week when they declared that they were moving their production to China. Every single columnist in our paper took immediate aim. Quad Citizens galore went up in arms. They were losing their local flavor, and more than one person estimated that Isabel herself would be rolling over in her grave over the decision. It was an official Quad City brouhaha. Me, I was more concerned about why people were worried about these concrete critters in the first place. Hence, my official take:

It's time once again for another chapter of my soon-to-be-written bestseller, "Girls Are Weird." Once again, this is NOT an emotional outburst or irrational statement on my part. No, this is pure science at work here. I've spent a goodly percentage of my 35 years on Earth studying these elusive creatures, and I can safely assert that, quite factually, girls ARE weird.

The proof is always at hand. For instance, if you've ever thought that the two words "candle party" actually make sense together, then you are a girl. And are weird. If you've ever discussed with your friends what you would like to make for dinner before you have even eaten lunch, you are a girl. And are weird.

Which brings me to my latest supportive fact: Isabel Bloom is moving production of their wares to China. If this statement makes you OUTRAGED... you are a girl. And are weird.

Before I delve deeper, let's get one thing out in the open: I firmly believe that Isabel Bloom makes quality products. I don't want to anger anyone that's associated with the place, nor do I want the wrath of Isabel Bloom collectors upon me. I realize and respect that Isabel Bloom is a cherished Quad City artist who will never be forgotten, and I know that many of you adore her artwork. I will even go as far as to make an endorsement: If you're the kind of person who finds innate joy at purchasing rotund hunks of concrete that vaguely resemble butterflies or babies, you will find no better store than Isabel Bloom. And you're a girl. And you're weird.

As a rule, I'm a huge supporter of small businesses that help to define a town. I like Whitey's, I love Country Style. I can't live without Boetje's. I'm a frequent face at Co-op Records & Video Games, Etc. I'm dead serious when I say that one of the primary reasons I didn't leave town after college was Harris Pizza.

Therefore, when approached by a female friend one time to accompany her to the Isabel Bloom shop, I went along. Ms. Bloom's reputation is known far and wide, and I wanted to see the artwork that merited such a vast cult following. When we walked into the store, though, I must say I was a bit disappointed. I looked high and low for some artwork to appreciate, but it seemed as though everywhere I turned, the artwork was being obscured by weird little concrete statues.

Imagine my surprise to discover that the weird concrete statues WERE the art in question. Again, it's nothing against Isabel Bloom. Some people really appreciate the lumpy little things. I, however, was cursed with both testosterone and sanity, which means my admiration of the statues stops at the notable fact that, as a concrete product, they're (a) highly durable, and (b) make fantastic paperweights.

Beyond that, I'm stumped. Why every mantle in town needs to be decorated with little bulbous children hugging is beyond me. To me, the kids all look deformed, as though they're suffering from some sort of lethal Rolypolyitis. Perhaps when one of these bulbous children meets another, all they can do is commiserate their tragically deformed state by crying on one another's shoulders. This would at least explain why they're always hugging.

So I asked some girls that I know to explain the phenomenon to me. What's the appeal of Isabel Bloom statues? All gave the same answer: "Because they're soooooooo cute!" Interestingly enough, these are among the same females who this week have been going, "I hate Isabel Bloom! They're moving production to China! That's ridiculous! I'll never buy another one again!"

Soooo... the Chinese are incapable of producing cute? Worried that they'll have a secret button that starts the statue ranting Communist propaganda? Nope.

Fifty Quad Citians will lose their jobs when Isabel Bloom moves production to China, and that honestly stinks. But the real reason why you're in arms over the move? It's because YOU want those little concrete buggers all to yourselves. You don't like the idea that someone could soon walk into a Truck-o-mat in Oregon and buy an Isabel Bloom. You want your great aunt Edna to go green with envy when she flies in from Fresno and sees that chubby cherub on your endtable. In short, you want to HOARD the cute.

Ladies, if Isabel Bloom statues really bring you some kind of inner peace, tranquility, and comfort, you shouldn't want that just for YOUR curio cabinet. You should want it for the curios of the WHOLE WORLD. I say let Isobel Bloom make as many pudgy concrete children as they want. They'll brighten the homes of the whole planet, and they'll give you something weighty and painful to chuck at us guys when we call you weird.

(And yes, half a week after this column was published, Isabel Bloom changed their minds, are NOT moving production to China, and will remain a Quad City institution. Thank God. Concrete for everyone!)

"Hmm," Says Shane

Well, I can officially no longer say that I haven't ever received an anonymous proposal of marriage (complete with FLOWERS, no less!)

So, I guess this leaves one question for my Mystery Suitor:

CAN YOU COOK???

COLUMN: The Bachelorhood Martyr

Okay, it's true story time.

I recently received the following public comment on my blog (shanebrown.blogspot.com) signed by one "Steve." It reads in part:

"Shane, I've seen your blog and wonder why you waste so much energy on everyday nonsense. You're bright, and you even write well, but you spend your gift on drivel. Join the war. It's real and it's at your back door, front door, and of course, all over the 'net. You either don't care, are too self-absorbed, or you think that 'small talk' from 'small minds' to just pass some time is all that life is about."

Umm... wow. I know I'm no Nietszche or anything, but "drivel"? "Self-absorbed?" Yikes. Sure, I try to find the funny in everyday life, but I guess I never really considered it all a bunch of nonsense. Gosh -- am I, as Steve says, "wasting my gift?"

Hmm. His words have been resonating around my brain for the past couple of weeks. "Join the war. It's real and it's at your back door." Heavy stuff, man. The war is REAL, it's AT MY BACK DOOR, and what am I doing about it? Writing another column about Katie Holmes? Video games? Another fluff piece about my cat? Just how naive have I been??

You're absolutely right, Steve. Here I've been, all this time, wasting this precious newspaper space with stories to make you laugh. Oh, the shame! And all the while, The Man's been working to stifle us and crush our freedom while I've turned a blind eye. Well, Mr. Man, I say to you, NO MORE!

It's time I used this column not for drivel, but for change. For justice. For love of country. One voice, one writer CAN make a difference. The world has stepped on this paeon for the last time. In fact, thanks to Steve, I'm taking the war to print -- to make YOU, the humble reader, aware of a travesty that could, just maybe, destroy our entire way of life.

I speak, of course, of Valentine's Day.

That's right, February the 14th has plagued our fragile Earth for many years, and it's high time someone took a stand. We as a people must become the iconoclast to rise above the bourgeois masses and overthrow this sham of a holiday. I pledge to you, dear readers, that I will fight this scourge with every step.

That's right, this year I forsake Valentine's Day. In fact, I'll even go one step further: THIS YEAR, FOR THE GOOD OF THE WORLD, I WILL REMAIN SINGLE FOR VALENTINE'S DAY. No romance for me, I'll save that for you small-minded types.

(Note: the fact that I've decided to take my stance has nothing to do with the fact that I'm going to be pathetically and pitiably single for the third Valentine's Day in a row. This should be considered nothing more than an interesting coincidence.)

That's right, there are, umm, real reasons to hate Valentine's Day. Real WARTIME reasons. Lemme just think... OH, here we go! Over the holiday, over 110 million innocent roses will be clipped, trimmed, and sent to their respective Valentinean dooms. That's FLORAL GENOCIDE, people! Those flowers weren't hurting anyone... Oh, and on Valentine's Day, we give our signifigant others boxes and boxes of chocolates. Cocoa powder doesn't even come from AMERICA, you heathens!

You're giving your sweetheart FOREIGN cocoa when scores of decent American cocoa farmers get put out of work. Wait, what's that? You say there ARE no American cocoa farmers? That cocoa can't grow in our climate? Well, suuuuure -- that's exactly what They want you to believe. You're just not tuned into "the war" quite like me and my buddy Steve. We know how the world REALLY works.

That's why I laugh at your Valentine's Day! I don't need the love of a woman to validate my existence. Just give me a roof over my head, three squares a day, and a soapbox to stand on, and I'm set. You people can celebrate your conventional holiday all you want. Me? I'm thinking outside the box.

So thank you, Steve, for showing me the light. For helping me to take a stand. And most of all, for coming up with a fantastic way for me to explain why this is the third year in a row that I'm going to be single and alone for Valentine's Day. No siree, this time I'm not single because I'm a hopeless, chubby, nerdy cynic who can't get a date to save his life. Nope, this year I'm single in the name of truth. I'm single for liberty. I'm single for the American way. I'm the martyr of bachelorhood. Someday you'll thank me for my sacrifice... once you all stop being so self-absorbed and full of drivel.

Radio Radio.

Interesting things are afoot in Quad Cities radio this week:

www.redhotbrianscott.com

Then take a look at what's suddenly missing from here:

B-100's Air Staff Page

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what's up. Jeff & Missy are out at B100 apparantly... and if my hunch is correct, say hello to the new B-100 morning team. I don't know it for fact, but it's a pretty good guess.

COLUMN: The Anti-Shane

I think perhaps I've met my arch-nemesis.

I've met many people I honestly can say I've disliked. But it's not often someone comes along who I hate to the point of worrying about my physical health -- as in, "I think this person is causing me to have a stroke. Please point me to the nearest bottle of aspirin."

I'm referring to a retail-store clerk I had the pleasure of dealing with last week.

The story began innocently enough the other day. I walked into Best Buy at the exact moment they were unveiling a new shipment of X-Box 360s. Not only was I staring at THE single hardest-to-find item of the season, but it was making the nerd in me go gooey. Ergo, my field trip to browse DVDs turned into an unexpected $400 hole in my wallet.

That's where it starts to get fun. You see, out of the goodness of Bill Gates' heart -- Time Magazine's Man of the Year Bill Gates lest we forget -- once you've bought the X-Box 360, you need to buy a second official X-Box 360 wireless controller so your friends can play.

And of course you need the official X-Box 360 S-video connector cable so you can see what you're playing. And of course, what's an X-Box 360 without the official X-Box 360 remote control. Rapidly, I'm learning how Bill Gates can afford to be so stinking charitable.

This lack of necessary accessories is what led me to the lair of the nemesis. I won't pony up the name of the store, but it's one of those strip mall video-game places (and it's NOT Video Games Etc. because I like those guys.)

I was on my lunch hour and pressed for time, so I walked in, went straight to the counter, and told the clerk what I needed: controller, cord, remote. Just that simple, right?

"You're in luck," Darth Retailer replied, "We've got several used controllers in right now. They're $10 cheaper!"

I suppose I should appreciate the guy trying to save me a few bucks. But X-Box 360's still are precious commodities. You can't find one without looking high and low.

How does this store come to have a ton of USED controllers? Did they fall off the back of a truck? Am I being offered a black market joystick? Will I get home and notice the brand is spelled "Ex-Bachs?"

"No thanks," I said, "I prefer to buy new."

"No," Darth said, "you should get the used one. We guarantee them. If it breaks, we'll replace it with a brand new one."

OK, let's assume these game controllers are legitimate. That means the game controller in question could have been fondled by a 12-year-old with greasy Cheeto-stained hands and maybe a raging case of pinkeye. The more I thought about it, the happier I was to spend the extra $10.

"No thanks," I said with emphasis, "I appreciate the offer, but I'd like the new one."

"BUT SIR," came the immediate reply with more than a hint of annoyance in his voice, "It's GUARANTEED. I'm going to ring up the used one. Trust me."

Trust him? I wanted to HURT him. Fine. I gave up. I had to get back to work. I bought the used controller and picked out a couple games to test drive my new toy.

"Now, sir," he said. Wasn't this guy done? Not by a mile. "For an extra $4 per game, I'm going to put our lifetime guarantee on these."

No thanks. I'm careful with my games, and after throwing down this much cash, $4 is starting to get precious. "Nope, I'll pass on that."

I looked up just in time to see Darth roll his eyes exasperatedly. "And you realize, SIRRRR, that the first time you jump up and down while you're playing the game, you WILL scratch the CD and you WILL have to replace it and you WILL come in here and have to buy a new one."

That was it. I'm a polite guy. I usually let people walk all over me. But not this guy. I did what I've never done in a public setting before. I snapped.

"And you WILL realize, CLERRRRRRK," I started yelling, "that if you push ONE more thing on me to raise your commissions, I WILL jump up and down on your head. Repeatedly. And if I DO scratch the game and if I DO have to replace it, you can bet your life that I won't come in and do it here!"

I suppose I could have walked out. But that would have required me going to ANOTHER store and wasting even more time on something I should have outgrown circa 1992.

Instead, I let him ring me up while I explained to him the difference between helpful courtesy and obnoxious up-selling. All the while, the guy was totally silent. I don't know what freaked him out more, getting yelled at or getting yelled at by somebody like ME.

Regardless, I'm hoping he tones down the sales pitch on other customers. In the future, I'll take out my aggressions the MATURE way: defeating the Nazi scourge on "Call of Duty 2."

RIP 98.9

Wow.

I just heard "Red Hot" Brian Scott lose it over the air. It was his final sign-off, and the usually uber-cool jock was reduced to blubbering. Tonight is All Hit 98.9's last day of operations in the Quad Cities. Odds are good that by the time you read this blog, the station will be history.

When I heard the news that the station was being sold, my initial reaction was, "Hmm." I really didn't think much of it. Tonight, I'm kinda sad for the old girl, and I'll be honest, Scott's sign-off tonight left ME with a lump in my throat.

For those not in the know, here's why the station's closing: 98.9 is owned by some random company, but for the past several years has been managed by Clear Channel Communications. Clear Channel, if you don't know, owns something like half the airwaves in the continential United States. Recently, they lost some sort of anti-trust lawsuit or something, or the FCC passed some new law or something, that mandates the # of stations that a company can manage in one market... and it turns out that Clear Channel (who run Q106, Mix 96, etc.) was one over the limit in this market. So, rather than give up a station that they actually OWNED, they bailed on their management duties of 98.9. Rather than deal with another management company, the folks who actually own 98.9 bailed out and sold it off to some Christian group who will be converting it to K-LOVE or some such nonsense next week.

I remember 98.9 well. When I was a kid, it was an adult contemporary station -- your home for Barbra Streisand and like-minded ilk. Back then, if I remember right, the station was based in the studios of TV channel 4 in downtown Rock Island. I was a kid when we took a field trip to channel 4 and they showed us the 98.9 studio. To the 12-year-old me, it was like seeing 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time. Back then, 98.9 was entirely voice-tracked. That means that it was, essentially, RoboStation. No live DJ's and everything was played automatically.

Today, voicetracking is common. If you guys knew how many radio stations you listen to where you hear a DJ and you THINK it's live but in reality was recorded days prior in a separate studio, you'd flip out. Today, an automated station is handled by, like, ONE computer and a bunch of mp3's. Back then, an automated station meant like honest ROBOTICS -- giant machines running these bizarre 8-track looking things. It was more a factory than a radio station.

But something happened when I was in high school. 98.9 was suddenly gone, and in its place was POWER 98.9! Gone was Michael Bolton and his like-minded adult-contemporary schlock, and in its place was an authentic Top 40 station with a pulse and a dance beat.

I have VIVID memories of POWER 98.9's first month, of cruising the strip in Galesburg (McDonalds to McDonalds, doncha know,) while listening to tracks like Herb Alpert & Janet Jackson's "Diamonds" or Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam's "Head to Toe." Back then 98.9 was THE FUTURE.

Well, the future waned, as things do, and somewhere along the way, POWER 98.9 turned into the far-less aggressive All Hit 98.9 we know and kinda-sorta-like-if-there's-nothing-better-on today.

On a personal note, I was kinda happy that the station was closing. Mostly, it's because I think B-100 is a MUCH better Top 40 station, if you're into that kind of music. It also doesn't hurt that B-100 is run by Jeff James, who's one of my closer friends and a former college buddy. Jeff's a GREAT guy, and his station should hopefully pick up a lot of 98.9's fanbase after the station closes, and nobody deserves it more than he does. I actually havent talked to Jeff since the news came about 98.9's closing. A lot of people told me that Jeff should be gloating and happy; something tells me he's actually SAD about it -- you see, he's THAT nice of a guy that his thoughts are probably with the DJ's and staff at 98.9 who are suddenly without jobs. Regardless, I DO hope Jeff picks up some listeners, and I like B-100's playlist better than 98.9's anyway (B-100 gets a little more hip-hop.)

Another reason why I wasn't too upset about the death of 98.9 was -- okay, I'll be perfectly honest here -- I met "Red Hot" Brian Scott once, and he was a total jerk. You guys should know if you read my columns that I've been DJing in clubs in and around the area since the late 80's. When you do that, you come into contact with radio personalities all the time. Clubs book radio guys to show up, do their cheezy live remotes, and bring in the girlies, right? Sometimes the DJ's that do remotes are total pros -- Dwyer & Michaels spring to mind here, as does my friend Jeff James at B100 -- but sometimes they show up with egos the size of mountains. That, to me, was my read on Scott, who basically showed up one time at this one club I was DJing at and proceeded to take over the whole booth like he owned the place and was the "true" professionalism, when in truth I could out-mix him in a heartbeat.

Maybe "Red Hot" was just having a bad night. And I'll admit it, it was a snap judgement. And, more to the point, even though I'm not a fan of the guy, you can't deny that he's not a great DJ, because he IS, and I hope he goes on from 98.9 to bigger and better and brighter things. And I hope that my memories of 98.9 -- the ones from high school, when it was SUCH a powerhouse -- stay strong.

You guys might not know this, but I actually went to school for radio broadcasting. That's what my degree's in. So to hear that ANY station in town is bidding adieu makes me a little misty-eyed. Especially one with such a great history. So rest in peace, 98.9, your snarky over-commercialized butt WILL be missed from time to time. To the 98.9 air staff, good luck in getting new positions (even you, Red Hot.)

Jeez, I Suck

Man. I just noticed how bad I've been slacking on this blog. It's pretty much just turned into the online home for my column and little else... and I wanted it to become a 1-stop for all things and thoughts Shane. Turns out I have shockingly little to say about the world, eh?

Actually, reasons for going comment-less lately could be:

(1) The Sinus Infection From Hell. Until last week, I had been sick pretty much straight through from Thanksgiving to present day. Every time I thought I was getting over it, it would come back and kick my ass again. I finally gave up last week, saw a doc, and got some much-needed antibiotics. I can safely report that this week I'm back to at least 90% and still snorting the Flo-nase like it's going outta style.

(2) Sleep Deprivation. This sinus thing (among other factors) has caused me to experience an EVIL bout of sleep apnia. It's like I fall asleep then wake up like a shot 45 minutes later. As a result, I've been managing like 2-3 hours a night sleep tops for the past month. That's NO way to live, take it from me. It seems to be getting better as the antibiotics do their job, but it's not FULLY gone yet. That kinda scares me coz the LAST thing I wanna do is wear one of those CPAP machines every night. We'll see how it goes.

(3) X-Box 360. If you're wondering if it's the future of gaming, that answer is YES. I've been playing so much Call of Duty 2 on it that I've been having NIGHTMARES about the game, if that tells you anything.

So yeah, I've been laying low for a bit. Hopefully that'll change effective NOW, as things are starting to de-stress immensely around these parts.

COLUMN: CSI: Your Bedroom

This week's column took even me by surprise.

I was all prepped to tell you guys about the single worst retail experience of my life that coincidentally just happened last week. Don't worry, you'll probably see it next week, but I've got to put it on hold. Why? Because today I watched Today.

The Today Show is the ultimate morning comfort for the night owl like me. You see, I hate sleep. If they came out with a pill you could take and never sleep again, I'd be first in line. Every night, I fight the urge to sleep. I know it's dumb, but I just can't help it - when you're asleep, you're missin' stuff. Granted, that "stuff" is usually a 2-hour infomerical for real estate investing, but I don't care. I don't want the world to pass me by; ergo, I tend to sleep as little as possible.

The end result of this, of course, is that mornings are NOT pretty in Shane-land. Usually it takes a radio alarm clock set to appallingly evil country music to roust me from my nightly coma, and even then I'm banging the snooze button 2-3 times. There are days that I'm certain I'm still technically asleep until I'm standing in my shower. Ergo, in the wee morning hours, the last thing I want to do is think.

That's where the Today show comes in handy, because there's nothing to put your brain in neutral quite like the unholy trinity of Matt Lauer, Katie Couric, and Al Roker. Every morning, I roll out of bed and spend the next 10 minutes staring at my TV set like a zombie while Willard Scott tells me about some random person who just turned 100 but "still loves to sew!"

Then Matt gives some chef like a minute and 30 seconds to create a 6-course meal that noone on Earth can follow in such a short time. Then Al goes outside and has small talk with some of the crazy yokels gathered outside the window (who all hold vapid, unintelligent signs like "Kansas Done Loves You, Katie!" or "NBC: NETWORK'S BEST CHANNEL.") Then we cut inside to Katie, who's got a serious in-depth piece on either (a) women's fashion, or (b) a common household product that just might KILL YOU if you don't know the dangers.

Today, though, was different. This morning on Today, we were introduced to a fellow named David Vitalli. Dave's a guy who's uncovered the #1 problem facing couples today: the constant paranoia and fear that your life partner and/or soulmate is cheating on you. And Dave's got the answer.

It's just as easy as going to TruTestInc.com. That's Dave's company. He's out to ensure that couples never cheat on each other again. So what is it -- counseling? Couples therapy? Exercises designed to help build communication between partners, to allow you to open up to your signifigant other?

No, what Dave offers is basically CSI: The Home Game. Why learn to open up to your signifigant other when you can simply run chemical tests on their Fruit of the Looms to ensure they haven't been, err, pollinating other flowers, shall we say. That's right, for only $50, you too could own one of those fancy UV lights and spray-on chemicals that will prove to you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you've spent WAY too much time touching a pair of dirty undies.

Folks, is this really what humanity has come to? Call me old-fashioned, but whatever happened to trust? Have we as a society lived in this weird world of prenuptial agreements and separate checking accounts for so long that it now requires a portable Hazmat station to prove our fidelity? The day that you're spritzing enzymes onto Little Debbie's nether-garments is the day that you need to sit back and question whether Little Debbie is the one for you or not.

But here's the best part. When you go to the TruTest website, you don't just get the sales pitch, you get the CELEBRITY ENDORSEMENT! And what celebrity has shown up to tell you about the wonders of TruTest? None other than DAVID LEE ROTH. That's right, get your advice on marital fidelity from the guy who wrote "Hot for Teacher." I can imagine it now:

"Hi, folks, I'm David Lee Roth. You might remember me from my days fronting Van Halen. Fellas, I'm here to tell you about this great new product that can let you know, conclusively and beyond a shadow of scientific doubt, whether or not your wife has been sleeping with me. Boze-di-boze-dee-bop, skiddy-bop." Thanks, but if someone's going to pitch me a product about fidelity, I'd want the opinion of someone horrifically chaste. Like a nun. Or Wilford Brimley.

The point is, we should all be very, very ashamed. I suppose infidelity DOES happen in life, but it should be handled like human beings, not crime scene investigators. Leave the chemistry sets and paranoia at the door, and let Katie, Matt, and Al get back to what they do best: making me want to switch off the TV and get ready for work.

COLUMN: Mallrats

Johnny Marx, one of my fellow columnists over at the Dispatch/Argus, often refers to working for our papers as "Perfectjobville." I won't pretend that I don't get my share of warm fuzzies from this gig -- I mean, were it not for the Leader and the Dispatch/Argus, the only audience for my ramblings over these years would have been my late cat, and even she thought a ball of yarn was occasionally more exciting than my insights.

But "PERFECTjobville"? As much as I love it here, the last time I checked, I was NOT being paid to watch reruns of "Friends" while Katie Holmes massaged my back. THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is PERFECTjobville. So the papers will have to settle for "GREATjobville," which still means that my favorite hour of the workday is, in fact, the LUNCH hour.

And it was on one of these fateful lunch hours last week that a very strange hankering hit me. I've been fighting some awful insomnia lately, so while I was climbing into my car in my sleep-addled state, the last thing I expected my brain to say was "Dude. Chick-Fil-A." Oh, brain, you had to be kidding. Chick-Fil-A's all the way in the middle of the mall. That requires, you know, WALKING and stuff.

But when one of these hankerings hits, there's nothing to do but obey. So that's why I found myself loping into Southpark Mall last week, in search of the perfect chicken-&-pickle combination.

The thing is, I don't go to the mall too often. Like I said, when given the option, I tend to prefer NOT to walk. Yet as I drug myself through Southpark for the first time in over a year, I suddenly felt nostalgic for the glory days of mall culture. Poor Southpark, what has HAPPENED to you? Where once things were booming, now things are startlingly vacant. Where once stood impressive chain clothing stores that caused me and my folks to drive up from Galesburg every school year, now stand kitschy home-spun antique stores.

Stop yelling at me right now, kitschy home-spun antique store owner-operators. I'm certain that your goods and/or services are nothing shy of fantastic, and I'm also certain that your sales would improve with expanded advertising right here in these well-read pages. It's just that, since when did antique stores and Avon outlets become mall culture? To me, malls should always represent youth culture. Video arcades, greasy food, record stores, oh-so-trendy hipster clothes. Malls should be exactly as we first came to knew them -- in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High."

Where are the gangs of trouble-making kids? The tables covered in sugary, caffeinated residue? The pervalent stench of Orange Julius and Karmelkorn? The glorious, rayon-draped oasis that was Chess King? (I used to get CHRISTMAS CARDS from the Chess King corporation, if that tells you anything of MY teen years.)

The answers hit me on the way back to work. Returning to the Dispatch/Argus offices in downtown Moline, I took a good look around. Once upon a time, downtown Moline was a thriving place. Now? Well, since I've worked here, the building across the street has been everything from a coffeeshop to a Mongolian barbeque to an antique store and now I think we're back to a coffeeshop again. Vacant storefronts ache to tell stories of the glory days of yore. The history books that our papers publish show a downtown full of commerce and life. It's just all part of change.

Cities evolve, it's what keeps them fresh. Downtown begat 23rd Avenue. 23rd Avenue begat Southpark Mall. Now, Southpark Mall itself has fallen to the wayside of the new developments along the John Deere corridor and the epic mess of 53rd & Elmore in Davenport. Sadly, the charge is probably being led by me and like-minded souls who prefer curbside service to walking through malls.

Still, though, I'd love to step back in time and take over Southpark and make it all 80's-retro kitsch. Stick a roller rink in that puppy and fire up "Whip It" on the stereo. Line the halls with beat-up arcade games like Centipede, Track & Field, and that one that used to yell "HA HA HA! I AM SINI-STAR!" so loud you could hear it in your car.

Oh, but so long as we're reconstructing the mall from scratch, let's somehow put a drive-thru at Chick-Fil-A. Even if it's kitsch and 80's and fun, I still might not want to, you know, walk.

On Break

Taking a well-deserved week off from the column, by the way, in case you guys were wondering.

COLUMN: Really, Really Old. Officially.

The time, as they say, is nigh.

I've been obsessing about it in this very column for at least half a year now. I've tried everything: denial, repression, avoidance. Nothing worked. Time is a cruel, cruel mistress -- and unless something horribly tragic happens in the coming days, by the time this column makes print in the papers, I will be (SOB!) 35 years old.

There's nothing left but acceptance now. I am officially old. Farewell, coveted 18-34 demographic, it was good to be in your ranks of movers and shakers. Now, the only shaking I'll be doing will be courtesy the onset of palsy due to old age. Oh, and of course, if I'm not neurotic ENOUGH, let's not forget that I'm 35 AND hopelessly single still. Most people my age are married with kids; I, meanwhile, can't keep a houseplant alive for more than a week.

But I'm trying to remain optimistic. Maybe babies are for suckers. I mean, at least I'm not up to my elbows in dirty diapers or out buying mini-vans or assembling swingsets in my back yard. And no signifigant others means no reason to save money for all that responsible stuff, which is why I can brag about the fact that I'm ranked Top 300 in the nation on Star Wars: Battlefront II for X-Box Live. Any guy my age without kids or family responsibilities would do the same. And ladies, if your man is telling you that video games are for immature dweebs, HE'S LYING. Give that guy a free hour and an X-Box controller and he'll be fighting ninjas faster than you can say "Honey, can you take out the trash?"

So I'm sure I'll be okay. One of two things is bound to happen. I'll either (a) be blessed with dreaded maturity, find my soulmate (as always, applicants are encouraged to e-mail: sbrown@qconline.com), get my 2.4 children and my white picket fence, or (b) I'll be the creepy old guy who lives in the ramshackle apartment with my 62 cats, and I'll spend my days coming up with new and exciting ways to scare neighbor kids. Honestly, either outcome has it's positives.

And if maturity hits and I settle for a life of taking the kids to soccer practice, I can look back at my 18-34 years with pride and accomplishment. I've never been any kind of out-of-control party animal, nor have I found myself having numerous run-ins with The Law or anything, but I had my moments of pure, unadulterated immaturity, and some of those moments will carry through my memories as some of the greatest times of my life. For instance:

* You know that bizarre illuminated pedestrian bridge over John Deere Rd.? The one that's always in the paper over its pointlessness? Yeah, we went BOWLING on that bridge once, complete with balls that we "borrowed" (and yes, later returned) from a nearby bowling lane.

* Alongside my business partner and friend Chris McCreight, we founded Exstasis Promotions in 1993 and introduced the Quad Cities to rave culture. We can now look back at a legacy of almost 100 safe, fun all-night parties. No one thought that kids could get together without adult supervision and dance to some of the best DJ's in the world without problems breaking out left and right; we proved them ALL wrong, and the dance music culture that I hopefully had a hand in bringing to town still flourishes in clubs and parties throughout the Quad Cities today.

* Back in the day, we perfected the word "roadtrip" into an aimless artform. A classic example being the night we decided to see which carload of us could drive to Chicago, touch the Sears Tower, and make it back to the Quad Cities first. Then there was the night that we wanted to play some cards, but didn't have any handy, so we decided to hop in the car and go buy a deck of playing cards. We found a great deck six hours later in Missouri.

* When the flood of '91 hit, we did exactly what they tell you NOT to do and went driving through the ravaged downtown. As a result, my car was the very last to make it across Arsenal Island before the bridges were impassable. Driving across the Illinois side of the bridge, gunning the engine as water was beginning to reach over the hood of the car still might be the scariest and most fun moment of my life.

But you get the point without me incriminating myself any more than necessary. I DID have some incredibly immature fun back in the day, and I'm not so old that those memories have lost their lustre. Maybe it's not the era that makes the man; it's the man that makes the era. So perhaps the question isn't whether or not I'm ready for middle age, it's whether middle age is ready for ME.

COLUMN: Mother@%!&#r!

Well, it's New Year's time, and that means it's time to come clean about our imperfections and resolve to better ourselves in the coming year.

Yeah, right. Actually, it's the time that we come clean about an imperfection, spend a couple of resolute weeks trying to better ourselves, and then realize that imperfections are what make us all unique and throw away our grand resolutions over a conciliatory Egg McMuffin. (Especially true when one's resolution that year was to cut back on one's Egg McMuffin intake.)

But this year, I'm going to at least give this New Year's resolution thing a try, because there's one thing I do want to change. I'm a professional member of society. I have a Bachelor of Arts degree. (And if you don't believe me, it's Velcro-ed to my wall at home -- come over and I'll show you.) The point is, I'm now at that place in life where I'm supposed to carry myself in a certain manner.

I will never be able to make the Eliza Doolittle transition. I'm always going to think wine (red and white) tastes ucky. I will always use the wrong fork. I will always put my elbows on the table. These are things that are too inherent to my character to change; change THEM, change ME, and I don't want to lose my sense of self, thanks. But there's one thing that can and should be changed while keeping my sense of self fairly intact.

I have a potty mouth. I say naughty words, and I say them a lot. In fact, it's oftentimes REALLY tough to write this column every week without trying to insert one of my four-lettered friends. I write like I think, and sometimes I think vulgarily (if that's a word.) (No, it's not. -- Editor)

Some of you may know that I'm also a contributing editor to a music Webzine, ExcellentOnline.com. However, I don't want ANY of you guys to check out my occasional columns on Excellent, because they're so expletive-ridden that you'll probably never read one of these columns the same way. (Suffice it to say, there are a lot more creative ways to say "This CD sucks," and I've probably come up with about all of them.)

Meanwhile, over here in Family Newspaper-land, I once got a polite "ahem" from one of my editors for overusing the word "freaking." While part of me was ticked off that "freaking" is a fairly innocuous word, there was honestly no way around my editor's argument that "freaking" is just a nicer way of saying a different word that starts with the same letter. Sheesh, I just did it again! "Ticked off" is a nicer way of saying the "p"-word. Ack! And "Sheesh" is a nicer way of saying the "s"-word! I can't win!

It was Christmas night when I decided that I needed to scale back on the naughty words. I plugged myself into my Xbox Live for some violent pre-bed video gaming when it suddenly hit me.

I imagined little Timmy out there somewhere. Little Timmy lives a fairly conservative life, and I bet it took him a couple years to talk his parents into even buying him a borderline-violent video game. But Little Timmy had an Xbox under his tree this year, so he hooks it up and logs on to Xbox Live for the first time. Maybe the parents are sitting there, too, watching him play with a look of concern in their eyes. And Little Timmy logs onto some battle, and since he has no idea what he's doing, he promptly puts a bullet in his teammate's head.

Then I imagined what would happen if that teammate were me. I'd be the guy yelling into the headset, "What the $*#@, you #@^$ing @#%@! Way to shoot me, #$@^*#^!"

Little Timmy's new Xbox would be out the window, and Little Timmy's parents would probably be performing an exorcism on the TV by that point. And that's not cool. Swearing is nifty from time to time, but I suppose it's not so swell when the recipient of your abuse is an 8-year-old who's now learned some cool new words to impress his friends with at school.

I'll never stop swearing altogether. Let's face it, it makes life more fun. I'll never stop swearing at myself in the mornings when I'm running late for work. And there are some people out there (Iowa drivers, Tom Cruise, etc.) who deserve to be cursed at from time to time. It's just that now I'll try to do it UNDER my breath instead of over it. Either that, or I'll revert back to college.

One night, my old college roommate imbibed a few too many adult beverages, and he and I got into a gut-busting fight. We called each other every name in the book -- so much so, in fact, that at one point we ran out of curse words. What he meant to say is beyond understanding and buried in the sands of time. What came out, however, was this: "Oh YEAH? Well, you're just a ... a stupid. MOUTHHEAD." At which point we collapsed in laughter, forgot what we were fighting about, and let "mouthhead" become our new favorite insult word for years to come.

So if you're playing X-Box Live in the coming weeks, kick some other player's butt and hear yourself getting called a "mouthhead," go easy on me. I'm in recovery.