I repeat my mantra:
I am a humor columnist...
I am NOT a political columnist...
I am silent as to my politics...
Aw, the hell with it.
GO GET 'EM, PHIL. Congrats.
(Congrats also to Mark Schweibert. You may have come in 3rd, but you're still the top guy in MY book.)
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Monday, June 05, 2006
COLUMN: The Great American Novelist
This past weekend, I went to see my cohort Sean Leary's My Verona production of "The Pillowman" at Comedy Sportz. Though the play's dark tones aren't my usual cup o' tea, the production was nicely executed and Sean deserves serious kudos for playing it unsafe and bringing such a talked-about and edgy play to the Quad Cities.
But there's a thing that always happens when I go see a play. Inexplicably, I go home with one thought blazing through my brain: "I could do that." And for days afterwards, I keep thinking about the prospects of writing a play. Heck, all I need is, umm, some characters... oh, and a plot. Yeah, I just need to think up one of those plot dealies and I'm all set. At some point, I usually decide that I am at my creative zenith, head to the computer, open up a blank document, grab the keyboard, and sit...
Usually ten minutes later is when I reach my frustration zenith, shut the computer off, and go watch reruns of "Cops."
"You're such a good writer," my mom always used to say to me. After a few years of compliments, even ones from family, you start to believe it. Maybe Mom's right and it's my destiny to write The Great American Novel. Shame of it is, I just don't have anything meaningful to say.
I'm not a deep guy. I've never sat around and gotten all existential. I've never had internal monologue about life's challenges. I've never discovered a universal truth. And I'm okay with all that.
It's why classic literature always seems to escape me. I remember being in lit classes as far back as high school and having to suffer through assorted Great works of fiction. I use Great with a CAPITAL G, because it's not me who thinks they're great, but rather some historians who think they're Great. Me, if it doesn't make me laugh or it's not about music or pop culture, I tend not to connect with it. And that makes me one shallow dude.
At some point, I've had to suffer through all the snoozers. Faulkner, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Tolstoy... yawn, yawn, yawn, and yawn. Truth be told, if I had to choose my favorite novel of all time, it'd probably be Stephen King's "Pet Sematary." THUD. That was the sound of every literature teacher/aficionado reading this column hitting the floor in a unison of disappointment and disgust.
As someone who gets paid to write, I should have a comforting bookshelf somewhere with worn copies of the classics. Instead, my bookshelf contains such epic tomes as "Dave Barry is Not Making This Up," "The National Enquirer: 30 Years of Unforgettable Images," and at least 20 Dilbert collections.
Part of my issue with "good" literature is that I've always been unable to wrap my head around symbolism. I remember being in school and forced to read some random acclaimed book, and then the teacher would say something like, "The most important element in this chapter is the author's use of the tree, and how it comes to represent mankind's stoic resilience against oppression."
Wait, what? You've gotta be kidding me. "Mankind's stoic resilience?" I just thought it was a stinking TREE. So now to write great literature, I've got to have characters, plot, AND be well-versed in arboreal imagery? Forget that. That's why I shy away from the classics; I just can't appreciate any text where even the grapes have to be wrathful.
Maybe one day I WILL pen the Great American Novel. Until then, you're stuck with the shallow me. The me who sees ridiculous stuff and gets paid to make fun of it in print every week. If I ever shed light on mankind's stoic resilience against oppression, I hope I can do it with a smile on your face. All I can say for certain is that -- should you ever be at a Borders of the future and see my name on the spine of a novel -- if there\'s a tree in it, rest assured that it'll be just a stinking tree.
But there's a thing that always happens when I go see a play. Inexplicably, I go home with one thought blazing through my brain: "I could do that." And for days afterwards, I keep thinking about the prospects of writing a play. Heck, all I need is, umm, some characters... oh, and a plot. Yeah, I just need to think up one of those plot dealies and I'm all set. At some point, I usually decide that I am at my creative zenith, head to the computer, open up a blank document, grab the keyboard, and sit...
Usually ten minutes later is when I reach my frustration zenith, shut the computer off, and go watch reruns of "Cops."
"You're such a good writer," my mom always used to say to me. After a few years of compliments, even ones from family, you start to believe it. Maybe Mom's right and it's my destiny to write The Great American Novel. Shame of it is, I just don't have anything meaningful to say.
I'm not a deep guy. I've never sat around and gotten all existential. I've never had internal monologue about life's challenges. I've never discovered a universal truth. And I'm okay with all that.
It's why classic literature always seems to escape me. I remember being in lit classes as far back as high school and having to suffer through assorted Great works of fiction. I use Great with a CAPITAL G, because it's not me who thinks they're great, but rather some historians who think they're Great. Me, if it doesn't make me laugh or it's not about music or pop culture, I tend not to connect with it. And that makes me one shallow dude.
At some point, I've had to suffer through all the snoozers. Faulkner, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Tolstoy... yawn, yawn, yawn, and yawn. Truth be told, if I had to choose my favorite novel of all time, it'd probably be Stephen King's "Pet Sematary." THUD. That was the sound of every literature teacher/aficionado reading this column hitting the floor in a unison of disappointment and disgust.
As someone who gets paid to write, I should have a comforting bookshelf somewhere with worn copies of the classics. Instead, my bookshelf contains such epic tomes as "Dave Barry is Not Making This Up," "The National Enquirer: 30 Years of Unforgettable Images," and at least 20 Dilbert collections.
Part of my issue with "good" literature is that I've always been unable to wrap my head around symbolism. I remember being in school and forced to read some random acclaimed book, and then the teacher would say something like, "The most important element in this chapter is the author's use of the tree, and how it comes to represent mankind's stoic resilience against oppression."
Wait, what? You've gotta be kidding me. "Mankind's stoic resilience?" I just thought it was a stinking TREE. So now to write great literature, I've got to have characters, plot, AND be well-versed in arboreal imagery? Forget that. That's why I shy away from the classics; I just can't appreciate any text where even the grapes have to be wrathful.
Maybe one day I WILL pen the Great American Novel. Until then, you're stuck with the shallow me. The me who sees ridiculous stuff and gets paid to make fun of it in print every week. If I ever shed light on mankind's stoic resilience against oppression, I hope I can do it with a smile on your face. All I can say for certain is that -- should you ever be at a Borders of the future and see my name on the spine of a novel -- if there\'s a tree in it, rest assured that it'll be just a stinking tree.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Perfection in the Quad Cities?
Here's a random thought for a lazy Sunday. Two things that bring me warm fuzzies in life:
(a) Sitting somewhere in a shiny metropolis and gazing at skyscrapers and humanity. I remember one time I landed the dream DJ gig: a wedding reception at the top of the Allerton Hotel. If you don't know the Allerton, it's a crusty old classic of a hotel on Michigan Ave. about 2 blocks from the John Hancock Center in downtown Chicago. After the reception had ended, we had full run of the room while we tore down our gear. When our work was done, we killed all the lights in the room and just stared out the window (it had to have been 30-35 stories up) at the hustling Saturday night commencing below. I could have stayed there 'til sunup.
(b) Sitting alongside the banks of any random large body of water and gazing at nature. When I went to Florida a few weeks ago, we spent one night wandering around downtown St. Petersburg. We happened upon a little bar with a deck that stretched over a Tampa Bay marina. The 2 hours that we spent just hanging out on that deck are probably my favorite moments of the whole trip.
Point is: The Quad Cities SHOULD have the potential to fulfill BOTH of these desires at once. We've got downtown Davenport... and we've got the Mississippi River. Yet, for all the potential, I don't think there's one place that you can hang out & eat or have some drinks while having a neat view of both the river AND downtown, is there?
Or have I just not found it? One of these big buildings needs to have a top floor restaurant or something. There's too much great scenery in this town to not exploit it for commercial gain!
(a) Sitting somewhere in a shiny metropolis and gazing at skyscrapers and humanity. I remember one time I landed the dream DJ gig: a wedding reception at the top of the Allerton Hotel. If you don't know the Allerton, it's a crusty old classic of a hotel on Michigan Ave. about 2 blocks from the John Hancock Center in downtown Chicago. After the reception had ended, we had full run of the room while we tore down our gear. When our work was done, we killed all the lights in the room and just stared out the window (it had to have been 30-35 stories up) at the hustling Saturday night commencing below. I could have stayed there 'til sunup.
(b) Sitting alongside the banks of any random large body of water and gazing at nature. When I went to Florida a few weeks ago, we spent one night wandering around downtown St. Petersburg. We happened upon a little bar with a deck that stretched over a Tampa Bay marina. The 2 hours that we spent just hanging out on that deck are probably my favorite moments of the whole trip.
Point is: The Quad Cities SHOULD have the potential to fulfill BOTH of these desires at once. We've got downtown Davenport... and we've got the Mississippi River. Yet, for all the potential, I don't think there's one place that you can hang out & eat or have some drinks while having a neat view of both the river AND downtown, is there?
Or have I just not found it? One of these big buildings needs to have a top floor restaurant or something. There's too much great scenery in this town to not exploit it for commercial gain!
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
COLUMN: Shock & Awful
Every morning, I've got a ritual. I wake up, drag myself out of bed, plop in front of the computer, and quickly skim the major news websites as my brain slowly hits the "on" switch. Today was no different. I logged on, hit the first of my bookmarked sites, and waited for the top story to pull up.
What was it going to be? Iraq, I figured. Or maybe oil price projections. Could be that one politician who they nailed for bribery. Hurricane forecasts were being released this week, too - it wouldn't have surprised me if that got top billing.
Nope. Instead, our nation's premiere news story involved Madonna being crucified on a 14 foot tall mirrored cross. Apparantly, that's how the Material Girl's kicking off her new tour, riding onstage via a disco sacrilege. Now, I suppose there's a list of acceptable reactions here. Repulsion, shock, anger... even applause if you're one of those freedom-of-expression types.
Me? I just shrugged and kept skimming.
Is this really what our society has turned into? Have we now reached a point where Madonna can desecrate one of the world's most sacred religious icons while we just go, "Heh, that crazy Madge, at it again!" Don't take this the wrong way, but seriously, sometimes it's no wonder that there are cultures out there who want to blow us up.
And no, I'm not some kind of religious zealot. In fact, I'm one of those freedom-of-expression types. Madonna could come onstage naked on a donkey handing out cotton candy and Kaballah strings to the first 5 rows and I'd just go, "Eh, whatever." But that's our society's problem. There's just too much shock-and-awe lately. It seems like each new thing has to be BIGGER and LOUDER and MORE PROVOCATIVE than the last, and frankly, the whole thing's just a little passe`.
If Madonna REALLY wanted to shock me, she should come onstage in an evening gown and just sing. Personally, I'd be floored.
Instead, we're stuck in this rut where we just try to out-outrageous the next guy, and it's really kind of laughable. How did we reach this phase? Me, I'm putting all the blame on "Fear Factor." The moment that watching some guy eat a plate of cow testicles became prime-time entertainment, we as a people collectively jumped the shark.
Back in the day, a TV show involving a terrorist threat would have been captivating entertainment. Now, we've got shows like "24" where, within the fictional course of ONE DAY, poor Jack Bauer has to fight MULTIPLE terrorist threats, a Presidential assassination, a corrupt government, many guys with many guns, and, incredulously on this year's season finale, what appeared to be CHINESE NINJAS.
And now our culture has shocked even ME. Yes, a new entry to our television horizons actually caused me to sit open-mouthed in disbelief. Have you heard about "JUICED!" yet? You're going to think that I'm making this up - I'm not.
It's a pay-per-view only special that plays out sort of like "Candid Camera" or, more closely, MTV's "Punk'd." Like those, the show features innocent people turned into the victims of practical jokes. The thing is, though, on "Juiced!," you get jokes played on you... by O.J. SIMPSON!
In one scene sent to media, O.J. (dressed as himself,) takes a bullet-riddled, fake blood-stained white Bronco to a used car dealership and tries to sell it while using lines like, "Oh, it's real fast - it helped me get away!" The innocent victims, I can only hope, cower in fear until O.J. leaves -- but not before hearing him utter his new trademark line, "YOU GOT JUICED!"
I keep trying to put myself into one of these poor people's shoes. If someone played one of these high budget practical jokes on me, I'd probably become afraid, embarassed, jittery, and awkward all at once. But then, after the relief hits once the cat's out of the bag, suddenly out of nowhere O.J. Simpson leaps out from behind a tree screaming, "YOU GOT JUICED!" I, for one, would probably (a) wet myself, and (b) run. Quite possibly at the same time, in fact.
What producer on Earth would green-light such a project? O.J. Simpson doesn't need practical jokes to scare people; O.J. Simpson does a good enough job just scaring people ON HIS OWN. You want a good TV show? Just make O.J. walk down a street and film people's horrified expressions as he walks by.
Some people are hopelessly stupid; the masterminds behind "Juiced!" fall into that category. We've blurred the line between "shock and awe" and just plain shockingly awful. I say it's time for those responsible to be dealt a punishment that'll have a lasting impact: let's give 'em front row seats to the Madonna tour.
Meanwhile, there MAY be hope for humanity yet: "Fear Factor" just got cancelled.
What was it going to be? Iraq, I figured. Or maybe oil price projections. Could be that one politician who they nailed for bribery. Hurricane forecasts were being released this week, too - it wouldn't have surprised me if that got top billing.
Nope. Instead, our nation's premiere news story involved Madonna being crucified on a 14 foot tall mirrored cross. Apparantly, that's how the Material Girl's kicking off her new tour, riding onstage via a disco sacrilege. Now, I suppose there's a list of acceptable reactions here. Repulsion, shock, anger... even applause if you're one of those freedom-of-expression types.
Me? I just shrugged and kept skimming.
Is this really what our society has turned into? Have we now reached a point where Madonna can desecrate one of the world's most sacred religious icons while we just go, "Heh, that crazy Madge, at it again!" Don't take this the wrong way, but seriously, sometimes it's no wonder that there are cultures out there who want to blow us up.
And no, I'm not some kind of religious zealot. In fact, I'm one of those freedom-of-expression types. Madonna could come onstage naked on a donkey handing out cotton candy and Kaballah strings to the first 5 rows and I'd just go, "Eh, whatever." But that's our society's problem. There's just too much shock-and-awe lately. It seems like each new thing has to be BIGGER and LOUDER and MORE PROVOCATIVE than the last, and frankly, the whole thing's just a little passe`.
If Madonna REALLY wanted to shock me, she should come onstage in an evening gown and just sing. Personally, I'd be floored.
Instead, we're stuck in this rut where we just try to out-outrageous the next guy, and it's really kind of laughable. How did we reach this phase? Me, I'm putting all the blame on "Fear Factor." The moment that watching some guy eat a plate of cow testicles became prime-time entertainment, we as a people collectively jumped the shark.
Back in the day, a TV show involving a terrorist threat would have been captivating entertainment. Now, we've got shows like "24" where, within the fictional course of ONE DAY, poor Jack Bauer has to fight MULTIPLE terrorist threats, a Presidential assassination, a corrupt government, many guys with many guns, and, incredulously on this year's season finale, what appeared to be CHINESE NINJAS.
And now our culture has shocked even ME. Yes, a new entry to our television horizons actually caused me to sit open-mouthed in disbelief. Have you heard about "JUICED!" yet? You're going to think that I'm making this up - I'm not.
It's a pay-per-view only special that plays out sort of like "Candid Camera" or, more closely, MTV's "Punk'd." Like those, the show features innocent people turned into the victims of practical jokes. The thing is, though, on "Juiced!," you get jokes played on you... by O.J. SIMPSON!
In one scene sent to media, O.J. (dressed as himself,) takes a bullet-riddled, fake blood-stained white Bronco to a used car dealership and tries to sell it while using lines like, "Oh, it's real fast - it helped me get away!" The innocent victims, I can only hope, cower in fear until O.J. leaves -- but not before hearing him utter his new trademark line, "YOU GOT JUICED!"
I keep trying to put myself into one of these poor people's shoes. If someone played one of these high budget practical jokes on me, I'd probably become afraid, embarassed, jittery, and awkward all at once. But then, after the relief hits once the cat's out of the bag, suddenly out of nowhere O.J. Simpson leaps out from behind a tree screaming, "YOU GOT JUICED!" I, for one, would probably (a) wet myself, and (b) run. Quite possibly at the same time, in fact.
What producer on Earth would green-light such a project? O.J. Simpson doesn't need practical jokes to scare people; O.J. Simpson does a good enough job just scaring people ON HIS OWN. You want a good TV show? Just make O.J. walk down a street and film people's horrified expressions as he walks by.
Some people are hopelessly stupid; the masterminds behind "Juiced!" fall into that category. We've blurred the line between "shock and awe" and just plain shockingly awful. I say it's time for those responsible to be dealt a punishment that'll have a lasting impact: let's give 'em front row seats to the Madonna tour.
Meanwhile, there MAY be hope for humanity yet: "Fear Factor" just got cancelled.
One Weekend Left for "Pillowman"
There's only TWO performances left of My Verona Productions' run of "The Pillowman" at Comedy Sportz this coming weekend. Sean and the My Verona posse have done a great job turning the Broadway smash into an enjoyable local production... and it's a juggernaut of shock, drama, pain, and epic laughter. You won't see another Quad City production this edgy or risk-taking in some time. Consider this my official endorsement.
Oh, and if you go this weekend, go early and check out the pre-show music. It was put together by some snarky newspaper columnist and part-time DJ that some of you may have heard of...
Oh, and if you go this weekend, go early and check out the pre-show music. It was put together by some snarky newspaper columnist and part-time DJ that some of you may have heard of...
Monday, May 22, 2006
24 is the greatest show ever.
Well, at least next to "Lost."
Let's recap:
In the last 24 hours of 24, the former President of the United States was assassinated. Terrorists unleashed nerve gas in a shopping mall, and, later, inside the headquarters of the Counter Terrorism Unit. Most major characters of the show did NOT make it out of the first 12 episodes alive. This, it turns out, was all at the hand of the CURRENT President of the United States, in league with a secret society of illuminati who rank even above the nation's leader. Los Angeles declares martial law. The terrorists then attacked, invaded, and took over a nuclear-capable Russian submarine. Every one of these terrorist attacks was (for the most part) thwarted by our hero, Jack Bauer, who then tricked the President into wearing a wire and admitting his guilt. The President is arrested and removed from office. Everyone can cheer.
...until, at the last second cliffhanger of this season, Jack Bauer gets kidnapped by what can only be described as a team of Chinese ninjas. That's right - KIDNAPPED BY NINJAS.
And I thought I was having a bad day.
Let's recap:
In the last 24 hours of 24, the former President of the United States was assassinated. Terrorists unleashed nerve gas in a shopping mall, and, later, inside the headquarters of the Counter Terrorism Unit. Most major characters of the show did NOT make it out of the first 12 episodes alive. This, it turns out, was all at the hand of the CURRENT President of the United States, in league with a secret society of illuminati who rank even above the nation's leader. Los Angeles declares martial law. The terrorists then attacked, invaded, and took over a nuclear-capable Russian submarine. Every one of these terrorist attacks was (for the most part) thwarted by our hero, Jack Bauer, who then tricked the President into wearing a wire and admitting his guilt. The President is arrested and removed from office. Everyone can cheer.
...until, at the last second cliffhanger of this season, Jack Bauer gets kidnapped by what can only be described as a team of Chinese ninjas. That's right - KIDNAPPED BY NINJAS.
And I thought I was having a bad day.
COLUMN: Dam It!
Throughout the ages, mankind has searched for the answers to some of life's most troublesome questions. Among them:
• Why are we here?
• What is the meaning of life?
• What am I going to eat for dinner?
and, of course,
• What immediate steps can be taken to enhance the aesthetic beauty of Lock & Dam 15?
Thankfully, we now know the answer to one of these questions, and I'm still up in the air about dinner, so it's not that one.
Where once the Rock Island Rapids caused thirteen miles of mayhem for river-faring folk, tranquil waters now flow. All of this is due to the impressive series of locks and dams installed along the Mississippi. Decades ago, fearless workers tamed the mighty river in an engineering feat that still stands as one of our society's great acheivements.
Too bad, then, that it's apparantly so ugly. Yes, the blight that Lock & Dam 15 has put upon the scenic vistas of the Quad Cities is the horror so great that we townsfolk dare not speak of it. (At least, that's my explanation as to why I've never heard anyone say a single word about the dam before.)
So when the news broke last week that an exhibition was to be held to determine a new night-time lighting configuration for the dam, the townspeople rejoiced. Well, at least I rejoiced. Why? Because I live for things that are inane, and this, my friends, was some serious inanity. I called my friend Jason, and within minutes, we embarked on Damwatch 2006.
First stop? The parking lot of Jumer's Casino Rock Island. The elevated flood wall there would be a perfect place to view the unveiling of the lights. The news had said that everyone who wanted a say in the final lighting choice should be at a place to view the dam by 10:30 p.m. And when we arrived, everyone was there. Yes, everyone. All 7 of us. And that was including Jason, myself, and at least two people who carried themselves like Trusted Political Figures (tm) of some kind.
Beyond us, the gentle majesty of the dam. Adorning the concrete behemoth were 3 different lighting configurations, and we were supposed to pick a favorite. From what I could see, the one on the Davenport side looked yellowish, the one on the Rock Island side looked bluish, and the one in the middle looked whitish. None of them looked like anything I should remotely care about.
We decided to try the Davenport side. Over there, you could get an even better view of the lighting choices (as well as giving the Skybridge to Nowhere its first ever practical use!) And, after gazing thoughtfully from both sides of the river, I could finally state with definite certainty that I could care less about the dam lights.
None of the three options seemed anything to write home about. I guess the yellowish lights were my favorite, because it reminded me of the glow of torchlight (just like they used to light river-spanning concrete dams back in the Middle Ages!) But none of the variations said, "Hey, look at me, I'm a fancy dam!" Instead, it came across more like your basic safety lighting, like, "Attention! Dam here. Maintain appropriate distance."
What's the goal of the project? Is this new night lighting supposed to be so enchanting that it draws tourists? Let me guess: "My Parents Went To the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers LDS 15 And All I Got Was This Dam T-Shirt!"
I say we go full throttle. Heck, let's build ANOTHER Skybridge from the original Skybridge TO the Dam. Let's not rest until we turn all of downtown Davenport into one giant, lit, psychedelic Habitrail. Then let's just stick 20,000 LED's onto the dam. That way, we could send personalized messages across it like the old Northwest Bank towers. What better way to ask "BECKY WILL U GO 2 PROM WITH ME" than to shoot it across the river on 15 foot tall glowing letters?
Then, at long last, we would only be one Tom Jones concert away from turning into Little Vegas, which appears to be our tacky little goal. Now if we could ONLY do something about that pesky picturesque river that keeps getting in the way...
P.S. My vote's for yellow.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
No updates can actually be a GOOD thing...
So I got a comment on the blog earlier today (or maybe it's a really, really old comment that just decided to show up today) about how I need to update this thing more frequently.
Simple answer: I know.
Problem is, I'm still a card-carrying member of Generation X, baby. That gives me carte blanche when it comes to slacking, and I'll use that excuse time and time again.
Anyways, point is, so Monday night I was feeling bad about the lack of updates on the blog, so I sat down and I wrote this FANTASTIC blog. Scathing, mean-spirited, snarky... all my best attributes ;)
So I get done with it, and I'm reading it, and I suddenly realize, "Know what? This is TOO good for a blog."
So I altered it just a smidge and turned it into the column that's gonna run this weekend. What's it on? You'll just have to read the dam thing.
Simple answer: I know.
Problem is, I'm still a card-carrying member of Generation X, baby. That gives me carte blanche when it comes to slacking, and I'll use that excuse time and time again.
Anyways, point is, so Monday night I was feeling bad about the lack of updates on the blog, so I sat down and I wrote this FANTASTIC blog. Scathing, mean-spirited, snarky... all my best attributes ;)
So I get done with it, and I'm reading it, and I suddenly realize, "Know what? This is TOO good for a blog."
So I altered it just a smidge and turned it into the column that's gonna run this weekend. What's it on? You'll just have to read the dam thing.
Monday, May 15, 2006
COLUMN: Inspection
"Did you get your Nastygram?"
This is a sentence you really don't ever want to hear -- especially when it's coming from your landlady.
I had just returned from the much-discussed Florida trip and, rather than be responsible and unpack, I strategically decided to just throw everything from the trip into a large "I'll-deal-with-it-later" pile in the hallway of my apartment. In fact, I had become somewhat of an expert lately in the research and development aspects of dealing with things "later." But all things considered, the apartment wasn't THAT bad, was it?
Well, okay, so the bathroom was approaching biohazard status. And, sure, there were piles of junk everywhere. And maybe I'd forgotten to take out the trash before I left, so the kitchen was smelling kinda rank. And, yeah, the refrigerator was so full that you couldn't open it without food products lunging at you. Some might say this was due to be over-stuffing the fridge. Personally, my theory is that the food was trying desperately to escape from whatever life form the gallon jug of milk from 2004 had turned into.
(We interrupt this column for SCIENCE CORNER. Know what happens to milk left in the fridge for two years? It turns CLEAR. No joke. I'm betting that it also now either (a) causes or (b) cures cancer. We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.)
But I can get away with this, right? I'm a single guy. I can't help being a slob; it's in my DNA. Do you know any single guys who keep a clean apartment? If you do, that means the guy is desperately looking for a mate. Those of us like myself who have accepted our fates as comically hopeless asexual hermits revert back to our natural instinctive lifestyle of sloppiness.
I could live this way forever. At least, I thought I could. See, what I failed to notice as I threw my vacation gear on the hallway floor was the notice by the door of our apartment complex. That notice was to inform all tenants that our smoke detectors were all being replaced, as a result, a city inspector would be dropping by to make sure we were up to code.
And you know what? It turns out that the city inspector was SO impressed with my housekeeping abilities that he wrote me a letter to tell me all about it. In fact, he was SO taken by my apartment that he wanted to come back and re-inspect it in two weeks. Then there was something I skimmed over about "clutter" and "city codes" and "fines" and other fancy stuff.
This was, needless to say, one of my lowpoints. I mean, I know I'm messy, but there's a line between "messy" and "filthy," and I at least know where to draw it. At least I thought I did. Apparantly I'm so pathetic that I can't even be trusted to maintain a sanitary home. I was banging my head against the wall in shame when I actually RE-read the letter.
It turns out that the city inspector had no problem with the mess in my apartment. Instead, the problem stemmed from the 18 crates of record albums I was storing in the hallway. As a weekend DJ, it's good to have quick access to my vinyl collection, and I had been circumnavigating those crates for years without problem.
Bad news, though; it turns out that when you put a measuring tape to it, the crates narrow the space in the hallway to unacceptable levels. Per city code, your hallways have to be wide enough to allow for EMT's to bring a gurney in for that fateful day when I finally eat one Butterburger too many. The inspector cared less about the refrigerator; I was being written up for my music fetish! I wanted to explain to him that vinyl is only a gateway habit to CD's, and that if I've got a true problem in my life, it's THAT.
But I decided not to press the issue. I moved the records into the closet. Presto. But I didn't stop there. This was a wake-up call. I started doing something I didn't think possible -- I cleaned. And cleaned and cleaned. (My friend Linn cleaned my fridge, though - I promised her I'd credit her publically.) And then? I hired a housekeeper to keep it that way. After all, I may have turned over a new leaf, but life's awfully windy; one strong gust and that leaf can turn right back.
In the meantime my apartment sparkles. It's almost creepy and unfamiliar. It's so clean you could eat spaghetti off the floor. Not that you could. Because I finally picked it up and threw it away.
This is a sentence you really don't ever want to hear -- especially when it's coming from your landlady.
I had just returned from the much-discussed Florida trip and, rather than be responsible and unpack, I strategically decided to just throw everything from the trip into a large "I'll-deal-with-it-later" pile in the hallway of my apartment. In fact, I had become somewhat of an expert lately in the research and development aspects of dealing with things "later." But all things considered, the apartment wasn't THAT bad, was it?
Well, okay, so the bathroom was approaching biohazard status. And, sure, there were piles of junk everywhere. And maybe I'd forgotten to take out the trash before I left, so the kitchen was smelling kinda rank. And, yeah, the refrigerator was so full that you couldn't open it without food products lunging at you. Some might say this was due to be over-stuffing the fridge. Personally, my theory is that the food was trying desperately to escape from whatever life form the gallon jug of milk from 2004 had turned into.
(We interrupt this column for SCIENCE CORNER. Know what happens to milk left in the fridge for two years? It turns CLEAR. No joke. I'm betting that it also now either (a) causes or (b) cures cancer. We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.)
But I can get away with this, right? I'm a single guy. I can't help being a slob; it's in my DNA. Do you know any single guys who keep a clean apartment? If you do, that means the guy is desperately looking for a mate. Those of us like myself who have accepted our fates as comically hopeless asexual hermits revert back to our natural instinctive lifestyle of sloppiness.
I could live this way forever. At least, I thought I could. See, what I failed to notice as I threw my vacation gear on the hallway floor was the notice by the door of our apartment complex. That notice was to inform all tenants that our smoke detectors were all being replaced, as a result, a city inspector would be dropping by to make sure we were up to code.
And you know what? It turns out that the city inspector was SO impressed with my housekeeping abilities that he wrote me a letter to tell me all about it. In fact, he was SO taken by my apartment that he wanted to come back and re-inspect it in two weeks. Then there was something I skimmed over about "clutter" and "city codes" and "fines" and other fancy stuff.
This was, needless to say, one of my lowpoints. I mean, I know I'm messy, but there's a line between "messy" and "filthy," and I at least know where to draw it. At least I thought I did. Apparantly I'm so pathetic that I can't even be trusted to maintain a sanitary home. I was banging my head against the wall in shame when I actually RE-read the letter.
It turns out that the city inspector had no problem with the mess in my apartment. Instead, the problem stemmed from the 18 crates of record albums I was storing in the hallway. As a weekend DJ, it's good to have quick access to my vinyl collection, and I had been circumnavigating those crates for years without problem.
Bad news, though; it turns out that when you put a measuring tape to it, the crates narrow the space in the hallway to unacceptable levels. Per city code, your hallways have to be wide enough to allow for EMT's to bring a gurney in for that fateful day when I finally eat one Butterburger too many. The inspector cared less about the refrigerator; I was being written up for my music fetish! I wanted to explain to him that vinyl is only a gateway habit to CD's, and that if I've got a true problem in my life, it's THAT.
But I decided not to press the issue. I moved the records into the closet. Presto. But I didn't stop there. This was a wake-up call. I started doing something I didn't think possible -- I cleaned. And cleaned and cleaned. (My friend Linn cleaned my fridge, though - I promised her I'd credit her publically.) And then? I hired a housekeeper to keep it that way. After all, I may have turned over a new leaf, but life's awfully windy; one strong gust and that leaf can turn right back.
In the meantime my apartment sparkles. It's almost creepy and unfamiliar. It's so clean you could eat spaghetti off the floor. Not that you could. Because I finally picked it up and threw it away.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Popped Culture
So the internet is abuzz with "American Idol" strife. America's posterboy, Chris Daughtry, got voted off tonight. Hurrah. The kids on the official message board are yelling "Hoax!" and demanding that Idol be, as one poster claimed, "taken over by the government." That's right, it's time to put the feds in charge of deciding who our next Idol is. Lord knows, they sure did a bang-up job on the last couple of Presidential elections...
Me? I'm happy that Chris got the boot. He sucked. Well, in a strict Top 40-ian sense, I suppose he was God-like genius -- if you like bands like Nickelback. Me, I can't stand dull, uninspired rock music like that, and I'm happy he's gone.
I'm happier still that Taylor Hicks is still in the running. Not because I like him; I don't. I just want to see the Idol juggernaut try to market that guy's CD's to the teenage masses -- best of luck.
End of story is this: If you were watching "Idol" tonight in the first place, you missed out... because tonight's episode of "Lost" was nothing shy of pure genius.
Me? I'm happy that Chris got the boot. He sucked. Well, in a strict Top 40-ian sense, I suppose he was God-like genius -- if you like bands like Nickelback. Me, I can't stand dull, uninspired rock music like that, and I'm happy he's gone.
I'm happier still that Taylor Hicks is still in the running. Not because I like him; I don't. I just want to see the Idol juggernaut try to market that guy's CD's to the teenage masses -- best of luck.
End of story is this: If you were watching "Idol" tonight in the first place, you missed out... because tonight's episode of "Lost" was nothing shy of pure genius.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
COLUMN: Florida Pt. 2
Once upon an April dreary, while you pondered weak and weary, I was off in Florida for a week of fun, sun, and a family reunion. As we left the story last week, our hero (that'd be me) had just left the family reunion and, obligation-free and together with pal Jason, it was finally time to for some quality Florida adventures. Look out, Spring Break babes, here we come with proper SPF protection.
Day 4, 2 p.m. - St. Pete's Beach: If MTV has taught us anything, it's that -- as reliable as the swallows returning to Capistrano -- come every spring, the beaches of Florida teem with wall-to-wall dancing bikini-clad babes. Well, MTV lies. I mean, I knew that we had left for Florida a week or two after the spring break rush, but still, I expected SOME eye candy. Instead, I drove 1500 miles to see miles of chunky, leathery-skinned rejects from Skin Cancer Anonymous picking sand out of places people should NEVER pick sand."But Shane," you say, "you're being a pig. How dare you?" Yeah, well, sorry, but when a 2-piece bathing suit's involved, if true beauty's on the inside, these women need to turn themselves inside out, and in a hurry. Shudder.
Day 4, 5 p.m. - Orlando: Come to think of it, everyone in Florida appears to be obese and out-of-shape. This means I fit in nicely. I remember a vacation to Colorado once, feeling guilty as mountain bikers PASSED ME as I drove up the Rockies. In Florida, everybody's got a beer belly and a smoke in their hand. Then it hits me: Florida is the Quad Cities, just with more water.
Day 5, noon - St. Augustine, FL - Giving up on girl leering, we decide to soak up some crass commercialism and culture at "America's oldest city." This is the place where Ponce de Leon sought the fabled Fountain of Youth, and now, for $2.99, you can take home a souvenir bottle of the stuff while - for reasons unclear - a guy dressed as a Leprechaun sings Frank Sinatra covers at you. Welcome to tourism hell.
The Fountain of Youth National Archaelogical Site features an animatronic Ponce de Leon and a planetarium. The only people in the park are me, Jason, and approx. 280 schoolchildren. Either that or maybe the Fountain really DOES work. We taste the water - it's not pleasant and as of press time, I'm still old. At the gift shop, I buy a back scratcher made from an alligator claw and a fanny-shaped ashtray that reads, "Sun Your Buns in Florida."
Day 6, 1 p.m. - Savannah, GA - Why is it that fish tastes better fresh? That's kinda gross. I don't check the death age of my chicken sandwiches, so why should it matter how near to carnage my seafood is? These are questions best left to the pros. All I know is that I've never eaten better tuna and grouper in my life. I could live in Savannah.
Day 6, 4 p.m. - Hunting Island Beach, SC - We take a trip to Florida yet find the best beaches in South Carolina, go figure. Hunting Island's nearly abandoned, and we wander the beach while bizarre little clam-things scamper around our feet. It's really beautiful and my favorite part of the whole trip. This, of course, makes me realize that I'm kinda lame and old. But it's still a great place.
Day 7, noon - Charlotte, NC - I owe my friend bigtime, as I've dragged him to Race City and the home of the Hendrick Motorsports headquarters and museum. My closet NASCAR fetish takes a front seat as I check out Jeff Gordon's uniform and Daytona-winning cars on display. Best knowledge gained: Either somebody washed his uniform a little too hot, or Jeff Gordon is one tiny dude. I try to buy souvenirs but the gift shop is closed for "noontime Bible study." We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.Day 7, 5 p.m. - Who Knows Where, NC - If you're reading this, that's good news. It means I haven't been killed by the cast of "Deliverance." A family friend has a kid who collects postmarks, and we've been tasked with providing one from North Carolina. Problem is, they don't appear to have mailboxes here. Quite possibly, they don't know how to READ mail here. I stop at a gas station and ask if they have postcards. The guy looks at me and just goes, "Heh. Heh heh heh." I leave. Quickly. Illinois has never sounded so good.
RIP Grant McLennan
Grant McLennan, 1/2 of the songwriting duo behind the Australian alt-pop band The Go-Betweens, died in his sleep last night. Due yourself a favor and go buy their Best-Of. Great stuff.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Pardon My Blatant Advertising
So the club that I DJ at on the weekends is celebrating our 5 year anniversary this Saturday night. Wanna meet me in person? Wanna point and laugh behind my back? Here's your opportunity!
2nd Ave.
5 Year Anniversary Bash
Saturday, May 6, 2006
9pm-3am 21+
in the District of Rock Island
2nd Ave. in the pedestrian plaza between 18th & 19th St.
Performers include:
DJ Q-Tip (Dubuque, IA) - If you ever make it up to Dubuque, you might know Q-Tip as the resident DJ at the Coliseum, Dubuque's #1 night spot! He's also one of the best DJ's we've ever seen. Should be a good time.
DJ Donnie/Tailz (Davenport, IA) - A true vet of the scene. If you like to dance, you know Donnie already from his gigs around town at the Thirsty Beaver, Chantilly Lace, Chorus Line, and tons more. He's currently the resident DJ at Davenport's Carriage Haus.
DJ Scott Ferguson (Quad Cities USA) - Scott's one of the best new stars of this year's crop of emerging DJ's in the QC. You may have heard him at Alma, QCZone, or the many house parties he's spun at. We're happy to give him this opportunity because he's a great guy who CAN mix!
DJ Shane Brown (Rock Island, IL) - Umm, you guys know me (at least kinda) because you're on MY blog. So you know what I can bring. Be ready.
Ohh, yeah. One other thing about . It's FREE. I'd love you see you guys down there.
2nd Ave.
5 Year Anniversary Bash
Saturday, May 6, 2006
9pm-3am 21+
in the District of Rock Island
2nd Ave. in the pedestrian plaza between 18th & 19th St.
Performers include:
DJ Q-Tip (Dubuque, IA) - If you ever make it up to Dubuque, you might know Q-Tip as the resident DJ at the Coliseum, Dubuque's #1 night spot! He's also one of the best DJ's we've ever seen. Should be a good time.
DJ Donnie/Tailz (Davenport, IA) - A true vet of the scene. If you like to dance, you know Donnie already from his gigs around town at the Thirsty Beaver, Chantilly Lace, Chorus Line, and tons more. He's currently the resident DJ at Davenport's Carriage Haus.
DJ Scott Ferguson (Quad Cities USA) - Scott's one of the best new stars of this year's crop of emerging DJ's in the QC. You may have heard him at Alma, QCZone, or the many house parties he's spun at. We're happy to give him this opportunity because he's a great guy who CAN mix!
DJ Shane Brown (Rock Island, IL) - Umm, you guys know me (at least kinda) because you're on MY blog. So you know what I can bring. Be ready.
Ohh, yeah. One other thing about . It's FREE. I'd love you see you guys down there.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
For Those About to Nerd, I Salute You
I have a friend who wastes his entire life playing "World of Warcraft."
Most of you are familiar with the game, some of you might not be. Basically, it's a huge online medieval fantasy role-playing computer game. You sign up, you create a character, and then you're plopped into the middle of this vast cyber-world with hundreds of other online players, wherein you can form alliances, battle enemies, and basically be a gigantic nerdling.
Essentially, it's the kind of thing where, were I in 8th grade, it would have consumed my life. Happily, since I don't have time to fully get into the game, I have nothing better to do than make fun of it.
So here's the story that's making the rounds this week. Apparantly, a semi-popular WOW player in one of these cyberworlds tragically died (the REAL person, not the character) apparantly of a stroke.
So what's a bunch of video game nerds to do? That's right, throw a World of Warcraft funeral. Friends of this girl were given a date and time and were encouraged to put down their weapons, and -- IN THE GAME, MIND YOU -- walk their characters to the side of a virtual lake in one of the game's many open combat zones and pay their last respects -- it was literally a funeral WITHIN the role-playing game itself.
Well, it turns out that this dead girl's character belonged to a guild (a brotherhood of other online players who had formed an alliance with her.) And all the guild members turned out for the funeral.
Problem is, this guild was currently at war with ANOTHER guild, who took it upon themselves to party-crash this girl's cyber-funeral and effectively kill pretty much every character in attendance.
Now the WOW community is up in arms because of the callous, evil guild who killed everybody. Players are literally demanding the raiding guild be reprimanded or something. For killing people... in a game whose objective is to kill people.
The best part about it? The guild responsible for the carnage recorded the whole thing, put it to music, and is circulating it on the web as a tool to recruit more members to their group.
Even if you don't like video games, you'll get a kick out of the video.
My favorite is, after the carnage, the leader of the rival guild goes to the dead "body" of the girl who died in real life and eulogizes her by saying, "She liked fish. She liked snow."
Side with the funeral attendees or the murdering hordes, it's your call. But the moral of the story remains the same: Nerds can be VERY nerdy.
See the video here.
Most of you are familiar with the game, some of you might not be. Basically, it's a huge online medieval fantasy role-playing computer game. You sign up, you create a character, and then you're plopped into the middle of this vast cyber-world with hundreds of other online players, wherein you can form alliances, battle enemies, and basically be a gigantic nerdling.
Essentially, it's the kind of thing where, were I in 8th grade, it would have consumed my life. Happily, since I don't have time to fully get into the game, I have nothing better to do than make fun of it.
So here's the story that's making the rounds this week. Apparantly, a semi-popular WOW player in one of these cyberworlds tragically died (the REAL person, not the character) apparantly of a stroke.
So what's a bunch of video game nerds to do? That's right, throw a World of Warcraft funeral. Friends of this girl were given a date and time and were encouraged to put down their weapons, and -- IN THE GAME, MIND YOU -- walk their characters to the side of a virtual lake in one of the game's many open combat zones and pay their last respects -- it was literally a funeral WITHIN the role-playing game itself.
Well, it turns out that this dead girl's character belonged to a guild (a brotherhood of other online players who had formed an alliance with her.) And all the guild members turned out for the funeral.
Problem is, this guild was currently at war with ANOTHER guild, who took it upon themselves to party-crash this girl's cyber-funeral and effectively kill pretty much every character in attendance.
Now the WOW community is up in arms because of the callous, evil guild who killed everybody. Players are literally demanding the raiding guild be reprimanded or something. For killing people... in a game whose objective is to kill people.
The best part about it? The guild responsible for the carnage recorded the whole thing, put it to music, and is circulating it on the web as a tool to recruit more members to their group.
Even if you don't like video games, you'll get a kick out of the video.
My favorite is, after the carnage, the leader of the rival guild goes to the dead "body" of the girl who died in real life and eulogizes her by saying, "She liked fish. She liked snow."
Side with the funeral attendees or the murdering hordes, it's your call. But the moral of the story remains the same: Nerds can be VERY nerdy.
See the video here.
Monday, May 01, 2006
COLUMN: Florida Pt. 1
Some people take vacations for fun, like your cousin who went to California a few weeks ago. Others take vacations by mandate, like your creepy cousin who's barred by state law from ever entering Nevada again. Me? I'm somewhere in the middle.
I just got back from Florida. My grandmother, who's bound to outlive us all, just turned 100 years old. Milestones like that don't come and go without (a) a shoutout from Willard Scott, and (b) a family reunion. My parents immediately told me that I was welcome to ride down with them and their Yorkie in the mini-van. Umm... don't get me wrong, I love my folks and all, but a 3000 mile roadtrip with Mom, Dad, and a shaky, spastic Yorkie? Last I checked, the minivan didn't come with equipped with a courtesy noose.
I needed an excuse to drive down in my own car, so I quickly bribed, err, CONVINCED my friend Jason into turning my family reunion into a proper vacation. My parents' plan was to drive down, attend the reunion, then drive straight back, no lollygagging around. I had other plans. I heart lollygagging. It's not everyday one drives to Florida, and if I was making the trip, then by golly I was going to have some proper Florida time. While visions of spring break babes danced in my head, I loaded the laptop PC into the car in order to properly journalize our descent into... The Retirement Zone.
Day 1, 5 p.m.: We are in hell. Rather than the unbearingly boring drive south through Illinois, we have taken the even more unbearingly boring drive east through Indianapolis and Cincinatti before swinging to the south. In case you're wondering, Indiana is just like Illinois, except with possibly more corn.
Day 1, 5:30 p.m.: How does one know when one is in Kentucky? Well, we just passed the quaint hamlet of Sugartit, and up ahead is the exit for Beaver Lick. Just beyond that? Big Bone Lick. Make of this what you will. (And if you think I'm lying, go look at a map.) Despite my best arguments to stop and find a "Thinking of you from Big Bone Lick" postcard, Jason strangely keeps driving.
Day 1, 8:00 p.m.: We deftly avoid a conversation with our Kentucky steakhouse waiter, who has already told us that we need to live here, because in Kentucky, "real Southern belles know how to cook and take care of their man." If you listen really close, you can actually hear Susan B. Anthony roll in her grave. That said, the food IS pretty good.
Day 2, noon: There's only one place more backwards than Kentucky, and that place is Tennessee. We are currently at a gas station in the middle of the mountains, and a sign on the pumps reads: "Please Prepay. We Regret Very Much Having To Incontinence Everyone Because Of The Dishonesty Of A Few." Frankly, if they incontinence me, I'm suing.
Day 2, midnight: Georgia was an ugly blur, but we've made it to Florida. We have decided to stay in separate hotel rooms due to my inability to sleep without waking the dead. Our middle-Eastern hotel clerk does not get it. After finally understanding our desire to put each room on a different credit card, he mutters something about it "not being a problem at all" before flailing his hands in disgust and slamming things around on his desk. Hello, "Sunshine State."
Day 3: The Reunion: My friend drops me off and The Brown clan is together in full force, and it's actually kind of fun. Grandma is genuinely happy. Even cousin Isabelle from France shows up. She knows just enough English to fake us into thinking she's fluent, when I suspect she actually only knows every third word or so. Regardless, she's brought cake. More specifically, the best cake I've ever eaten. She gives me the recipe without knowing that (a) I don't know the metric system, and (b) I don't know how to cook.
Day 4: 1 p.m. Before leaving, we pop round to Grandma's house to say bye. This would have been a touching moment had I not accidentally walked in to a view of my grandmother changing her clothes. That's right, I've now seen a naked centenarian. And yes, the image is now permanently filed into my brain and will likely be making several cameo appearances the next time I'm out on a date.
However, no naked grandmas will take away from our agenda of fun in the sun. Will we find spring break hotties? Will I win the big jet ski race, impressing the beach babe of my dreams while duetting "That's the Way (I Like It)"? Or is that the plot of "From Justin to Kelly"? These questions and more to be answered next week on "Shane's Groovy Spring Break Adventure Pt. 2," gang.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Hey, I Suck TOO, buddy!
So is it weird that I find myself strangely upset that I have yet to be namechecked on the infamous QC Media Review?
I try to stay out of these things, I really do. So I don't know a whole lot about the site. Basically, it's run by a person (or maybe a few people) who obviously have some kind of weird ties to Quad City media - maybe a former employee of a TV station or newspaper.
Anyways, the site basically is nothing but a comprehensive nit-pick of local media out here. Everything from, "Hey, this one paper didn't cover this story well enough" to "Hey, the lighting's sure bad on your TV newscasts."
Personally, I think the site's fabulous. It's nice to know that there's some person out there playing Armchair Media God. I may sound facetious, but I really DO think it's cool. It's probably the sort of thing I'd have started up were I not a member of the Dispatch/Argus Army.
Most of the posts are snarky and negative. Occasionally there's a positive one. Some of the criticism (at least to me) seems pretty needless... but sometimes they hit the nail on the head, even when they're criticizing our own product.
I just think it's fun that there's someone out there willing to point out the times when everything goes to our heads a bit. I'm not overly concerned about the site or anything, and I take everything they say with a grain of salt, but -- let's just be honest -- good or bad, it's an interesting idea for a site and an interesting read.
But the point is: There has yet to be a single comment about ME either good or bad. I know that if they ever DID comment on my lowly weekly humor column, it'd probably be less-than-flattering. But dang it, I still wanna be acknowledged. Even if it's a post calling me an idiot.
I try to stay out of these things, I really do. So I don't know a whole lot about the site. Basically, it's run by a person (or maybe a few people) who obviously have some kind of weird ties to Quad City media - maybe a former employee of a TV station or newspaper.
Anyways, the site basically is nothing but a comprehensive nit-pick of local media out here. Everything from, "Hey, this one paper didn't cover this story well enough" to "Hey, the lighting's sure bad on your TV newscasts."
Personally, I think the site's fabulous. It's nice to know that there's some person out there playing Armchair Media God. I may sound facetious, but I really DO think it's cool. It's probably the sort of thing I'd have started up were I not a member of the Dispatch/Argus Army.
Most of the posts are snarky and negative. Occasionally there's a positive one. Some of the criticism (at least to me) seems pretty needless... but sometimes they hit the nail on the head, even when they're criticizing our own product.
I just think it's fun that there's someone out there willing to point out the times when everything goes to our heads a bit. I'm not overly concerned about the site or anything, and I take everything they say with a grain of salt, but -- let's just be honest -- good or bad, it's an interesting idea for a site and an interesting read.
But the point is: There has yet to be a single comment about ME either good or bad. I know that if they ever DID comment on my lowly weekly humor column, it'd probably be less-than-flattering. But dang it, I still wanna be acknowledged. Even if it's a post calling me an idiot.
Monday, April 24, 2006
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.)
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.)
Monday, April 17, 2006
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??
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??
Friday, April 14, 2006
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.)
"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.)
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
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.
(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.
Monday, April 03, 2006
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.
Monday, March 27, 2006
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.
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...
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...
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, March 20, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, March 13, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
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.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
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."
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?
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?
Saturday, March 04, 2006
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.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
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.
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.
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