So one of my worst traits as a newspaper writer is that I can never seem to write within the size constraints of our paper. This especially sucks when you're writing entertainment articles to run during the week. You see, quite often the available amount of space for non-news stuff fluctuates wildly from day to day and is dictated by the news of the day, the ads that are sold, etc. In other words, if you're writing a fluff piece, you're the first thing to go if something needs to get munched.
I spent most of today in a total American Idol whirlwind. Not only did I get to review the show tonight at the Mark (and hey, it's my blog, I can call the venue whatever I want. I can call it the Doug of the Quad Cities if I want,) but I also got to spend the afternoon interviewing several of the finalists, which was pretty sweet.
As a result, I got two articles in the paper today, which is pretty sweet. Sadly, though -- because every time they send me out to do a story, I return with a non-abridged version of "War and Peace" -- my articles (especially my review of the show itself) got munched pretty hard by our over-worked and incredibly awesome copy editors. Hence, this being my blog, I thought I'd share with you the articles in their full glory as they were intended:
What's in a name?
Well, if that name is American Idol, your answer is: one of the largest commercial juggernauts in the history of pop culture.
If that name is the newly christened i wireless center, the answer Wednesday night was: an almost capacity crowd for the Moline stop of the Idols Live tour. Frankly, I don't care what they call the venue. All I know is that the building's commitment to drawing top talent will forever be a mark of the Quad Cities.
If that name is Sanjaya Malakar, your answer is: one of my favorite anti-heroes of all time. The oft-criticized Idol finalist of the sixth season was welcomed by the crowd as heartily as the rest of the ensemble.
This was my second trip to Idols Live; I also had the pleasure of reviewing the tour the year Fantasia rolled through town. And, once again, I find myself in a bit of a professional conundrum.
As a music critic, I am pre-disposed to applaud originality, creativity, and performers that reach to great lengths to propel their art to new and exciting levels.
Idols Live does none of that, nor does it pretend to. This is pre-fabricated, wholly commercial pop-by-numbers at its finest. At its core, this is -- by its definition -- the greatest karaoke night in the nation.
By all points, I should sincerely hate this show. Then why do I love it so stinkin' much? Easy -- because American Idol knows how to throw a party.
I've got to give them kudos for the intro alone. With house lights still raised and the crowd distracted by giant walking Pop-Tarts (don't ask,) one of the random roadies onstage ripped off his fake beard and wig to reveal himself as Blake Lewis, Idol runner-up and fan favorite. With one scream, the place erupted as the idols stormed the stage to a roaring version of "Let's Get It Started."
Cover versions were definitely the name of the game, but the idols did their best to put their unique stamp on the 30+ songs chosen for the tour. Thanks to the Idol TV show itself, Lewis' version of "You Give Love a Bad Name" is probably more recognizable to the teen crowd than the Bon Jovi original.
Some of the performances literally had the hairs on the back of my neck standing. Idol winner Jordin Sparks could sing the alphabet and have the crowd in a rapture, and Melinda Doolittle's take on "(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman" was my highlight of the night.
"I Will Always Love You," a song I thought I'd already heard about 2,304 times too many in my lifetime, was given new life by Lakisha Jones and brought the crowd to its feet.
As for Malakar, the kid held his own. When the opening bars of "Thriller" struck, there was no one else I wanted to see rise from the stage floor than Sanjaya, and hey, he rocked it out, moonwalk and all. In fact, I'd say his live vocal chops overall were better than those of his fellow finalists Chris Sligh or Haley Scarnato.
Gina Glockson, the closest thing we've got to a hometown Idol hero (she's from Naperville), was greeted warmly by the crowd, some of whom had obviously made the trek from Chicago-land. Glockson, who hours earlier had gotten engaged live on stage at the tour's Chicago stop, had a natural ease onstage that harkened back to her appearances over the past few years at RIBCO with her old group Catfight.
And, you know what? I take back what I said earlier about a lack of creativity. Lewis' beatboxing skills aren't just a novelty -- he's honestly one of the best in the business at rockin' the box, as he proved time and again throughout the night. If he's a one-trick pony as some might suspect, I don't care -- it's a great trick.
At the end of the day, it's amazing how quickly the American Idol machine can turn a motley crew of talented kids into bona fide world class entertainers. Whether this season's crop of finalsts are destined for the charts or destined for obscurity is up to time and perseverence, but Wednesday night definitely proved one thing: they've got talent on their side.
And my interview piece also got edited a little bit, here's the original version of THAT:
You're in a large window-less room. You've only been awake for a few hours, but you find yourself being shuffled from one table of strangers to the next. At each table, someone points cameras and microphones at your face and asks you 10 different versions of essentially the same question. It is your job to be charming. For me, that would be the definition of impossible. For the finalists of the sixth season of "American Idol," it's just another Wednesday afternoon.
"It's pretty crazy," admitted Idol finalist Phil Stacey prior to last night's show at the i wireless center, "Being on the road, you're really, really tired all the time. But at the same time that it's putting stress onto your physical body and everything, we're having THE absolute time of our lives."
"The tour is a blast," echoed finalist Melinda Doolittle, "A sleepy blast."
The Idols tour is the culmination of a whirlwind year of auditions, TV shows, and a struggle to parlay sudden fame into a professional career. It's a challenge the finalists say they're up for.
"Here's the thing," explained Stacey. "We're living out our dreams right now. I'm not foolish. I know where this leads. Maybe two of us will come back to venues this size ever again. This may be the last chance I've got to step out in an auditorium and sing, and I'm taking advantage of it. I'm having a blast."
"This whole thing is fantastic," said finalist Chris Sligh, "Every day it just kind of reiterates to me why I got into this in the first place."
Sligh came into Idol with a background in Christian music, and took some heat from conservatives for performing secular music on the show.
"Anybody who knows me for more than fifteen minutes knows that I'm a Christ follower," he explained. "But American Idol's not the place to get up and preach. If you're a Christian plumber, you're not going to preach while you're cleaning a toilet. If you're a Christian lawyer, your opening argument isn't going to start with 'So let me tell you about Jesus.' There's a professionalism to it that gets lost."
One person taking full advantage of the tour is Season 6 winner Jordin Sparks, who, at 17 years of age, still requires a guardian to accompany her on the road.
"It's fun to have family with," Sparks said with a huge smile, "because I get to have a little piece of home with me. It sounds horrible, but I'm not homesick. People ask me all the time, 'Can't you wait to get home?' And I say, actually I CAN wait -- I love travelling and I love what I'm doing right now."
Sparks is one of the busiest of all, as her off time is spent laying down tracks for her debut record.
"I got to go in the studio and hear what she's done so far," gushed Doolittle of her friend. "And oh my gosh. Normally in a studio, it's hard to convey your feelings through a song. But this chick? She's like a seasoned pro!"
Arguably the star of the show is a most unlikely fellow -- Sanjaya Malakar. Normally someone who ends up in 7th place on American Idol isn't exactly a mega-star, but unless you live under a rock, you know all about Sanjaya. Whether it was the constant berating of judge Simon Cowell or the constant support from Idol saboteurs like VoteForTheWorst.com and Howard Stern, Malakar found his name in the press nearly every day -- and not for the best of reasons.
"It's awkward," said Malakar with a grin that was, well, awkward. "People can think what they want to think. I'm just going out there every day and having fun."
All of the finalists are eager to talk about their plans following the tour. On the busses, they've been writing for each other's records. Stacey is prepping a country disc, while Sligh hopes to release an album to appeal to both mainstream and Christian audiences. Idol finalist Gina Glockson is preparing for more than an album - during this week's show in Chicago, she was proposed to onstage by her boyfriend -- and accepted. When I brought up the surprise engagement, Sparks and Doolittle exploded.
"Did you see the ring?" they asked in unison.
"Red with black diamonds! It's really shiny!" added Sparks.
"It's really GINA," Doolittle clarified with a grin.
Like the other finalists, Sanjaya, too, is already looking ahead to the post-Idol future.
"I'm definitely doing an album," he said. "My message is that music is music, regardless of genre. I want to fuse jazz emotion and rock energy with a world music vibe and make it work."
For now, though, first thing's first.
"When this tour is done," said Doolittle, "my immediate plans are to take a nap."
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
COLUMN: Accessories
I never thought I'd reach a point in my life where I would rather deal with machines instead of people.
I've realized lately, though, that my current preferred mode of shopping is in front of a computer with credit card in hand. No people, no muss, no fuss. There was a time when this was a decidedly anti-Shane way of thinking. Once upon a teenage, I LOVED going to the mall. Walking through those mighty doors with an allowance burning a hole in my pocket was a feeling of genuine empowerment. The world -- or at least the mall -- was my oyster.
But the oyster's gone bad. Nowadays, it's a triumph if I make it out of the mall with my sanity intact. Last week, I wrote about an excursion in search of some replacement undergarments of the hole-free variety. This was a trip born of necessity, as are most of my shopping trips these days. Ergo, to make my future retail nightmares as minimal as possible, I spelunked around the mall that day wondering if I could kill any more birds with this shopping stone.
That's when I remembered: I could stand a new watch and a new wallet. I gulped and headed for one of my least favorite parts of the mall department stores.
You know what I'm talking about -- those glass counters of doom. You female types probably think nothing of it, but for those of us estrogenally-challenged, glass counters are unnatural places. Usually the only items guys buy out of a glass case are either (a) weapons, or (b) valuable and important baseball cards. In a department store, I don't even know what the glass-case-area is actually called -- Accessories? Jewelry? The Wayward Home for Over-Achieving Aggressive Salespeople? All I know is that I've now got a few NEW names for the department, but this being a family newspaper, I'll spare those suggestions.
Just walking up to those counters is intimidating enough. First off, from a distance, you have to use your sixth sense to figure out which counter has manly guy stuff and which one has foofy girlie junk. I approached with trepidation and sighed with relief when I spotted guy-sized watches at the far counter. I trotted that-a-way, but I didn't make it that far.
"CANIHELPYOUFINDAFRAGRANCE?" blurted a voice that very well could have been from Mars.
"Eh?" I muttered, desperately attempting to hit the space bar in my brain and turn the babble into words.
It turns out that I had ventured too close to the cologne counter, and I had fallen prey to the tractor beam of the World's Most Overly-Enthusiastic Sales Guy, who now stood alarmingly close, beaming at me with his phony, tooth-filled smile.
"Errr," I barely got out when he cut me off with what would turn out to be the second most ridiculous question I would hear that day:
"Sir, what would you say is your defining scent?"
I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Truth be told, my "defining scent" is probably a mixture of stale air, Tide with Bleach Alternative, Doritos, and -- depending on the state of the litterbox -- perhaps a subtle hint of cat pee. Please, humanity, never define me by a scent. I shrugged and laughed at the inanity of it all. That's when I got to hear the winning most ridiculous question of the day:
"Do you consider yourself a... musky man?"
I started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. In all of the soul-searching I could possibly do in my entire life, of every moment of personal enlightenment that I could possibly hope to attain, I had better not come to a universal truth that I am a musky man.
"Dude," I attempted to reply between chortles, "I barely consider myself a MAN, let alone a musky one."
I mean, come on, is there ANY word out there grosser than MUSK? Mirriam-Webster tells me that the word musk is derived from the Sanskrit "muska," which, of course, is Sanskrit for TESTICLE. And the definition? "A substance with a penetrating persistent odor obtained from a sac beneath the abdominal skin of the male musk deer."
Sexy, eh? To me, the word musk should only be used by guys who come in their front door every night saying, "Wife, I have returned home with dinner which I have shot and skinned for us all. Now I must go clean the blood from my all-terrain vehicle... but first, come, woman, and smell of my musk!"
Musk is for manly men -- NOT chubby, nerdy, man-boys such as myself. You people can have all the deer sac juice you want. I, meanwhile, have only found 3 colognes in my life that I deem worth wearing. Drakkar, which reminds me of teen dance clubs and bad 80's music; some Estee Lauder stuff called JHL that I only wore at the insistence of my college girlfriend (she found it sexy while I found it not unlike dish soap); and a cologne called BLV For Men that I can usually only find in Chicago.
I made the mistake of asking the guy if they stocked BLV. "It's a blue bottle," I attempted to elaborate. He didn't have BLV, but quickly started pulling out every blue-bottled cologne he had, as though I shopped for scents on the basis of color coordination. Eventually I escaped, but not before I had a pocket full of little cards, each having been spritzed with a different blue-bottled aroma. I swear my pants are still infused with notes of sandalwood and jasmine to this day.
In the meantime, I need to go. I've got to go shopping for a new wallet. On Amazon.com.
I've realized lately, though, that my current preferred mode of shopping is in front of a computer with credit card in hand. No people, no muss, no fuss. There was a time when this was a decidedly anti-Shane way of thinking. Once upon a teenage, I LOVED going to the mall. Walking through those mighty doors with an allowance burning a hole in my pocket was a feeling of genuine empowerment. The world -- or at least the mall -- was my oyster.
But the oyster's gone bad. Nowadays, it's a triumph if I make it out of the mall with my sanity intact. Last week, I wrote about an excursion in search of some replacement undergarments of the hole-free variety. This was a trip born of necessity, as are most of my shopping trips these days. Ergo, to make my future retail nightmares as minimal as possible, I spelunked around the mall that day wondering if I could kill any more birds with this shopping stone.
That's when I remembered: I could stand a new watch and a new wallet. I gulped and headed for one of my least favorite parts of the mall department stores.
You know what I'm talking about -- those glass counters of doom. You female types probably think nothing of it, but for those of us estrogenally-challenged, glass counters are unnatural places. Usually the only items guys buy out of a glass case are either (a) weapons, or (b) valuable and important baseball cards. In a department store, I don't even know what the glass-case-area is actually called -- Accessories? Jewelry? The Wayward Home for Over-Achieving Aggressive Salespeople? All I know is that I've now got a few NEW names for the department, but this being a family newspaper, I'll spare those suggestions.
Just walking up to those counters is intimidating enough. First off, from a distance, you have to use your sixth sense to figure out which counter has manly guy stuff and which one has foofy girlie junk. I approached with trepidation and sighed with relief when I spotted guy-sized watches at the far counter. I trotted that-a-way, but I didn't make it that far.
"CANIHELPYOUFINDAFRAGRANCE?" blurted a voice that very well could have been from Mars.
"Eh?" I muttered, desperately attempting to hit the space bar in my brain and turn the babble into words.
It turns out that I had ventured too close to the cologne counter, and I had fallen prey to the tractor beam of the World's Most Overly-Enthusiastic Sales Guy, who now stood alarmingly close, beaming at me with his phony, tooth-filled smile.
"Errr," I barely got out when he cut me off with what would turn out to be the second most ridiculous question I would hear that day:
"Sir, what would you say is your defining scent?"
I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Truth be told, my "defining scent" is probably a mixture of stale air, Tide with Bleach Alternative, Doritos, and -- depending on the state of the litterbox -- perhaps a subtle hint of cat pee. Please, humanity, never define me by a scent. I shrugged and laughed at the inanity of it all. That's when I got to hear the winning most ridiculous question of the day:
"Do you consider yourself a... musky man?"
I started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. In all of the soul-searching I could possibly do in my entire life, of every moment of personal enlightenment that I could possibly hope to attain, I had better not come to a universal truth that I am a musky man.
"Dude," I attempted to reply between chortles, "I barely consider myself a MAN, let alone a musky one."
I mean, come on, is there ANY word out there grosser than MUSK? Mirriam-Webster tells me that the word musk is derived from the Sanskrit "muska," which, of course, is Sanskrit for TESTICLE. And the definition? "A substance with a penetrating persistent odor obtained from a sac beneath the abdominal skin of the male musk deer."
Sexy, eh? To me, the word musk should only be used by guys who come in their front door every night saying, "Wife, I have returned home with dinner which I have shot and skinned for us all. Now I must go clean the blood from my all-terrain vehicle... but first, come, woman, and smell of my musk!"
Musk is for manly men -- NOT chubby, nerdy, man-boys such as myself. You people can have all the deer sac juice you want. I, meanwhile, have only found 3 colognes in my life that I deem worth wearing. Drakkar, which reminds me of teen dance clubs and bad 80's music; some Estee Lauder stuff called JHL that I only wore at the insistence of my college girlfriend (she found it sexy while I found it not unlike dish soap); and a cologne called BLV For Men that I can usually only find in Chicago.
I made the mistake of asking the guy if they stocked BLV. "It's a blue bottle," I attempted to elaborate. He didn't have BLV, but quickly started pulling out every blue-bottled cologne he had, as though I shopped for scents on the basis of color coordination. Eventually I escaped, but not before I had a pocket full of little cards, each having been spritzed with a different blue-bottled aroma. I swear my pants are still infused with notes of sandalwood and jasmine to this day.
In the meantime, I need to go. I've got to go shopping for a new wallet. On Amazon.com.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Leader Party TONITE!
If you're looking for a low-key way to start off your weekend, we're celebrating the kick-off of the new and improved Leader TONIGHT at the River Music Experience, with an early shindig starting tonight at 5 p.m. Some country band will be there (umm, not my doing) and you can meet all the peeps who've worked so hard on the new paper. And you might even get to hang with me if'n you feel like it.
So yeah, start your weekend at the RME then cruise over to Ave. with me at 10:30 to close out your night District-style.
So yeah, start your weekend at the RME then cruise over to Ave. with me at 10:30 to close out your night District-style.
COLUJMN: Undies
There are, I have found in life, many advantages to being a guy.
Chief among them is man's innate ability to somehow NOT care about fashion. (Unless, of course, aforementioned fashion is attached to a leggy supermodel. Then I might perk up a bit.) A lot of times here at work, my break coincides with a pack of co-workers I like to call the "girl gaggle." And quite often, due to promixity alone, I get to eavesdrop on their conversations. A lot of them go something like this:
"Shoes purses mall money. Prada leather Paris handbag?"
"Necklace! Mall blouse stylist fabulous!"
"Trendy. Shopping bargain, hairdo Chanel, discount Abercrombie!"
Or something like that. Maybe there were some verbs in there somewhere, too, I forget. Point is, to us guys, it's a totally foreign language. How shopping requires planning and forethought, let alone conversation, is beyond me. When I need something, I run out and get it, usually as quickly and affordably as possible. I mean, I'm not so clueless as to just pull whatever off the racks, but I'm certainly not walking needless miles through mall corridors in search of the perfect fashion statement.
This week, though, I was on a mission. A mission, in fact, inspired by my mother. My mom's sagely advice to me upon leaving home always included this gem: "Make sure you don't have holes in your underwear! What if you were in a car wreck and they took you to the ER and had to cut your clothes off?!"
Yes, never mind the fact that there might be a steering wheel sticking out of my spleen, surely the doctors and nurses would allow me to perish in favor of gathering around to mock and point at my worn britches. Still, advice is advice, and when I took my laundry out of the hamper last week and saw a couple of those dreaded holes, it was time for action.
That explains why I found myself inside the mall store that fittingly rhymes with "Bonkers" last week, perusing a wall of skivvies while desperately attempting to remember my waist size. That was when I saw them. A product that had never registered on my radar: designer undies for men. Calvin Klein, in fact.
"Ooh," said my brain, "I'll look just like Marky Mark." I mean, each pair was individually boxed, so they MUST be something special, right? So on a lark, in addition to the pack of cheap ones I found, I brought home one pair of Calvin Klein briefs.
I threw everything into the wash and tried them on the very next morning. For the amount of money they cost, I was expecting to feel like my southern hemisphere was being hugged by an angel. No dice - they felt like any ol' pair of britches. Still, I walked around that day like a king. I might be your run-of-the-mill nerd, but little did everyone know that underneath, I was, quite literally, Mr. Fancy-Pants.
Until that afternoon. It was a busy day at work and I had been running all over the office when I felt the, err, call of nature, shall we say. I had a spare second, so I ducked into the restroom. Now, another advantage to being a guy is that we can accomplish this task from the standing position, so I sidled on up to do my business... but... umm...
"What the...?" I said under my breath. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong. That's when it dawned on me -- my new undies were of the NON-fly variety. Now call me sheltered or stupid if you'd like, but in 36 years of living, I had somehow managed to never run into this problem before. I was in a rush and had no time to dally about with my dilemma, so I did what comes naturally: I giggled, backed away, and walked away like a fool, mission most definitely unaccomplished.
This wouldn't be particularly noteworthy were it not for the fact that said restroom was teeming with co-workers at that moment. Co-workers who just watched me walk in, examine my nether-region, say "What the...?", GIGGLE, and leave. This is decidedly NOT the way to make a good impression at work, unless your place of employment is perhaps Neverland Ranch.
The moral of the story is simple: For the amount of money I paid for these fancy duds, the very least I expected was, oh, FUNCTIONALITY. Even though I despise supporting them for their inane TV ads alone, a cheap pair of Fruit of the Looms would never cause me technical difficulties in a moment of need.
You girls out there can have your high fashion -- I'm done with it. There will be no Parisian catwalks in THIS nerd's future. Still, I can now appreciate better the sacrifice those of you obsessed with pret-a-porter make for those of us whose job is to sit in the waiting chairs at boutiques and go, "That one looks nice, too, honey."
Chief among them is man's innate ability to somehow NOT care about fashion. (Unless, of course, aforementioned fashion is attached to a leggy supermodel. Then I might perk up a bit.) A lot of times here at work, my break coincides with a pack of co-workers I like to call the "girl gaggle." And quite often, due to promixity alone, I get to eavesdrop on their conversations. A lot of them go something like this:
"Shoes purses mall money. Prada leather Paris handbag?"
"Necklace! Mall blouse stylist fabulous!"
"Trendy. Shopping bargain, hairdo Chanel, discount Abercrombie!"
Or something like that. Maybe there were some verbs in there somewhere, too, I forget. Point is, to us guys, it's a totally foreign language. How shopping requires planning and forethought, let alone conversation, is beyond me. When I need something, I run out and get it, usually as quickly and affordably as possible. I mean, I'm not so clueless as to just pull whatever off the racks, but I'm certainly not walking needless miles through mall corridors in search of the perfect fashion statement.
This week, though, I was on a mission. A mission, in fact, inspired by my mother. My mom's sagely advice to me upon leaving home always included this gem: "Make sure you don't have holes in your underwear! What if you were in a car wreck and they took you to the ER and had to cut your clothes off?!"
Yes, never mind the fact that there might be a steering wheel sticking out of my spleen, surely the doctors and nurses would allow me to perish in favor of gathering around to mock and point at my worn britches. Still, advice is advice, and when I took my laundry out of the hamper last week and saw a couple of those dreaded holes, it was time for action.
That explains why I found myself inside the mall store that fittingly rhymes with "Bonkers" last week, perusing a wall of skivvies while desperately attempting to remember my waist size. That was when I saw them. A product that had never registered on my radar: designer undies for men. Calvin Klein, in fact.
"Ooh," said my brain, "I'll look just like Marky Mark." I mean, each pair was individually boxed, so they MUST be something special, right? So on a lark, in addition to the pack of cheap ones I found, I brought home one pair of Calvin Klein briefs.
I threw everything into the wash and tried them on the very next morning. For the amount of money they cost, I was expecting to feel like my southern hemisphere was being hugged by an angel. No dice - they felt like any ol' pair of britches. Still, I walked around that day like a king. I might be your run-of-the-mill nerd, but little did everyone know that underneath, I was, quite literally, Mr. Fancy-Pants.
Until that afternoon. It was a busy day at work and I had been running all over the office when I felt the, err, call of nature, shall we say. I had a spare second, so I ducked into the restroom. Now, another advantage to being a guy is that we can accomplish this task from the standing position, so I sidled on up to do my business... but... umm...
"What the...?" I said under my breath. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong. That's when it dawned on me -- my new undies were of the NON-fly variety. Now call me sheltered or stupid if you'd like, but in 36 years of living, I had somehow managed to never run into this problem before. I was in a rush and had no time to dally about with my dilemma, so I did what comes naturally: I giggled, backed away, and walked away like a fool, mission most definitely unaccomplished.
This wouldn't be particularly noteworthy were it not for the fact that said restroom was teeming with co-workers at that moment. Co-workers who just watched me walk in, examine my nether-region, say "What the...?", GIGGLE, and leave. This is decidedly NOT the way to make a good impression at work, unless your place of employment is perhaps Neverland Ranch.
The moral of the story is simple: For the amount of money I paid for these fancy duds, the very least I expected was, oh, FUNCTIONALITY. Even though I despise supporting them for their inane TV ads alone, a cheap pair of Fruit of the Looms would never cause me technical difficulties in a moment of need.
You girls out there can have your high fashion -- I'm done with it. There will be no Parisian catwalks in THIS nerd's future. Still, I can now appreciate better the sacrifice those of you obsessed with pret-a-porter make for those of us whose job is to sit in the waiting chairs at boutiques and go, "That one looks nice, too, honey."
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Radio Ga-Ga
Yes, to everyone who's been e-mailing and calling and laughing and asking...
That IS me on the radio right now in spots promoting the Leader. The editors asked if I could lend a hand and write some funny radio ads, so I gave it a shot. The ads were produced up at the Rock & Roll Mansion with the assistance of the best radio DJ in town (and one of my good friends in real life,) Jeff James from Star 93.5. There's 4 of 'em on rotation right now on nearly every QC radio station. So feel free to point and laugh at my funny voice.
In all honesty, though, go out of your way to grab a copy of The Leader this week... you won't BELIEVE the paper's new look, new size, new attitude. It's not often I tow the company line mercilessly, but this relaunch really DOES have us all excited.
It's only 2 days away.
Oh, there's also some official kick-off shindig at the River Music Experience soon (next week, maybe?) for the public to come mingle with the Leader staff... and it's looking like I'll be there, so you can even save the pointing and laughing for in person should you wish.
That IS me on the radio right now in spots promoting the Leader. The editors asked if I could lend a hand and write some funny radio ads, so I gave it a shot. The ads were produced up at the Rock & Roll Mansion with the assistance of the best radio DJ in town (and one of my good friends in real life,) Jeff James from Star 93.5. There's 4 of 'em on rotation right now on nearly every QC radio station. So feel free to point and laugh at my funny voice.
In all honesty, though, go out of your way to grab a copy of The Leader this week... you won't BELIEVE the paper's new look, new size, new attitude. It's not often I tow the company line mercilessly, but this relaunch really DOES have us all excited.
It's only 2 days away.
Oh, there's also some official kick-off shindig at the River Music Experience soon (next week, maybe?) for the public to come mingle with the Leader staff... and it's looking like I'll be there, so you can even save the pointing and laughing for in person should you wish.
COLUMN: Carpal Tunnel
...otherwise known as the column which will hopefully put a coda onto the seemingly ne'er-ending saga of Shane vs. Guitar Hero.
Regular readers of this nook already know that my life has been uncontrollably revolving around the insipid video game that finally answers the age-old question: "What would Eric Clapton look like if his guitar was tiny, plastic, and adorned with rainbow colored buttons instead of strings?"
(Answer: He would look like a dork. A big, big dork.)
Two weeks ago, I discussed begrudgingly buying Guitar Hero II and watching helplessly as my already-meager social life ground to a complete halt in favor of heavy metal licks and wicked button-pushing solos. Last week, I mentioned how I rocked out SO hard to the game that I, umm, broke it and had to get another copy. Well, now it's week 3, and for a little change of pace, I didn't break the game... the game broke ME.
It happened the other night. I, like many a guitar great before me, was sitting in front of my X-Box trying to perfect the same song over and over again. "Yo, dude," said the sane portion of my brain after some time (and my brain calls me 'dude' a lot, we're close like that,) "put the game down and go to bed."
I shut off the X-Box and noticed something funny: the X-Box was definitely OFF... but my hand didn't feel itself pressing against the power button. In fact, my right hand wasn't feeling much of anything. It was perfectly numb. No pins, no needles, just... nothing, other than a mild tingly sensation running up my wrist.
"That's odd, dude," said my brain.
Happily, all was well the next morning and I chalked it up to a little over-zealous Guitar Hero-ing. Until, that is, I got in the shower and reached with my right hand to turn the faucet on. That's when a white hot pain erupted from my wrist and shot up my arm directly into my brain. The neighbors are still probably wondering what caused the quiet kid in B5 to yell "Nyyyyyyyah!" in the shower that morning.
It didn't stop there. Turning the steering wheel on the way to work? Nyyyah! Trying to right-click my mouse? Nyyyah! Taking out the trash? Oh, who am I kidding, I never take out my trash (but now I have an excuse not to!)
That's right, it appears as if Guitar Hero was the official catalyst to send me into the realm of early carpal tunnel. Frankly, it wasn't much of a surprise. I spend a good portion of my day non-ergonomically tied to a computer, I type using only my index fingers and a thumb, and I'm one of those lefties who holds their pens in the dreaded 'hooked' position, so I've been a candidate for carpal tunnel for some time. Just wasn't expecting it so soon.
At least I think it's carpal tunnel. I won't see a doctor until I've exhausted the catalog of home remedies first (spare me the lectures, it's how I operate.) Which means I just went out to the drugstore and bought one of those super sexy wrist braces.
Which is great, because it's SUCH the fashion statement. Yes, nothing says style like walking around as though I'm perpetually late for bowling league. And as if looking like a bowler isn't bad enough, the brace also begs the question from friends, co-workers, and passersby alike:
"What'd you do to yerself?"
What do I say to that? Certainly not the truth. "I'm a 36-year-old suffering from possible carpal tunnel and mild nerve damage from BANGING ON A FAKE PLASTIC GUITAR VIDEO GAME." No, thanks. Hence I've decided to use my injury to better my improvisational acting skills. Anytime someone asks what I did to myself, I make up a new scenario. To date, I've fought an angry dog, stopped a runaway car, rumbled with a mugger... basically anything to crack a co-worker up and slyly avoid confessing to over-playing a video game.
But the other day, I was walking around at work when a co-worker, one I don't know very well, spotted the brace and asked, "What'd you do to yerself?"
Without hesitation, I replied, "Ultimate fighting. Rough night in the ring."
I expected her to laugh. I expected a funny diversion to the sad truth. What I didn't expect was:
"Ooh, I've heard those can be very rough matches! Who were you fighting?"
Seriously? Okay, stop reading and look up at the picture of me at the top of this column. Look at my dainty little sissy face. Now imagine that face in ANY kind of ultimate fighting scenario. Can't do it, can you? Good, coz neither can I. The closest I ever came to a fight was when Robbie Downard pushed me on the sidewalk in 3rd grade, and before I could even react, my mommy, who had seen the rumble in full swing, came screaming to my aid.
But to actually BELIEVE that I was capable of stepping into an ultimate fighting ring? For THAT, she was the only person I fessed up the embarassing truth to. The good news is that the brace is helping a LOT, and I'm 90% to a full recovery. Until then, though, I think I'll go looking for some bowling shirts - I need to blend in.
Regular readers of this nook already know that my life has been uncontrollably revolving around the insipid video game that finally answers the age-old question: "What would Eric Clapton look like if his guitar was tiny, plastic, and adorned with rainbow colored buttons instead of strings?"
(Answer: He would look like a dork. A big, big dork.)
Two weeks ago, I discussed begrudgingly buying Guitar Hero II and watching helplessly as my already-meager social life ground to a complete halt in favor of heavy metal licks and wicked button-pushing solos. Last week, I mentioned how I rocked out SO hard to the game that I, umm, broke it and had to get another copy. Well, now it's week 3, and for a little change of pace, I didn't break the game... the game broke ME.
It happened the other night. I, like many a guitar great before me, was sitting in front of my X-Box trying to perfect the same song over and over again. "Yo, dude," said the sane portion of my brain after some time (and my brain calls me 'dude' a lot, we're close like that,) "put the game down and go to bed."
I shut off the X-Box and noticed something funny: the X-Box was definitely OFF... but my hand didn't feel itself pressing against the power button. In fact, my right hand wasn't feeling much of anything. It was perfectly numb. No pins, no needles, just... nothing, other than a mild tingly sensation running up my wrist.
"That's odd, dude," said my brain.
Happily, all was well the next morning and I chalked it up to a little over-zealous Guitar Hero-ing. Until, that is, I got in the shower and reached with my right hand to turn the faucet on. That's when a white hot pain erupted from my wrist and shot up my arm directly into my brain. The neighbors are still probably wondering what caused the quiet kid in B5 to yell "Nyyyyyyyah!" in the shower that morning.
It didn't stop there. Turning the steering wheel on the way to work? Nyyyah! Trying to right-click my mouse? Nyyyah! Taking out the trash? Oh, who am I kidding, I never take out my trash (but now I have an excuse not to!)
That's right, it appears as if Guitar Hero was the official catalyst to send me into the realm of early carpal tunnel. Frankly, it wasn't much of a surprise. I spend a good portion of my day non-ergonomically tied to a computer, I type using only my index fingers and a thumb, and I'm one of those lefties who holds their pens in the dreaded 'hooked' position, so I've been a candidate for carpal tunnel for some time. Just wasn't expecting it so soon.
At least I think it's carpal tunnel. I won't see a doctor until I've exhausted the catalog of home remedies first (spare me the lectures, it's how I operate.) Which means I just went out to the drugstore and bought one of those super sexy wrist braces.
Which is great, because it's SUCH the fashion statement. Yes, nothing says style like walking around as though I'm perpetually late for bowling league. And as if looking like a bowler isn't bad enough, the brace also begs the question from friends, co-workers, and passersby alike:
"What'd you do to yerself?"
What do I say to that? Certainly not the truth. "I'm a 36-year-old suffering from possible carpal tunnel and mild nerve damage from BANGING ON A FAKE PLASTIC GUITAR VIDEO GAME." No, thanks. Hence I've decided to use my injury to better my improvisational acting skills. Anytime someone asks what I did to myself, I make up a new scenario. To date, I've fought an angry dog, stopped a runaway car, rumbled with a mugger... basically anything to crack a co-worker up and slyly avoid confessing to over-playing a video game.
But the other day, I was walking around at work when a co-worker, one I don't know very well, spotted the brace and asked, "What'd you do to yerself?"
Without hesitation, I replied, "Ultimate fighting. Rough night in the ring."
I expected her to laugh. I expected a funny diversion to the sad truth. What I didn't expect was:
"Ooh, I've heard those can be very rough matches! Who were you fighting?"
Seriously? Okay, stop reading and look up at the picture of me at the top of this column. Look at my dainty little sissy face. Now imagine that face in ANY kind of ultimate fighting scenario. Can't do it, can you? Good, coz neither can I. The closest I ever came to a fight was when Robbie Downard pushed me on the sidewalk in 3rd grade, and before I could even react, my mommy, who had seen the rumble in full swing, came screaming to my aid.
But to actually BELIEVE that I was capable of stepping into an ultimate fighting ring? For THAT, she was the only person I fessed up the embarassing truth to. The good news is that the brace is helping a LOT, and I'm 90% to a full recovery. Until then, though, I think I'll go looking for some bowling shirts - I need to blend in.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
My Belly Hurts...
...from laughing so stinkin' hard.
BIIIIG tournament in town this week, folks. And I'm not talking about some stupid golf classic.
The Comedy Sportz World Championships have been going on this week in Rock Island, and the more eagle-eyed of you may have seen me at nearly every event this week.
Sadly, the championship match is going on RIGHT NOW AS I TYPE THIS, and I can't be there because I'm mere moments from heading off to the DJ gig.
That said, there have been some INCREDIBLY funny teams turn out to this thing. Los Angeles... Minneapolis... Milwaukee... Provo (who'd have thought Utah-ians could be hysterical?) And some key players: Miles from LA, Katie from Richmond, Susannah from Philadelphia, Scott & Matt from Provo, Patrick & Bill from Portland... and of course the great QC team who can hold their own with the best of 'em.
It's been one of the funniest weeks of my life, for real. Good job, Comedy Sportz!
BIIIIG tournament in town this week, folks. And I'm not talking about some stupid golf classic.
The Comedy Sportz World Championships have been going on this week in Rock Island, and the more eagle-eyed of you may have seen me at nearly every event this week.
Sadly, the championship match is going on RIGHT NOW AS I TYPE THIS, and I can't be there because I'm mere moments from heading off to the DJ gig.
That said, there have been some INCREDIBLY funny teams turn out to this thing. Los Angeles... Minneapolis... Milwaukee... Provo (who'd have thought Utah-ians could be hysterical?) And some key players: Miles from LA, Katie from Richmond, Susannah from Philadelphia, Scott & Matt from Provo, Patrick & Bill from Portland... and of course the great QC team who can hold their own with the best of 'em.
It's been one of the funniest weeks of my life, for real. Good job, Comedy Sportz!
Friday, July 13, 2007
COLUMN: Moral Breakdown
I am SO not destined for a life of crime.
I'm not saying that I'm some namby-pamby do-gooder guy or anything. I mean, I've had my moments of unbridled rebellion. I seem to have this recurring problem where my speedometer OBVIOUSLY goes faulty, causing me to get a few tickets over the years. I'm pretty sure I have some mp3's on my computer that appeared by magic. And heck, I've ripped the tags off mattresses with malice and forethought.
So yeah, I can be a rebel. I just don't do it often, because I also have the worst luck imaginable.
I don't know what it is, but it seems like every time I have the slightest moral breakdown in my life, I end up paying for it big-time. Once in college, my friends talked me into sneaking into a dance club when we were underage. Now, I didn't care about or partake in the illicit booze at all, no joke; I just wanted to hear a proper club DJ. But of course the ONE time I decide to break the law, THAT'S the night that the police show up to do random ID checks. Had a kindly waitress not spirited us out a back door, I probably would have cost my poor mother many a grey hair.
So I've learned over the years that it's best to, for the most part, walk the straight and narrow. But last week? I hit a curve on the road.
If you happened to read last week's column, you'll know that my life has been consumed by the video game Guitar Hero. I'm absolutely inept at it, yet it's still a good way to waste a few hours. Well, what I didn't mention in that column is that something tragic happened to me less than a week after I bought the game.
I had some friends over and we were rocking out. I was attempting a particularly nasty solo on some Rolling Stones song when the rock & roll spirit took over a little too hard. I pulled back on the cheezy little fake guitar to begin a manuver that can only be described as ROCKING THE HECK OUT, when -- *THUD*.
In the midst of my rock-gasm, I pulled a little too hard on the fake guitar and my X-Box took a 90-degree topple onto its side. Now, a mere amp topple wouldn't stop the Rolling Stones, right? Heck no, Keith Richards could probably topple his amp, play a mean guitar lick, AND shoot heroin at the same time -- ergo, I wasn't gonna stop, either. I kept right on rocking (albeit very badly) until the song ended. It was a four-star performance according to the game. Heck, maybe I could turn into a guitar hero after all.
What I didn't realize, though, is that while I was power rocking, my X-Box was carving a scratch the size of the Grand Canyon into my game disc. Turns out it's probably not a good thing to knock your X-Box over, mess up the alignment, and keep on playing. That Stones song would be the last lick that copy of Guitar Hero would ever make.
I took the disc out and looked at it. It was baaaaad. My hot guitar move had just destroyed a $55 game that I had owned for a whopping 4 days. That's a good chunk of change, especially for something as stupid as this game.
That's when the dark side took over. My friends and I hatched a complex, intricate plan to avoid having to re-purchase the game. The plan? walk in to the video game store and go, "I just opened this game and it's, like, broken or something."
For some reason, I honestly expected this to work. As though video game factories are prone to gouging their discs with a chisel before shipping or something. I walked in to the store and faced the manager. If I'm a bit of a geek, this guy was the Geekmaster. I gulped, went up to him, and lied my butt off. "I took it out of the case and it just wouldn't play."
The Geekmaster, without hesitation, turned the disc over, saw the abyss that was once a functioning video game, and said, "Your system did this."
"Nooooooooooo," I somehow try to respond. "I only had the game in for, like, a second. Couldn't be. Factory defect."
"Your system did this," he said again in the same dry voice. I was had. I couldn't keep up the charade. All I wanted to do was grab the disc and run out of the store in shame.
But no, the Geekmaster then told me how the internal whatzit in my X-Box had probably slid off its track, and how I could easily damage all of my discs. He gave me the phone number to call for X-Box support. He told me how to best ship the unit to repair for the fastest results. And then he did the unthinkable.
"I shouldn't do this, but I feel bad you for, man. I'll replace this disc with a used one I just got in."
Not only did the guy catch me bearing false witness, he still replaced the disc -- because he felt bad for me. Bad that I'd been an idiot and destroyed a game I'd owned for 4 days? Bad because I came in with a feeble attempt at lying to cover my own stupidity? Or bad because I'm a 36-year-old who plays Guitar Hero?
It didn't matter. I still felt 2 inches tall. All I know is that the Geekmaster earned my future business that day. Heck, I even felt so worthless that I bought ANOTHER game that day I didn't even really want - I just felt like I owed the guy something.
So lying is bad, kids. You might get away with it, but it does NOT fill one with warm fuzzies. Maybe I AM a namby-pamby do-gooder after all. Either way, lesson learned -- though perhaps they should put a warning on those fake guitars: "Caution - Do Not Over-Rock."
I'm not saying that I'm some namby-pamby do-gooder guy or anything. I mean, I've had my moments of unbridled rebellion. I seem to have this recurring problem where my speedometer OBVIOUSLY goes faulty, causing me to get a few tickets over the years. I'm pretty sure I have some mp3's on my computer that appeared by magic. And heck, I've ripped the tags off mattresses with malice and forethought.
So yeah, I can be a rebel. I just don't do it often, because I also have the worst luck imaginable.
I don't know what it is, but it seems like every time I have the slightest moral breakdown in my life, I end up paying for it big-time. Once in college, my friends talked me into sneaking into a dance club when we were underage. Now, I didn't care about or partake in the illicit booze at all, no joke; I just wanted to hear a proper club DJ. But of course the ONE time I decide to break the law, THAT'S the night that the police show up to do random ID checks. Had a kindly waitress not spirited us out a back door, I probably would have cost my poor mother many a grey hair.
So I've learned over the years that it's best to, for the most part, walk the straight and narrow. But last week? I hit a curve on the road.
If you happened to read last week's column, you'll know that my life has been consumed by the video game Guitar Hero. I'm absolutely inept at it, yet it's still a good way to waste a few hours. Well, what I didn't mention in that column is that something tragic happened to me less than a week after I bought the game.
I had some friends over and we were rocking out. I was attempting a particularly nasty solo on some Rolling Stones song when the rock & roll spirit took over a little too hard. I pulled back on the cheezy little fake guitar to begin a manuver that can only be described as ROCKING THE HECK OUT, when -- *THUD*.
In the midst of my rock-gasm, I pulled a little too hard on the fake guitar and my X-Box took a 90-degree topple onto its side. Now, a mere amp topple wouldn't stop the Rolling Stones, right? Heck no, Keith Richards could probably topple his amp, play a mean guitar lick, AND shoot heroin at the same time -- ergo, I wasn't gonna stop, either. I kept right on rocking (albeit very badly) until the song ended. It was a four-star performance according to the game. Heck, maybe I could turn into a guitar hero after all.
What I didn't realize, though, is that while I was power rocking, my X-Box was carving a scratch the size of the Grand Canyon into my game disc. Turns out it's probably not a good thing to knock your X-Box over, mess up the alignment, and keep on playing. That Stones song would be the last lick that copy of Guitar Hero would ever make.
I took the disc out and looked at it. It was baaaaad. My hot guitar move had just destroyed a $55 game that I had owned for a whopping 4 days. That's a good chunk of change, especially for something as stupid as this game.
That's when the dark side took over. My friends and I hatched a complex, intricate plan to avoid having to re-purchase the game. The plan? walk in to the video game store and go, "I just opened this game and it's, like, broken or something."
For some reason, I honestly expected this to work. As though video game factories are prone to gouging their discs with a chisel before shipping or something. I walked in to the store and faced the manager. If I'm a bit of a geek, this guy was the Geekmaster. I gulped, went up to him, and lied my butt off. "I took it out of the case and it just wouldn't play."
The Geekmaster, without hesitation, turned the disc over, saw the abyss that was once a functioning video game, and said, "Your system did this."
"Nooooooooooo," I somehow try to respond. "I only had the game in for, like, a second. Couldn't be. Factory defect."
"Your system did this," he said again in the same dry voice. I was had. I couldn't keep up the charade. All I wanted to do was grab the disc and run out of the store in shame.
But no, the Geekmaster then told me how the internal whatzit in my X-Box had probably slid off its track, and how I could easily damage all of my discs. He gave me the phone number to call for X-Box support. He told me how to best ship the unit to repair for the fastest results. And then he did the unthinkable.
"I shouldn't do this, but I feel bad you for, man. I'll replace this disc with a used one I just got in."
Not only did the guy catch me bearing false witness, he still replaced the disc -- because he felt bad for me. Bad that I'd been an idiot and destroyed a game I'd owned for 4 days? Bad because I came in with a feeble attempt at lying to cover my own stupidity? Or bad because I'm a 36-year-old who plays Guitar Hero?
It didn't matter. I still felt 2 inches tall. All I know is that the Geekmaster earned my future business that day. Heck, I even felt so worthless that I bought ANOTHER game that day I didn't even really want - I just felt like I owed the guy something.
So lying is bad, kids. You might get away with it, but it does NOT fill one with warm fuzzies. Maybe I AM a namby-pamby do-gooder after all. Either way, lesson learned -- though perhaps they should put a warning on those fake guitars: "Caution - Do Not Over-Rock."
COLUMN: Guitar Hero
A few weeks ago, I wrote a column about deflated dreams. Remember when you were a kid and wanted to grow up and play in the NBA or fly to the moon or be a Calvin Klein model? Then you grew up and realized that (a) you're uncoordinated, short, and chubby, (b) you get queasy on the Tilt-A-Whirl, let alone a lunar module, and (c) you're SO good-looking that the sight of you in a Calvin Klein ad could cause pandemonium among the female ranks, the likes of which could tilt the balance of life on Earth forever all because you're just TOO doggone sexy? Or is that just me?
Well, now I can add one OTHER occupation that's officially NOT happening for me: guitar hero.
If you have kids, you're probably well-acquainted with Guitar Hero. It's one of the most popular games out right now for the Playstation and X-Box. As opposed to your standard video games that have complex plots -- you know, save the princess, slay the dragon, whip the Thuggee guards, stop the space invaders, make whoopee with a prostitute to regain your health (you've gotta love Grand Theft Auto) -- Guitar Hero's plot is simple: hit buttons.
As musical notes fly by on the screen, you have to hit the correct color-coded button in order to make your little on-screen dude jam out to a soundtrack of heavy metal and arena rock classics. If that's not dorky enough for you, you have to buy the custom Guitar Hero game controller, which is, of course, a guitar. A cheap, undersized plastic replica of a guitar, that is.
Actually, it's probably not undersized -- if you're 9, which is how old you SHOULD be when you play Guitar Hero. The thing is, though, every time I walk into Best Buy, where they've got a demo of the game set up, it's always some middle-aged dork wailing away on the plastic guitar like they're auditioning for Rush or something. This game aspires to unforeseen new and exciting levels of nerd-dom, and chuckling at the karaoke nightmare every time I walk past it is a newfound favorite hobby of mine.
Until. (You already know what's coming, don't you? All I had to say was "until.") Until my friend Chris showed up. My buddy Chris is a great friend, especially for a time-constrained video gamer such as myself. Chris is a video game junkie -- not only does he play all the X-Box and Playstation games, he's also into MMORPG's. These are the vast online games like World of Warcraft and Everquest where you play online with 1,000 of your closest cyberfriends while the games suck your soul away on a daily basis. The games that require you to play for HOURS every day to get anywhere. The games that have support groups for addicts.
My friend Chris, though, is fairly well-adjusted and not nearly as nerdy as most gamers -- which is why I sat open-mouthed when he showed up the other day and announced, "I bought Guitar Hero 2!"
"Are you KIDDING me?" I respond. "That game is the downfall of humanity! Nothing on Earth looks dorkier."
That's when he said the magic words:
"Duuuuuuude. It's awesome."
Now, I trust my buddy's opinion on all things video game related, and he doesn't issue "duuuuuude"'s too often. Still, I found this particular review hard to swallow. I shrugged it off. I'd still wander through Best Buy, and I'd still stop and grin at the dorks playing the game. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I could still hear those words. "Duuuuuude." "Awesome." You know, what if he was right? I mean, maybe I'm missing out on the most fun video game ever. And sure, the guitar looks utterly lame, but who's gonna see me? My cats?
So I did it. I bought the ridiculous game and the ridiculous fake guitar. On my way home, I stopped to get food and a kid in the drive-thru window saw the box and went, "Duuuuude. That game is so awesome." I made a wise decision.
There's just one tiny problem, though: I SUCK AT IT. I brought the game home, took out my little plastic guitar, tied on the strap, applied the super-cool stickers to personalize my axe, turned it on, and proceeded to suck the night away.
This game isn't fun. It's guitar-shaped torture. The notes whizz by at the speed of sound and I'm supposed to make my fingers play the chords AND strum at the same time? And when you mess up, your guitar makes a wonky noise while the fake audience hurls boo's and catcalls. Swell, I can now reach the pinnacle of embarassment from the comfort of my own home. What's next? A video game where you have to go to the front of the class and read a book report?
When I've watched kids at the store play Guitar Hero, they really get into it and start rocking out. I, meanwhile, sit stoically with a nervously focused look of sheer concentration, which is exactly how you're NOT supposed to look when you're playing along to Kiss. I can't believe Ace Frehley remembers to BREATHE, let alone shoot fire out of his guitar neck.
If this is even remotely what it's like to play a REAL guitar, count me out. Still, though, my buddy was right -- it is pretty awesome, in one of those must-find-a-hiding-place-so-none-of-my-other-friends-can-ever-see-my-secret-shame sorta ways. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some rockin' to do.
Well, now I can add one OTHER occupation that's officially NOT happening for me: guitar hero.
If you have kids, you're probably well-acquainted with Guitar Hero. It's one of the most popular games out right now for the Playstation and X-Box. As opposed to your standard video games that have complex plots -- you know, save the princess, slay the dragon, whip the Thuggee guards, stop the space invaders, make whoopee with a prostitute to regain your health (you've gotta love Grand Theft Auto) -- Guitar Hero's plot is simple: hit buttons.
As musical notes fly by on the screen, you have to hit the correct color-coded button in order to make your little on-screen dude jam out to a soundtrack of heavy metal and arena rock classics. If that's not dorky enough for you, you have to buy the custom Guitar Hero game controller, which is, of course, a guitar. A cheap, undersized plastic replica of a guitar, that is.
Actually, it's probably not undersized -- if you're 9, which is how old you SHOULD be when you play Guitar Hero. The thing is, though, every time I walk into Best Buy, where they've got a demo of the game set up, it's always some middle-aged dork wailing away on the plastic guitar like they're auditioning for Rush or something. This game aspires to unforeseen new and exciting levels of nerd-dom, and chuckling at the karaoke nightmare every time I walk past it is a newfound favorite hobby of mine.
Until. (You already know what's coming, don't you? All I had to say was "until.") Until my friend Chris showed up. My buddy Chris is a great friend, especially for a time-constrained video gamer such as myself. Chris is a video game junkie -- not only does he play all the X-Box and Playstation games, he's also into MMORPG's. These are the vast online games like World of Warcraft and Everquest where you play online with 1,000 of your closest cyberfriends while the games suck your soul away on a daily basis. The games that require you to play for HOURS every day to get anywhere. The games that have support groups for addicts.
My friend Chris, though, is fairly well-adjusted and not nearly as nerdy as most gamers -- which is why I sat open-mouthed when he showed up the other day and announced, "I bought Guitar Hero 2!"
"Are you KIDDING me?" I respond. "That game is the downfall of humanity! Nothing on Earth looks dorkier."
That's when he said the magic words:
"Duuuuuuude. It's awesome."
Now, I trust my buddy's opinion on all things video game related, and he doesn't issue "duuuuuude"'s too often. Still, I found this particular review hard to swallow. I shrugged it off. I'd still wander through Best Buy, and I'd still stop and grin at the dorks playing the game. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I could still hear those words. "Duuuuuude." "Awesome." You know, what if he was right? I mean, maybe I'm missing out on the most fun video game ever. And sure, the guitar looks utterly lame, but who's gonna see me? My cats?
So I did it. I bought the ridiculous game and the ridiculous fake guitar. On my way home, I stopped to get food and a kid in the drive-thru window saw the box and went, "Duuuuude. That game is so awesome." I made a wise decision.
There's just one tiny problem, though: I SUCK AT IT. I brought the game home, took out my little plastic guitar, tied on the strap, applied the super-cool stickers to personalize my axe, turned it on, and proceeded to suck the night away.
This game isn't fun. It's guitar-shaped torture. The notes whizz by at the speed of sound and I'm supposed to make my fingers play the chords AND strum at the same time? And when you mess up, your guitar makes a wonky noise while the fake audience hurls boo's and catcalls. Swell, I can now reach the pinnacle of embarassment from the comfort of my own home. What's next? A video game where you have to go to the front of the class and read a book report?
When I've watched kids at the store play Guitar Hero, they really get into it and start rocking out. I, meanwhile, sit stoically with a nervously focused look of sheer concentration, which is exactly how you're NOT supposed to look when you're playing along to Kiss. I can't believe Ace Frehley remembers to BREATHE, let alone shoot fire out of his guitar neck.
If this is even remotely what it's like to play a REAL guitar, count me out. Still, though, my buddy was right -- it is pretty awesome, in one of those must-find-a-hiding-place-so-none-of-my-other-friends-can-ever-see-my-secret-shame sorta ways. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some rockin' to do.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
COLUMN: Cats To Work
Okay, so fans of this column -- should any exist -- are likely aware that I'm known for one thing: my relentless crusade against injustice and a never-ending quest for social reform. Or something.
That's right, if you've heard that I'm a humor columnist, you were sadly mistaken. No sirree, I'm a serious journalist-dude type guy, and I use this space to raise awareness towards the many socio-political platforms that deeply concern me. Like, umm, gimme a sec... oh, like, umm, crime. Crime is bad. Yeah. Don't commit crime.
See, I'm all about using my edginess to raise the collective conscience. And lately, a topic has been brewing on MY conscience that's way worse than any piddly little issue like crime or sexism or racism. No, this is a FAR more disturbing -ism altogether: SPECIES-ISM.
I refer, of course, to the shocking travesty otherwise known as "Take Your Dog To Work Day." I read about it in this very publication a week ago. It's taking hold as a national holiday, and recently several of our staff took their dogs to work in order to write about the experience. Take special note, folks, that it's NOT "Take Your PET To Work Day." That's right, rabbit/ferret/pot-belly pig/fish/venomous snake owners, your cuddly pals are apparantly NOT GOOD ENOUGH for this exercise in blatant species-ism masquerading as a holiday. Well, NO MORE, I say! Someone has to stand up for the non-dogs of the world!
Once upon a time, I might have been jealous of this shameful holiday. Once upon a time, I wanted a dog. Sadly, the life of an on-the-go, man-about-town such as myself just isn't fair to a dog. Dogs are needy; they require companionship. They require potty hikes. That's why I became a cat owner. Cats are more my speed. My cats don't so much care whether or not I come home at night, just so long as the litter is reasonably clean and the food bowl is reasonably full.
And yet I don't get to write a heart-warming article about taking MY pets to work. Sniffle. I was mulling over shaving them and trying to pass them off as rare Claw-Footed Himalayan Chihuahuas, but it wasn't worth the effort. Besides, truth be told, they start incessantly meowing the instant they're ten feet away from my apartment door, let alone trapped with me at work all day. Still, I was sick of these smug little dog-owners walking around work with their needy little drool machines in tow.
Then it hit me: I write my column every week from home. That's work. Ergo, I have "Take My Cats to Work Day" all the stinkin' time! (And I do mean stinkin', since the litterbox is so close to my desk.) Regardless, I CAN write a heart-warming article about trying to write my column in the presence of the cats. And if I were to write it, it'd go something like:
7:00 - I walk in the door and my feline roommates -- Bez and Isobel -- pounce at my feet and fall to their sides meowing. This is cat for "hiya." Actually, it's cat for "pet me pet me pet me." This is my cue to drop what I'm doing and rub them until the air runs thick with mounds of cat hair and enough allergens to render all of Rock Island into one giant post-nasal drip. The amount of hair they shed off every night could be used to create up to 5 altogether new cats daily. By my calculations, they should now both be bald.
7:10 - I plop down at my computer to type out this week's column. The cats decide to help by running neurotically in concentric circles around the chair.
7:30 - Isobel wants something. I can't tell what, because she expresses herself via ONE act: Clawing the skin off my legs. I'm-happy = claw. I'm-hungry = claw. I'm-quite-concerned-about-the-situation-in-Darfur = claw. My legs look like I was recently on the losing end of a Weed Whacker. After brushing her off, she looks at me as if to say, "Why don't you understand me? Jeez, I CLAWED you and everything! Do I have to spell it out? Humans are SO stupid."
8:10 - The column is NOT progressing well, but suddenly I realize the cats are nowhere to be found. At last, peace. That is, until I slightly lean back and realize they're both hanging via claws from the back of my leather office chair. Swell.
8:12 - fgpljfgv,mcxcccccccccccdfdg glk;fllll;;fgkcxgmflkjtgreojjjg gfjdl rrrreop 33333 cdmccc. That was Bez, deciding to "help" by walking across the keyboard while I took a bathroom break. Personally I bet it's a profound answer to the mysteries of life. Rrrreop, indeed.
8:15 - We've found a new game. Attack-the-cursor goes something like this: I type a word. Out of nowhere, one of the cats leaps onto my shoulder and jumps head first at the computer monitor. Strangely, this never ends well for the cats.
8:20 - I'm too distracted by the cats for this column to go anywhere, so I scrap it and decide to write a column about being distracted by my cats while writing a column.
8:50 - Success. Column is done except for this last paragraph here. "Take Your Cats to Work Day" is judged a triumph. Isobel leaps onto my lap, looks at the monitor as if to give it a once-over, and responds by immediately going "HEOOOORK" and barfing a hairball onto my stomach. Let's see a dog give THAT kind of a critique.
That's right, if you've heard that I'm a humor columnist, you were sadly mistaken. No sirree, I'm a serious journalist-dude type guy, and I use this space to raise awareness towards the many socio-political platforms that deeply concern me. Like, umm, gimme a sec... oh, like, umm, crime. Crime is bad. Yeah. Don't commit crime.
See, I'm all about using my edginess to raise the collective conscience. And lately, a topic has been brewing on MY conscience that's way worse than any piddly little issue like crime or sexism or racism. No, this is a FAR more disturbing -ism altogether: SPECIES-ISM.
I refer, of course, to the shocking travesty otherwise known as "Take Your Dog To Work Day." I read about it in this very publication a week ago. It's taking hold as a national holiday, and recently several of our staff took their dogs to work in order to write about the experience. Take special note, folks, that it's NOT "Take Your PET To Work Day." That's right, rabbit/ferret/pot-belly pig/fish/venomous snake owners, your cuddly pals are apparantly NOT GOOD ENOUGH for this exercise in blatant species-ism masquerading as a holiday. Well, NO MORE, I say! Someone has to stand up for the non-dogs of the world!
Once upon a time, I might have been jealous of this shameful holiday. Once upon a time, I wanted a dog. Sadly, the life of an on-the-go, man-about-town such as myself just isn't fair to a dog. Dogs are needy; they require companionship. They require potty hikes. That's why I became a cat owner. Cats are more my speed. My cats don't so much care whether or not I come home at night, just so long as the litter is reasonably clean and the food bowl is reasonably full.
And yet I don't get to write a heart-warming article about taking MY pets to work. Sniffle. I was mulling over shaving them and trying to pass them off as rare Claw-Footed Himalayan Chihuahuas, but it wasn't worth the effort. Besides, truth be told, they start incessantly meowing the instant they're ten feet away from my apartment door, let alone trapped with me at work all day. Still, I was sick of these smug little dog-owners walking around work with their needy little drool machines in tow.
Then it hit me: I write my column every week from home. That's work. Ergo, I have "Take My Cats to Work Day" all the stinkin' time! (And I do mean stinkin', since the litterbox is so close to my desk.) Regardless, I CAN write a heart-warming article about trying to write my column in the presence of the cats. And if I were to write it, it'd go something like:
7:00 - I walk in the door and my feline roommates -- Bez and Isobel -- pounce at my feet and fall to their sides meowing. This is cat for "hiya." Actually, it's cat for "pet me pet me pet me." This is my cue to drop what I'm doing and rub them until the air runs thick with mounds of cat hair and enough allergens to render all of Rock Island into one giant post-nasal drip. The amount of hair they shed off every night could be used to create up to 5 altogether new cats daily. By my calculations, they should now both be bald.
7:10 - I plop down at my computer to type out this week's column. The cats decide to help by running neurotically in concentric circles around the chair.
7:30 - Isobel wants something. I can't tell what, because she expresses herself via ONE act: Clawing the skin off my legs. I'm-happy = claw. I'm-hungry = claw. I'm-quite-concerned-about-the-situation-in-Darfur = claw. My legs look like I was recently on the losing end of a Weed Whacker. After brushing her off, she looks at me as if to say, "Why don't you understand me? Jeez, I CLAWED you and everything! Do I have to spell it out? Humans are SO stupid."
8:10 - The column is NOT progressing well, but suddenly I realize the cats are nowhere to be found. At last, peace. That is, until I slightly lean back and realize they're both hanging via claws from the back of my leather office chair. Swell.
8:12 - fgpljfgv,mcxcccccccccccdfdg glk;fllll;;fgkcxgmflkjtgreojjjg gfjdl rrrreop 33333 cdmccc. That was Bez, deciding to "help" by walking across the keyboard while I took a bathroom break. Personally I bet it's a profound answer to the mysteries of life. Rrrreop, indeed.
8:15 - We've found a new game. Attack-the-cursor goes something like this: I type a word. Out of nowhere, one of the cats leaps onto my shoulder and jumps head first at the computer monitor. Strangely, this never ends well for the cats.
8:20 - I'm too distracted by the cats for this column to go anywhere, so I scrap it and decide to write a column about being distracted by my cats while writing a column.
8:50 - Success. Column is done except for this last paragraph here. "Take Your Cats to Work Day" is judged a triumph. Isobel leaps onto my lap, looks at the monitor as if to give it a once-over, and responds by immediately going "HEOOOORK" and barfing a hairball onto my stomach. Let's see a dog give THAT kind of a critique.
Monday, June 25, 2007
COLUMN: Insects
A few weeks ago, my friend Jason and I were driving around aimlessly in the sticks near Galena when he turned to me and said, "Can you pull over for a sec? I think I need to stretch my legs."
"Here?" I asked. We were quite literally in the middle of nowhere, driving on a gravel lane in the hills around the Apple River. The road didn't have ditches so much as canyons, and there really wasn't any place to pull off. Suffice to say, it was not your ideal rest stop locale. "You sure?"
"Yeah, here. Stop the car."
So I did. My friend suffers from occasional back problems, so when he needs to stretch his legs, it's usually not a debateable issue. I pulled over as best I could and stopped the car.
"Let's get out for a second," Jason said.
"Umm, ok," I replied. I mean, I was still on a photography kick from my new camera. Maybe Jason had spotted a good photo op or something. I grabbed the camera and stepped out of the car.
"Okay, don't panic," Jason said. "Stay out there. I just need to get a bee out of the car."
My friends know me too well.
"Sorry, man," he said after shoo-ing the tiny honeybee out of the car. "I didn't mean to lie to you. I just value my life is all."
See, Jason knows my deep, dark secret: I'm TERRIFIED of bees. Irrational, act-like-a-ninny terrified of bees. And he was right, if I had happened to have glanced in the mirror and seen that bee buzzing around my back seat, I probably would have driven us right off a cliff. And, while plummeting in a vertical freefall to our certain doom, my biggest fear would STILL have been getting stung on the way down.
Look, I know I'm not the most macho guy alive, right? I don't hunt or fish or ultimate fight or what-have-you. But I at least strive to be a step above full-fledged weenie status. Any success towards that goal, though, goes out the window if a bee comes in the window. When that happens, you might as well put me in a bonnet and call me Nancy, because I become a Super-Sissy.
In a way, I have full rights to act like a fool when a bee's near. I'm allergic to the things. If I DO get stung, you'd better have directions to the nearest hospital, because I poof out like the Pillsbury Dough-Shane. When I was a kid, I stepped on a bumblebee nest and got stung 3 times before my dad could grab me and run me indoors. Five minutes later, I was gasping for air and en route to the hospital.
So bees are not my friends. I'm in full favor of eliminating them from the world altogether. When the news broke in our paper this spring that bee populations were mysteriously declining across the U.S., I did a happy dance. Let them all die, I say. Who cares if they pollinate the flowers. Let the flowers die, too. It's a small sacrifice towards the noble goal of bee genocide, I say.
Actually, I'd probably be okay with the elimination of most all insect-things altogether. Not that I'm scared of other insects, it's just that other insects frequently put on amazing bee impressions. I've been known to run away from houseflies if they buzz by in a bee-ish manner.
Truth be told, I had NO idea what to write this week's column on until I was standing in the shower this morning. That's when I was greeted by a visitor: a moth flew directly into the shower. But this was no ordinary moth. No, this was Mothra himself. How this pterodactyl of an insect managed its way inside my apartment is beyond me, but obviously it was carnivorous, vorpal, and quite possibly rabid.
So there I was -- birthday suited, face full of shampoo, armed with little more than a loofah -- having to defend my most private of private parts from a deviant moth with the wingspan of a Boeing 747. And all I could think to do was make a noise that might be spelled "Nyaaaahhh!" After several failed attempts at moth wrangling, I did what any macho man would do: I gave up and ran away.
So as I type this at work, Mothra still holds reign somewhere in my apartment. But as I see it, it's okay. Most moths have lifespans that run hours instead of years, so maybe it's dead already. Plus, as I was leaving, my elite security team (i.e. my cats) were already on the case, meowing heartily at my winged intruder. I keep the cats entertained AND they rid me of the moth -- that's 2 birds with one stone... or one moth with two cats, as it were.
In the meantime, I think I'm doing better. The other day, a bumblebee flew into my car and onto my shirt and I just flicked it off. Of course, I thought it was a leaf at the time, and when I realized I had just touched a bumblebee with my bare hand, I may have had a slight aneurysm. But I'm pretty sure it was a macho aneurysm.
"Here?" I asked. We were quite literally in the middle of nowhere, driving on a gravel lane in the hills around the Apple River. The road didn't have ditches so much as canyons, and there really wasn't any place to pull off. Suffice to say, it was not your ideal rest stop locale. "You sure?"
"Yeah, here. Stop the car."
So I did. My friend suffers from occasional back problems, so when he needs to stretch his legs, it's usually not a debateable issue. I pulled over as best I could and stopped the car.
"Let's get out for a second," Jason said.
"Umm, ok," I replied. I mean, I was still on a photography kick from my new camera. Maybe Jason had spotted a good photo op or something. I grabbed the camera and stepped out of the car.
"Okay, don't panic," Jason said. "Stay out there. I just need to get a bee out of the car."
My friends know me too well.
"Sorry, man," he said after shoo-ing the tiny honeybee out of the car. "I didn't mean to lie to you. I just value my life is all."
See, Jason knows my deep, dark secret: I'm TERRIFIED of bees. Irrational, act-like-a-ninny terrified of bees. And he was right, if I had happened to have glanced in the mirror and seen that bee buzzing around my back seat, I probably would have driven us right off a cliff. And, while plummeting in a vertical freefall to our certain doom, my biggest fear would STILL have been getting stung on the way down.
Look, I know I'm not the most macho guy alive, right? I don't hunt or fish or ultimate fight or what-have-you. But I at least strive to be a step above full-fledged weenie status. Any success towards that goal, though, goes out the window if a bee comes in the window. When that happens, you might as well put me in a bonnet and call me Nancy, because I become a Super-Sissy.
In a way, I have full rights to act like a fool when a bee's near. I'm allergic to the things. If I DO get stung, you'd better have directions to the nearest hospital, because I poof out like the Pillsbury Dough-Shane. When I was a kid, I stepped on a bumblebee nest and got stung 3 times before my dad could grab me and run me indoors. Five minutes later, I was gasping for air and en route to the hospital.
So bees are not my friends. I'm in full favor of eliminating them from the world altogether. When the news broke in our paper this spring that bee populations were mysteriously declining across the U.S., I did a happy dance. Let them all die, I say. Who cares if they pollinate the flowers. Let the flowers die, too. It's a small sacrifice towards the noble goal of bee genocide, I say.
Actually, I'd probably be okay with the elimination of most all insect-things altogether. Not that I'm scared of other insects, it's just that other insects frequently put on amazing bee impressions. I've been known to run away from houseflies if they buzz by in a bee-ish manner.
Truth be told, I had NO idea what to write this week's column on until I was standing in the shower this morning. That's when I was greeted by a visitor: a moth flew directly into the shower. But this was no ordinary moth. No, this was Mothra himself. How this pterodactyl of an insect managed its way inside my apartment is beyond me, but obviously it was carnivorous, vorpal, and quite possibly rabid.
So there I was -- birthday suited, face full of shampoo, armed with little more than a loofah -- having to defend my most private of private parts from a deviant moth with the wingspan of a Boeing 747. And all I could think to do was make a noise that might be spelled "Nyaaaahhh!" After several failed attempts at moth wrangling, I did what any macho man would do: I gave up and ran away.
So as I type this at work, Mothra still holds reign somewhere in my apartment. But as I see it, it's okay. Most moths have lifespans that run hours instead of years, so maybe it's dead already. Plus, as I was leaving, my elite security team (i.e. my cats) were already on the case, meowing heartily at my winged intruder. I keep the cats entertained AND they rid me of the moth -- that's 2 birds with one stone... or one moth with two cats, as it were.
In the meantime, I think I'm doing better. The other day, a bumblebee flew into my car and onto my shirt and I just flicked it off. Of course, I thought it was a leaf at the time, and when I realized I had just touched a bumblebee with my bare hand, I may have had a slight aneurysm. But I'm pretty sure it was a macho aneurysm.
COLUMN: Cellular
So last week, I wrote a column about my chosen hobby career as a weekend club DJ. Namely, I provided some rules of thumb to follow when approaching the DJ booth to make a request. You, the club-going consumer, wants to hear a song. Me, the club-dwelling DJ, will most likely play it for you, if (a) it's a good song, and (b) you're not interrupting me in the middle of important DJ stuff like cueing up a song, beat mixing, or scoring phone numbers off cute girls.
Well, it turns out that, silly me, I left one important rule of thumb out of last week's column:
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SET A FULL DRINK ON AN IMAGINARY SHELF IN THE DJ BOOTH, CAUSING YOUR MARGARITA TO POUR OVER THE MIXING BOARD, A BOOK OF CD'S, THE DJ'S CELL PHONE, AND THE DJ's SHOE.
My omission of this rule was kindly pointed out by a girl at the bar this past Saturday, who showed me the err of my ways by -- you guessed it -- attempting to set a full drink on an imaginary shelf in my booth, causing her margarita to pour over the club's mixer, a book of my CD's, my cell phone, and my right shoe. In that order.
Happily, the equipment wasn't too badly damaged. That's because, in a last-ditch kamikaze act of bravery and discipline, my equipment was protected by my cell phone, which jumped into the line of fire and took the blunt force of the tasty beverage head on. It died instantly.
Well, if only it had died instantly. Instead, it kept trying in its death throes to turn on. The happy little Verizon logo would come on, then static, then a bright orange light that refused to shut off. Being an acclaimed master of every nervous habit imaginable, I have stubs for fingernails. So imagine, if you will, neurotic ol' me in the DJ booth, trying to mop up a spill, clean out a mixer, DJ to a packed dancefloor, air out my shoe, and get my non-existent fingernails under the dealy to pop out the phone battery... all at the same time. It was a losing battle, and my cell phone was the innocent victim.
I hoped in desperation that it just needed to dry out... but by the next morning, the flashing words "SERVICE REQUIRED" had sealed the deal. My contact list? Gone. Videos? Pics? Ringtones? Gone. My phone was dead; long live my phone.
Even worse was the discovery the next day that my phone was an outdated model no longer being sold. Not only was I phone-less, I now needed to start over from scratch.
There's hardly anything more evil than a cell phone store. You walk in to signs and banners proclaiming insanely cheap rates, unlimited reception, and an awe-inspiring Network, whatever that's supposed to mean.
What you REALLY discover inside the store is that your phone, and your entire knowledge base of communications, is woefully inadequate. New models of cell phones, each proclaiming some exciting new technological advance, come out roughly every 8.5 minutes, ensuring that whatever phone you buy will be outmoded, obsolete, and irrelevant by the time you get it home.
This is why I'm the proud new owner of a Palm Treo.
Phones are for sissy boys. I now have a pocket telecommunications empire. It's not a phone -- it's a day planner, word processor, broadband modem, web browser, mp3 player, camera, and e-mail hub that also incidentally allows you to make phone calls as an afterthought. I'm just not sure exactly HOW yet.
When I got the thing home, I was excited to see a complimentary phone book included at no extra charge -- until I realized it's not a phone book, it's the INSTRUCTION MANUAL.
But I don't care. I am at the top of my electronic game. I sit at the forefront of technological empowerment. Now I can schedule important appointments with... umm... my cats. Now I can surf the net and write my columns on-the-go. If only I ever went anywhere. Or had waif-like pixie hands, which appear to be the only things small enough to effectively work the World's Smallest Keyboard.
So what if it gives me carpal tunnel and probably emits enough radiation to cook an egg? So what if it has a million features that I guarantee I'll never use? IT PLAYS SOLITAIRE. How cool is THAT? And yes, the monthly charges are so much that I'll soon be evicted and impoverished, sure. But hey, I'll be able to track my descent into bankruptcy with its handy mobile Excel spreadsheet, and with the onboard GPS, it can direct me to the cardboard box of my choice where I can live out my glory days playing Tetris and annoying my friends with endless streams of text messages.
Now if it can just buy me a new right shoe, I'll be a happy guy.
Well, it turns out that, silly me, I left one important rule of thumb out of last week's column:
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SET A FULL DRINK ON AN IMAGINARY SHELF IN THE DJ BOOTH, CAUSING YOUR MARGARITA TO POUR OVER THE MIXING BOARD, A BOOK OF CD'S, THE DJ'S CELL PHONE, AND THE DJ's SHOE.
My omission of this rule was kindly pointed out by a girl at the bar this past Saturday, who showed me the err of my ways by -- you guessed it -- attempting to set a full drink on an imaginary shelf in my booth, causing her margarita to pour over the club's mixer, a book of my CD's, my cell phone, and my right shoe. In that order.
Happily, the equipment wasn't too badly damaged. That's because, in a last-ditch kamikaze act of bravery and discipline, my equipment was protected by my cell phone, which jumped into the line of fire and took the blunt force of the tasty beverage head on. It died instantly.
Well, if only it had died instantly. Instead, it kept trying in its death throes to turn on. The happy little Verizon logo would come on, then static, then a bright orange light that refused to shut off. Being an acclaimed master of every nervous habit imaginable, I have stubs for fingernails. So imagine, if you will, neurotic ol' me in the DJ booth, trying to mop up a spill, clean out a mixer, DJ to a packed dancefloor, air out my shoe, and get my non-existent fingernails under the dealy to pop out the phone battery... all at the same time. It was a losing battle, and my cell phone was the innocent victim.
I hoped in desperation that it just needed to dry out... but by the next morning, the flashing words "SERVICE REQUIRED" had sealed the deal. My contact list? Gone. Videos? Pics? Ringtones? Gone. My phone was dead; long live my phone.
Even worse was the discovery the next day that my phone was an outdated model no longer being sold. Not only was I phone-less, I now needed to start over from scratch.
There's hardly anything more evil than a cell phone store. You walk in to signs and banners proclaiming insanely cheap rates, unlimited reception, and an awe-inspiring Network, whatever that's supposed to mean.
What you REALLY discover inside the store is that your phone, and your entire knowledge base of communications, is woefully inadequate. New models of cell phones, each proclaiming some exciting new technological advance, come out roughly every 8.5 minutes, ensuring that whatever phone you buy will be outmoded, obsolete, and irrelevant by the time you get it home.
This is why I'm the proud new owner of a Palm Treo.
Phones are for sissy boys. I now have a pocket telecommunications empire. It's not a phone -- it's a day planner, word processor, broadband modem, web browser, mp3 player, camera, and e-mail hub that also incidentally allows you to make phone calls as an afterthought. I'm just not sure exactly HOW yet.
When I got the thing home, I was excited to see a complimentary phone book included at no extra charge -- until I realized it's not a phone book, it's the INSTRUCTION MANUAL.
But I don't care. I am at the top of my electronic game. I sit at the forefront of technological empowerment. Now I can schedule important appointments with... umm... my cats. Now I can surf the net and write my columns on-the-go. If only I ever went anywhere. Or had waif-like pixie hands, which appear to be the only things small enough to effectively work the World's Smallest Keyboard.
So what if it gives me carpal tunnel and probably emits enough radiation to cook an egg? So what if it has a million features that I guarantee I'll never use? IT PLAYS SOLITAIRE. How cool is THAT? And yes, the monthly charges are so much that I'll soon be evicted and impoverished, sure. But hey, I'll be able to track my descent into bankruptcy with its handy mobile Excel spreadsheet, and with the onboard GPS, it can direct me to the cardboard box of my choice where I can live out my glory days playing Tetris and annoying my friends with endless streams of text messages.
Now if it can just buy me a new right shoe, I'll be a happy guy.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Attention "Serious" QC Bloggers
Okay, I've got a beef.
But it's something I can't write about in the papers, because it'll seem as though I'm entirely biased and a party with a vested interest. So let me air my beef, and if one of you politically-minded bloggers wants to take it from there, that'd be pretty sweet.
See, my beef involves the District of Rock Island. Now, most of you guys know that I DJ at the club 2nd Ave. down in the District, which is why this entire argument might sound like all I'm trying to do is advance the image of MY club at the expense of the others down there. That's not the case, but it's your call whether or not to believe me. But I think I have a valid beef here:
This weekend, a lot of the clubs down in the District united together to put on an outdoor concert. This event did NOT include the clubs I'm affiliated with, 2nd Ave. or the Rock Island Brewing Co. (who have the same owners.)
Having been a member of the RIBCO/2nd Ave. team for several years, I've seen my share of street fests down there. On many Saturdays, we put on shows outside. And time and again, we bend over backwards to ensure that our outdoor events are held within the letter of the law. To wit:
(1) That the sound levels do not pollute to the point of illegality. I believe -- I could be mistaken, but I'm almost positive -- that the max volume allowed by Rock Island law is 95 decibels directly in front of the stage. This is done to ensure that we have fun but don't keep the entire town awake with the music outside. RIBCO owns a decibel meter, and I've seen our crew many times take readings around the plaza to ensure that we're operating at a legal volume.
and
(2) That the artists onstage do not break open air profanity laws. I know that RIBCO instructs all of their bands to refrain from vulgarities while playing outside; sometimes it's even written into their contracts.
Well, if WE have to abide by these rules, why don't the other clubs?
Saturday night, the band Buckcherry played outside to a healthy crowd in the District... annnnnnnnnd...
(1) It was LOUD. Like, really loud. Like, I actually heard via the gossip of District employees that the sound crew hired for Saturday night's event registered 120 decibels on their meter. It was CRAZY loud. I could, in fact, hear it from my apartment, and I live over by Augie and nowhere near the District. As I was pulling up, it was rattling the windows on my car... and I was parking TWO BLOCKS AWAY. At my club, one block away from the show, you couldn't hold a conversation with someone while standing directly outside our door.
(2) The show was FILLED with profanity. The band took to the stage yelling the F-word. I must have heard the F-word 30+ times in a half hour. The band's big hit single alone says it at least 10 times. The opening band covered Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name Of," which drops the F-bomb repeatedly at the end of the song.
Now, I am no fuddy-duddy, and anyone who knows me knows that I'm capable of and likely to drop the F-bomb myself. And the thought of me complaining about somebody cursing makes me laugh uncomfortably. But I can't deny that there are FAMILIES who live in the District. Families with kids who shouldn't be exposed to non-stop overly amplified swearing. It's the same reason why I watch the lyrical content of the stuff I DJ during festivals where kids might be present.
Yet the show went off without any apparant hitches. So what gives, City of Rock Island? I heard nothing about anyone getting cited for profanity or noise pollution.
I swear to you that I'm not just bitching because it wasn't MY club's festival. In fact, the gig this weekend didn't hurt us one bit; 2nd Ave. was jumping like any other night. And ANY attempts to showcase the District as a great place to come and have fun are welcome in my book.
But for our clubs to go out of their way to abide by Rock Island law while providing a fun night out, shouldn't the other downtown clubs be held subject to the same rules?
But it's something I can't write about in the papers, because it'll seem as though I'm entirely biased and a party with a vested interest. So let me air my beef, and if one of you politically-minded bloggers wants to take it from there, that'd be pretty sweet.
See, my beef involves the District of Rock Island. Now, most of you guys know that I DJ at the club 2nd Ave. down in the District, which is why this entire argument might sound like all I'm trying to do is advance the image of MY club at the expense of the others down there. That's not the case, but it's your call whether or not to believe me. But I think I have a valid beef here:
This weekend, a lot of the clubs down in the District united together to put on an outdoor concert. This event did NOT include the clubs I'm affiliated with, 2nd Ave. or the Rock Island Brewing Co. (who have the same owners.)
Having been a member of the RIBCO/2nd Ave. team for several years, I've seen my share of street fests down there. On many Saturdays, we put on shows outside. And time and again, we bend over backwards to ensure that our outdoor events are held within the letter of the law. To wit:
(1) That the sound levels do not pollute to the point of illegality. I believe -- I could be mistaken, but I'm almost positive -- that the max volume allowed by Rock Island law is 95 decibels directly in front of the stage. This is done to ensure that we have fun but don't keep the entire town awake with the music outside. RIBCO owns a decibel meter, and I've seen our crew many times take readings around the plaza to ensure that we're operating at a legal volume.
and
(2) That the artists onstage do not break open air profanity laws. I know that RIBCO instructs all of their bands to refrain from vulgarities while playing outside; sometimes it's even written into their contracts.
Well, if WE have to abide by these rules, why don't the other clubs?
Saturday night, the band Buckcherry played outside to a healthy crowd in the District... annnnnnnnnd...
(1) It was LOUD. Like, really loud. Like, I actually heard via the gossip of District employees that the sound crew hired for Saturday night's event registered 120 decibels on their meter. It was CRAZY loud. I could, in fact, hear it from my apartment, and I live over by Augie and nowhere near the District. As I was pulling up, it was rattling the windows on my car... and I was parking TWO BLOCKS AWAY. At my club, one block away from the show, you couldn't hold a conversation with someone while standing directly outside our door.
(2) The show was FILLED with profanity. The band took to the stage yelling the F-word. I must have heard the F-word 30+ times in a half hour. The band's big hit single alone says it at least 10 times. The opening band covered Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name Of," which drops the F-bomb repeatedly at the end of the song.
Now, I am no fuddy-duddy, and anyone who knows me knows that I'm capable of and likely to drop the F-bomb myself. And the thought of me complaining about somebody cursing makes me laugh uncomfortably. But I can't deny that there are FAMILIES who live in the District. Families with kids who shouldn't be exposed to non-stop overly amplified swearing. It's the same reason why I watch the lyrical content of the stuff I DJ during festivals where kids might be present.
Yet the show went off without any apparant hitches. So what gives, City of Rock Island? I heard nothing about anyone getting cited for profanity or noise pollution.
I swear to you that I'm not just bitching because it wasn't MY club's festival. In fact, the gig this weekend didn't hurt us one bit; 2nd Ave. was jumping like any other night. And ANY attempts to showcase the District as a great place to come and have fun are welcome in my book.
But for our clubs to go out of their way to abide by Rock Island law while providing a fun night out, shouldn't the other downtown clubs be held subject to the same rules?
Friday, June 15, 2007
COLUMN: Etiquette
Last Saturday, I woke up on the wrong side of life.
The cats came in meowing. I hated their stupid meows. The sun was beaming in through the windows. I hated the stupid sun. Then the sun went away and turned to rain and I decided to hate the rain, too. I turned on the TV. I hated the stupid remote control, the stupid TV, AND the stupid TV show all at the same time.
It was, as they say, a bad day. No reason whatsoever. Just a bad day.
The kind of day to maybe lose yourself in a book. To shut the doors, leave the phone unanswered, pretend you're not home, and wait for the funk to pass. A day to while away by yourself, and to avoid all humanity lest you have to actually interact with it.
The kind of day you CERTAINLY don't want to spend DJ'ing at a packed dance club.
DJ'ing is a hobby and a passion. I don't do it to get rich. Every penny I make at my DJ gig goes right back into music and equipment to do it better the next weekend. It's all about the rush. The moment when you mix into the right song -- at the right moment -- and the crowd goes wild. Talk about a God complex all you want, but in that moment, I am the dancefloor savior, and when the crowd screams, it's the ultimate hobby payoff. Some people collect stamps; I mix records.
Still, it's no fun when you're in an unexplainably cranky mood and it seems like everyone in attendance is there to methodically step on your every last nerve. That's why I decided, standing in that DJ booth at approximately 1:35 a.m. on that Saturday night/Sunday morn, to use my column this week for an education in DJ request etiquette.
• Do not poke the DJ. When the DJ stands in the booth with headphones clearly on and hands clearly doing important DJ-related activities at the mixer, the DJ is busy. Poking the DJ in the leg, arm, or elsewhere will NOT speed up the process. The DJ does not want to chat. He is busy bringing sexy back. Unless you're a cute girl, in which case the DJ will likely figure out a way to make time for you. Still, spare us the poking. We see you there, we're just a tad busy.
• The DJ takes requests. He just might not play 'em. The DJ is there to put as many people on the dancefloor as possible. If the booties do not shake, the DJ does not have a job for long. So it depends on your request. If it's a good song that'll pack a floor, it'll probably happen.
• "Will you play my song NEXT?" Hmm. Let me think. Umm, no. You might think of a club DJ as a guy who gets paid to sit and push "PLAY" all night long. That's not far from the truth, but there really IS science involved. As a DJ, you're constantly building sets, increasing tempos, and strategizing out your dancefloor. At any given time, I've got the next 6-7 songs already in place and ready to go.
• "Hi. It's my birthday/bachelorette party/anniversary/my people's religious and-or cultural holiday, so you need to play [insert the world's most obscure song here.]" Happy birthday, wedding, anniversary, Kwanzaa, etc. I am truly honored that you've chosen to spend it at my club. However, if I play your lame request, everyone will leave. Then so will you, 'coz nobody likes an empty club. Especially the DJ.
• "Will you let me say something into the microphone?" Not if hell freezes while pigs fly. Not even if you walked in with a letter of recommendation from Casey Kasem. Heck, not even if you walked in WITH Casey Kasem. Knowing my luck, if I handed you the microphone, even the most innocent of clubgoer would use that precise moment to utter some woofer-blowing lupine howl and/or racial epithet.
• "Hi, I'm a guy, and..." Next.
• "No, seriously, I brought this CD I burned, it's me and my boy freestyling over the theme from 'Knight Rider,' and if you bump it, it'll be off the chain fo real!" Go away.
• "Me and my friends are leaving, so can you play our song soon so we can split?" Yes, yes, of course. Let me expedite your departure from my club. Because it would sure be awful if you were forced to stick around, buy another drink, support our club, and spend time on my dancefloor. Especially if you and/or your friends are cute girls. Boy, I sure hate that.
• Interpreting Request Responses: If a DJ says, "Let me see what I can do," this is DJ for "No." If a DJ says to you, "Ooh, let me see if I brought that song," this is DJ for "I definitely didn't bring that song."
I'm kidding (mostly). But you get the point. I swear I'm not as jaded and ungrateful as I sound. There's a reason I sacrifice my weekends for the heart and soul of the dancefloor. I love it, and I love and appreciate everybody who comes out on the weekends to support us. Well, except that dude who threatened to kill me when I wouldn't play bagpipe music for him on St. Patty's Day. I hate that dude, seriously. Everyone else has my love... even when I wake up on the wrong side of the bed.
The cats came in meowing. I hated their stupid meows. The sun was beaming in through the windows. I hated the stupid sun. Then the sun went away and turned to rain and I decided to hate the rain, too. I turned on the TV. I hated the stupid remote control, the stupid TV, AND the stupid TV show all at the same time.
It was, as they say, a bad day. No reason whatsoever. Just a bad day.
The kind of day to maybe lose yourself in a book. To shut the doors, leave the phone unanswered, pretend you're not home, and wait for the funk to pass. A day to while away by yourself, and to avoid all humanity lest you have to actually interact with it.
The kind of day you CERTAINLY don't want to spend DJ'ing at a packed dance club.
DJ'ing is a hobby and a passion. I don't do it to get rich. Every penny I make at my DJ gig goes right back into music and equipment to do it better the next weekend. It's all about the rush. The moment when you mix into the right song -- at the right moment -- and the crowd goes wild. Talk about a God complex all you want, but in that moment, I am the dancefloor savior, and when the crowd screams, it's the ultimate hobby payoff. Some people collect stamps; I mix records.
Still, it's no fun when you're in an unexplainably cranky mood and it seems like everyone in attendance is there to methodically step on your every last nerve. That's why I decided, standing in that DJ booth at approximately 1:35 a.m. on that Saturday night/Sunday morn, to use my column this week for an education in DJ request etiquette.
• Do not poke the DJ. When the DJ stands in the booth with headphones clearly on and hands clearly doing important DJ-related activities at the mixer, the DJ is busy. Poking the DJ in the leg, arm, or elsewhere will NOT speed up the process. The DJ does not want to chat. He is busy bringing sexy back. Unless you're a cute girl, in which case the DJ will likely figure out a way to make time for you. Still, spare us the poking. We see you there, we're just a tad busy.
• The DJ takes requests. He just might not play 'em. The DJ is there to put as many people on the dancefloor as possible. If the booties do not shake, the DJ does not have a job for long. So it depends on your request. If it's a good song that'll pack a floor, it'll probably happen.
• "Will you play my song NEXT?" Hmm. Let me think. Umm, no. You might think of a club DJ as a guy who gets paid to sit and push "PLAY" all night long. That's not far from the truth, but there really IS science involved. As a DJ, you're constantly building sets, increasing tempos, and strategizing out your dancefloor. At any given time, I've got the next 6-7 songs already in place and ready to go.
• "Hi. It's my birthday/bachelorette party/anniversary/my people's religious and-or cultural holiday, so you need to play [insert the world's most obscure song here.]" Happy birthday, wedding, anniversary, Kwanzaa, etc. I am truly honored that you've chosen to spend it at my club. However, if I play your lame request, everyone will leave. Then so will you, 'coz nobody likes an empty club. Especially the DJ.
• "Will you let me say something into the microphone?" Not if hell freezes while pigs fly. Not even if you walked in with a letter of recommendation from Casey Kasem. Heck, not even if you walked in WITH Casey Kasem. Knowing my luck, if I handed you the microphone, even the most innocent of clubgoer would use that precise moment to utter some woofer-blowing lupine howl and/or racial epithet.
• "Hi, I'm a guy, and..." Next.
• "No, seriously, I brought this CD I burned, it's me and my boy freestyling over the theme from 'Knight Rider,' and if you bump it, it'll be off the chain fo real!" Go away.
• "Me and my friends are leaving, so can you play our song soon so we can split?" Yes, yes, of course. Let me expedite your departure from my club. Because it would sure be awful if you were forced to stick around, buy another drink, support our club, and spend time on my dancefloor. Especially if you and/or your friends are cute girls. Boy, I sure hate that.
• Interpreting Request Responses: If a DJ says, "Let me see what I can do," this is DJ for "No." If a DJ says to you, "Ooh, let me see if I brought that song," this is DJ for "I definitely didn't bring that song."
I'm kidding (mostly). But you get the point. I swear I'm not as jaded and ungrateful as I sound. There's a reason I sacrifice my weekends for the heart and soul of the dancefloor. I love it, and I love and appreciate everybody who comes out on the weekends to support us. Well, except that dude who threatened to kill me when I wouldn't play bagpipe music for him on St. Patty's Day. I hate that dude, seriously. Everyone else has my love... even when I wake up on the wrong side of the bed.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Sopranos Finale
Okay, I've been yelled at before for talking about TV shows without giving an official
SPOILER WARNING
so if you still haven't watched the last episode of the Sopranos, stop reading.
That said, HOW FREAKING BRILLIANT WAS THAT ENDING?
I havent been to any of the message boards yet, but something tells me they're completely off-the-chain with upset, irate fans wanting a concrete ending to the show.
Instead, I'm SO happy at the ending, and I'm not even that much of a fan of the show, really.
David Chase has spent most of the past decade building Tony into this near-mythological hero. A seriously flawed hero, sure, but still a guy who you bizarrely want to root for.
So what better end than to let his myth live on however his fans want to imagine it? To just *BOOM* stop the show cold turkey like that with no resolution? Genius.
Were the people in the restaurant loyalists to the late Phil who were there to off the whole Sopranos clan? Or were they cops there to finally hand down indictments and arrest Tony? Did Paulie turn sides and rat out his boss? (You gotta admit, those were some troubling looks he was giving at the end of every one of his scenes.) Will Sil pull through? Or did we just watch another Sopranos family dinner that went on without incident?
YOU get to make that call. Does the Sopranos end as a tragedy? Or as hope that the family lives on and prospers, problems and all?
It can be WHATEVER YOU WANT IT TO BE. And the legend of Tony Soprano can carry on however you want it to.
A BRILLIANT move on Chase's part. RIP Sopranos the Show, but maybe not the family?
(I DO want somebody to explain to me the symbolism of the cat, though. What was the deal with the cat & Christopher's pic?)
SPOILER WARNING
so if you still haven't watched the last episode of the Sopranos, stop reading.
That said, HOW FREAKING BRILLIANT WAS THAT ENDING?
I havent been to any of the message boards yet, but something tells me they're completely off-the-chain with upset, irate fans wanting a concrete ending to the show.
Instead, I'm SO happy at the ending, and I'm not even that much of a fan of the show, really.
David Chase has spent most of the past decade building Tony into this near-mythological hero. A seriously flawed hero, sure, but still a guy who you bizarrely want to root for.
So what better end than to let his myth live on however his fans want to imagine it? To just *BOOM* stop the show cold turkey like that with no resolution? Genius.
Were the people in the restaurant loyalists to the late Phil who were there to off the whole Sopranos clan? Or were they cops there to finally hand down indictments and arrest Tony? Did Paulie turn sides and rat out his boss? (You gotta admit, those were some troubling looks he was giving at the end of every one of his scenes.) Will Sil pull through? Or did we just watch another Sopranos family dinner that went on without incident?
YOU get to make that call. Does the Sopranos end as a tragedy? Or as hope that the family lives on and prospers, problems and all?
It can be WHATEVER YOU WANT IT TO BE. And the legend of Tony Soprano can carry on however you want it to.
A BRILLIANT move on Chase's part. RIP Sopranos the Show, but maybe not the family?
(I DO want somebody to explain to me the symbolism of the cat, though. What was the deal with the cat & Christopher's pic?)
Thursday, June 07, 2007
SPECIAL MID-WEEK COLUMN: Tornado
What is it that makes a catastrophe so perversely alluring? I mean, there must be a reason why crowds of onlookers gather at every house fire. Why TV shows with absurd titles like "World's Deadliest Animal Attacks" manage to attract viewers. Heck, why NASCAR even exists ("the thrill of competition," my fanny. Most of you are there to watch wrecks and you know it.)
I'm not immune to it, either. When the big flood of '93 broke, the news told us all to stay away. That served as the cue for me and my friends to pile in a car and go gawk at the chaos. In fact, we were the last car to cross Arsenal Island before it was closed for safety. We could have been swept away in that current, but we didn't care. We were high-fiving each other, living in the moment.
So when the news broke that a tornado had worked its way through Louisa & Muscatine counties, my friend and I decided to head out on Saturday to see the damage for ourselves. Besides, what better way to break in the new camera I'd just bought? Maybe I could get some good snapshots of upside-down cars or something. Little did I know we were en route to a life lesson.
We headed into Muscatine on Highway 22 and eagerly drove up to the lookout point by the bridge to Illinois. It looked like... well, downtown Muscatine. Seemingly unscathed. No upside-down cars, no paths of destruction. I'm ashamed to say we thought it was a let-down. Little did we know other parts of Muscatine were in tatters. We started driving south on back roads in search of Fruitland, the town that received the most damage.
I'm happy now that we didn't find it. Instead we got lost and sidetracked on a nice afternoon country drive. That's when we rounded the bend and stumbled into Grandview, IA.
The first thing you see when you drive into Grandview is an old farm school. Well, it SHOULD have been the first thing you see. Instead, we saw a brush pile almost three stories high in the school's parking lot. I didn't even have time to issue a token "what the...?" before we rounded the bend and saw the rest of town.
Well, what was left of it, anyways. This was the town that received the least amount of damage from the tornado. Coulda fooled me. It still looked like a bomb had gone off. I thought it would be exciting to see the aftermath of a tornado. I just never expected it to be so... real. A pile of rubble isn't so cool when you see the family who once lived in that pile, sifting through the remains for whatever possessions they could salvage. I was an idiot to think this would be some kind of pleasure sight-seeing expedition.
You could easily see the tornado's path through town. House on the left? Perfectly fine. House on the right? Rubble. In-between the destroyed homes was a clear trail of downed power lines, uprooted trees, and a stream of debris that I'm guessing stretches to Fruitland and beyond.
We drove by a house that looked like any other split-level home you've ever seen. Oh, except it was missing a roof. It wasn't like the roof had collapsed in on the house, or was lying near the house. It was just GONE, swept to Oz. In their lawn lay two mighty trees that once graced the front yard. Both had been plucked right out of the ground, roots and all, as if props in a model train set. Through the shattered windows, you could still see family photos hanging on the walls.
It was stomach-turning, heart-breaking, and mind-numbing all at once. It looked like a war zone. I didn't have the urge to gawk. I didn't have the urge to whip out my camera and start capturing it all on film. In fact, I didn't even think about the stupid camera. All I thought about was helping these people. This wasn't a tragedy worth remembering; it was a horror worth forgetting.
But therein lies the silver lining. In a tragedy, there's a doomed character destined to fail, you feel super sad, and then it's just over. In a horror, there's a bad guy, sure, but then you know what? They usually have happy endings. Jaws, Jason, Freddy... they all lose in the end. So, too, will this tornado.
In the chaos of Grandview was hope. Already trash was being hauled away, brush was being gathered. The Red Cross and Iowa Disaster Relief were already on hand, setting up tents with water and essentials for one and all. Neighbors whose homes were spared were in the yards of those less fortunate, lending hands of strength and support. As we navigated through the town, you could still hear children playing. You still saw people smiling through their tears. Grandview will recover. Fruitland will recover. Muscatine will recover. And we can help.
Today I called my friend Jamie Lange at the American Red Cross and donated my pay from this month's newspaper columns to the relief fund they've set up for the victims of Friday's tornado. I strongly urge you to give what you can. You can donate to the Red Cross by calling 1-800-HELP-NOW. You can even volunteer to lend a hand in the clean-up by calling 1-888-252-0260.
Iowa 1; Tornado 0. No need for a rematch.
I'm not immune to it, either. When the big flood of '93 broke, the news told us all to stay away. That served as the cue for me and my friends to pile in a car and go gawk at the chaos. In fact, we were the last car to cross Arsenal Island before it was closed for safety. We could have been swept away in that current, but we didn't care. We were high-fiving each other, living in the moment.
So when the news broke that a tornado had worked its way through Louisa & Muscatine counties, my friend and I decided to head out on Saturday to see the damage for ourselves. Besides, what better way to break in the new camera I'd just bought? Maybe I could get some good snapshots of upside-down cars or something. Little did I know we were en route to a life lesson.
We headed into Muscatine on Highway 22 and eagerly drove up to the lookout point by the bridge to Illinois. It looked like... well, downtown Muscatine. Seemingly unscathed. No upside-down cars, no paths of destruction. I'm ashamed to say we thought it was a let-down. Little did we know other parts of Muscatine were in tatters. We started driving south on back roads in search of Fruitland, the town that received the most damage.
I'm happy now that we didn't find it. Instead we got lost and sidetracked on a nice afternoon country drive. That's when we rounded the bend and stumbled into Grandview, IA.
The first thing you see when you drive into Grandview is an old farm school. Well, it SHOULD have been the first thing you see. Instead, we saw a brush pile almost three stories high in the school's parking lot. I didn't even have time to issue a token "what the...?" before we rounded the bend and saw the rest of town.
Well, what was left of it, anyways. This was the town that received the least amount of damage from the tornado. Coulda fooled me. It still looked like a bomb had gone off. I thought it would be exciting to see the aftermath of a tornado. I just never expected it to be so... real. A pile of rubble isn't so cool when you see the family who once lived in that pile, sifting through the remains for whatever possessions they could salvage. I was an idiot to think this would be some kind of pleasure sight-seeing expedition.
You could easily see the tornado's path through town. House on the left? Perfectly fine. House on the right? Rubble. In-between the destroyed homes was a clear trail of downed power lines, uprooted trees, and a stream of debris that I'm guessing stretches to Fruitland and beyond.
We drove by a house that looked like any other split-level home you've ever seen. Oh, except it was missing a roof. It wasn't like the roof had collapsed in on the house, or was lying near the house. It was just GONE, swept to Oz. In their lawn lay two mighty trees that once graced the front yard. Both had been plucked right out of the ground, roots and all, as if props in a model train set. Through the shattered windows, you could still see family photos hanging on the walls.
It was stomach-turning, heart-breaking, and mind-numbing all at once. It looked like a war zone. I didn't have the urge to gawk. I didn't have the urge to whip out my camera and start capturing it all on film. In fact, I didn't even think about the stupid camera. All I thought about was helping these people. This wasn't a tragedy worth remembering; it was a horror worth forgetting.
But therein lies the silver lining. In a tragedy, there's a doomed character destined to fail, you feel super sad, and then it's just over. In a horror, there's a bad guy, sure, but then you know what? They usually have happy endings. Jaws, Jason, Freddy... they all lose in the end. So, too, will this tornado.
In the chaos of Grandview was hope. Already trash was being hauled away, brush was being gathered. The Red Cross and Iowa Disaster Relief were already on hand, setting up tents with water and essentials for one and all. Neighbors whose homes were spared were in the yards of those less fortunate, lending hands of strength and support. As we navigated through the town, you could still hear children playing. You still saw people smiling through their tears. Grandview will recover. Fruitland will recover. Muscatine will recover. And we can help.
Today I called my friend Jamie Lange at the American Red Cross and donated my pay from this month's newspaper columns to the relief fund they've set up for the victims of Friday's tornado. I strongly urge you to give what you can. You can donate to the Red Cross by calling 1-800-HELP-NOW. You can even volunteer to lend a hand in the clean-up by calling 1-888-252-0260.
Iowa 1; Tornado 0. No need for a rematch.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
COLUMN: Graffiti
I love controversy. Well, at least the kind that doesn't directly involve me. But the best controversies that occur are the ones that are, at their core, completely pointless. I'm blessed to have an occupation that offers me a ringside seat to some of these scenarios.
It goes something like this: The media finds a hotbed topic. The media reports on said hotbed topic. Comments pour into the newspaper's message boards from people spitting such vitriolic nonsense that you'd think their entire lives were riding on the outcome. And then, if we're especially lucky, knee-jerk reaction editorials start appearing. Next thing you know, we're in a full-on state of higgeldy-piggeldy. And I just get to sit there in amazement and shake my head at the whole spectacle. Hey, there's worse ways to spend time.
A couple weeks ago, we ran a story that the city of Davenport, having shelled out a million bucks to create a downtown skate park, was shocked and dismayed to discover that kids using the park had vandalized the place from one side to the other in graffiti.
Gasp. Skaters and graffiti. I know, who'd'a thunk it?
Folks, building a skate park and being shocked that kids are tagging it with graffiti is tantamount to building a drive-in movie theatre and being shocked that kids are going there to make out in their cars. Tagging walls with graffiti is as much a part of skate culture as ice cream is to cherry pie. If you're going to cater to skaters, you need to cater to the graffiti they'll produce. It is, in the grand scheme of things, no big deal.
And here's where I give credit to Davenport officials. Rather than spend thousands more taxpayer dollars to constantly police the park for graffiti (which would mean not just clean-up, but also park fencing, regulating the hours, and installing cameras,) Davenport leaders instead brought up the idea of "managed graffiti." The idea here is to basically let the kids tag away to their heart's content while monitoring and cleaning up any offensive or gang-related graffiti.
This is a smart idea. Sad, then, that some people aren't buying into it.
Last week, we ran a guest column in our papers from former Davenport mayor Phil Yerington. This column is NOT an attack on Mr. Yerington. I know he's no stranger to controversy himself, but I kinda like the guy. Agree with him or no, Mayor Yerington made for some colorful TV back in his reign during the big flood. And hey, he even made a cameo appearance as a cop in the classic low-budget movie "Whiteboyz," and heck, from an entertainment columnist's perspective, that's pretty cool.
Odd, then, that a guy willing to participate in a movie glamorizing Midwestern hip-hop culture would write a rather harsh reactionary column assailing the spread of graffiti, an integral part of hip-hop culture. The term "hip-hop," in fact, was coined to signify the unification of urban dancers, rappers, DJ's, and graffiti artists into one massive zeitgeist.
Yerington, though, doesn't appear to grasp the cultural signifigance of graffiti art. He seems to think it's vandalism, pure and simple, and shouldn't be tolerated.
I'm not saying that graffiti ISN'T vandalism. The point of this column isn't to defend breaking the law. If you tag a wall that you don't have permission to, you SHOULD be subject to the law. I'm not condoning illegal graffiti or telling you to let kids spray paint up your neighborhood.
My concern, though, is the inference in Mr. Yerington's column that most urban graffiti is little more than thinly disguised turf markings and war cries for local thugs and gang members. With all due respect to the former mayor, this is a painfully naive and short-sighted way of looking at one of the most exciting and flourishing art forms of this generation.
Sure, gangs DO use graffiti as a way of marking turf and airing beefs. Police those tags, clean them up, and punish the offenders. But most serious graffiti art isn't being made by gang members -- it's being crafted by talented kids with an artistic flair and a rebellious streak for self-expression that you simply can't teach in an art class.
If graffiti is little more than vandalism, why are there art magazines devoted to the appreciation of it? Why are graffiti art exhibits endorsed by the Smithsonian? Why are historians constantly excited by the ancient graffiti found in the ruins of Pompeii?
Whether you like it or not, graffiti will always be around, from bland tags to full wall murals that are days in the making. It's a vibrant snapshot of the urban counter-culture. Sure, some of it's bound to be offensive and unwanted -- and when that happens, we clean it up. If you hate finding graffiti in your neighborhood, why not give the kids somewhere to LEGALLY show off their talents? Give them the managed freedom of the skate park.
It goes something like this: The media finds a hotbed topic. The media reports on said hotbed topic. Comments pour into the newspaper's message boards from people spitting such vitriolic nonsense that you'd think their entire lives were riding on the outcome. And then, if we're especially lucky, knee-jerk reaction editorials start appearing. Next thing you know, we're in a full-on state of higgeldy-piggeldy. And I just get to sit there in amazement and shake my head at the whole spectacle. Hey, there's worse ways to spend time.
A couple weeks ago, we ran a story that the city of Davenport, having shelled out a million bucks to create a downtown skate park, was shocked and dismayed to discover that kids using the park had vandalized the place from one side to the other in graffiti.
Gasp. Skaters and graffiti. I know, who'd'a thunk it?
Folks, building a skate park and being shocked that kids are tagging it with graffiti is tantamount to building a drive-in movie theatre and being shocked that kids are going there to make out in their cars. Tagging walls with graffiti is as much a part of skate culture as ice cream is to cherry pie. If you're going to cater to skaters, you need to cater to the graffiti they'll produce. It is, in the grand scheme of things, no big deal.
And here's where I give credit to Davenport officials. Rather than spend thousands more taxpayer dollars to constantly police the park for graffiti (which would mean not just clean-up, but also park fencing, regulating the hours, and installing cameras,) Davenport leaders instead brought up the idea of "managed graffiti." The idea here is to basically let the kids tag away to their heart's content while monitoring and cleaning up any offensive or gang-related graffiti.
This is a smart idea. Sad, then, that some people aren't buying into it.
Last week, we ran a guest column in our papers from former Davenport mayor Phil Yerington. This column is NOT an attack on Mr. Yerington. I know he's no stranger to controversy himself, but I kinda like the guy. Agree with him or no, Mayor Yerington made for some colorful TV back in his reign during the big flood. And hey, he even made a cameo appearance as a cop in the classic low-budget movie "Whiteboyz," and heck, from an entertainment columnist's perspective, that's pretty cool.
Odd, then, that a guy willing to participate in a movie glamorizing Midwestern hip-hop culture would write a rather harsh reactionary column assailing the spread of graffiti, an integral part of hip-hop culture. The term "hip-hop," in fact, was coined to signify the unification of urban dancers, rappers, DJ's, and graffiti artists into one massive zeitgeist.
Yerington, though, doesn't appear to grasp the cultural signifigance of graffiti art. He seems to think it's vandalism, pure and simple, and shouldn't be tolerated.
I'm not saying that graffiti ISN'T vandalism. The point of this column isn't to defend breaking the law. If you tag a wall that you don't have permission to, you SHOULD be subject to the law. I'm not condoning illegal graffiti or telling you to let kids spray paint up your neighborhood.
My concern, though, is the inference in Mr. Yerington's column that most urban graffiti is little more than thinly disguised turf markings and war cries for local thugs and gang members. With all due respect to the former mayor, this is a painfully naive and short-sighted way of looking at one of the most exciting and flourishing art forms of this generation.
Sure, gangs DO use graffiti as a way of marking turf and airing beefs. Police those tags, clean them up, and punish the offenders. But most serious graffiti art isn't being made by gang members -- it's being crafted by talented kids with an artistic flair and a rebellious streak for self-expression that you simply can't teach in an art class.
If graffiti is little more than vandalism, why are there art magazines devoted to the appreciation of it? Why are graffiti art exhibits endorsed by the Smithsonian? Why are historians constantly excited by the ancient graffiti found in the ruins of Pompeii?
Whether you like it or not, graffiti will always be around, from bland tags to full wall murals that are days in the making. It's a vibrant snapshot of the urban counter-culture. Sure, some of it's bound to be offensive and unwanted -- and when that happens, we clean it up. If you hate finding graffiti in your neighborhood, why not give the kids somewhere to LEGALLY show off their talents? Give them the managed freedom of the skate park.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
COLUMN: Blog Stats
It's been my long-standing cynical belief that nearly everyone on the planet -- barring, of course, me -- is a total nutbag. Finally I have proof.
If you may have noticed in the dealy at the bottom of each week's column (I believe the proper journalistic term is "dealymajig,") I maintain an online blog in association with the column. It's nothing fancy, just a repository archive for my writing, plus a handy outlet if anything amusing happens during the week.
Well, when I first started the blog up, I hooked it up to a stat tracker program. The tracker lets me know how many visitors I receive in a given time frame, what columns get the most reads, etc., etc. Mostly I forget it's even there and only remember to check it a couple of times a year. Well, the other night I was goofing around with it and realized that it also records some other pretty interesting stuff.
No, it doesn't give me anything useful like your credit card or social security numbers, so sadly I still can't steal your identities and start life anew on some tropical island with a staff of woman-servants. But it does show some unexpected details, such as what country you're from, what kind of computer you're using, your web browser of choice, etc., etc. Oh, and one other VERY interesting thing: keyword searches.
Let's say you're doing a Web search using a popular search engine like Yahoo or Google. If you search for a particular phrase that somehow pulls up MY blog as a result, my tracker lets me know what you searched for -- and what I found is proof positive that humanity is a very scary beast. Let me show you:
These are actual keyword phrases that folks have searched for online over the past 12 months, leading them to my blog:
• "MY KID IS HYPERTENSE" - When you type this exact phrase into Google, as 117 people this year have, my blog is the #1 link. Why? No clue. I must've used the words "my," "kid," and "hypertense" in close promixity to one another in a column sometime in the past 3 years. Just for the record, I don't know what to do if your kid is hypertense.
• "CHUBBY TONGUE" - Again, no clue why this phrase would pull up my blog. But even less clue why anyone would be searching for this in the first place.
• "OFFENSIVE JANITORS" - What? There's no OffensiveJanitors.com?
• "CHIPS AHOY USING RUBBER IN THEIR COOKIES" - Funny, but mildly frightening, as I'm a solid fan of Chips Ahoy. Am I ingesting rubber? Do we need to get our news dept. on top of this?
• "DARRELL WALTRIP THREE LEGGED DOG" - Boogity boogity boogity!
• "FAKE PEE PANTS" - Is this a real product? Is there a marketing guy out there somewhere going, "C'mon, it's hysterical, you can fake all your friends into thinking that you have bladder control issues! That's AWESOME. Why is no one buying a pair?"
• "PARANORMAL EXPERIENCE WITH HUMMING ECTOPLASM" - Impressively specific.
• "BAD STUFF ABOUT JAPAN" - Because, let's face it, all we hear about Japan is Hondas and Playstations and Jackie Chan. At least one person out there's concerned about the seedy underbelly of "bad stuff" occurring in the Land of the Rising Sun.
• "KATIE HOLMES NUDE" - Hey, if I had THAT, I'd have better things to do than write this column.
• "KIDNEY STONES THAT LOOK LIKE PINK CANDY" - If I emitted kidney stones that looked like pink candy, my first stop would NOT be the internet. It would be the emergency room.
• "NAKED GRANDMAS" - Great. About a year ago, I wrote a column about one of the most embarassing moments of my life: accidentally walking into the sight of my 100-year-old grandmother in mid-wardrobe change. As a result, I appear to now be disappointing scores of perverts. Oh, and speaking of perverts:
• "SEXUAL ORIENTATION OF QC WEATHERMEN" - You know, I watch a lotta TV. I've seen my fair share of weather forecasts. And not ONCE have I stopped and wondered what any of those folk do after dark. I only wonder if I'm gonna need a coat the next day. Maybe I'm missing out.
Which leaves my favorite:
• "IS MITCHUM DEODORANT MORE STICKY NOW" - Can't you just picture the guy who searched for this? Getting out of the shower, rolling on his trusty Mitchum when suddenly the painful reality sets in - "What the...," he says, incensed, "Is it me, or is this deodorant more sticky than I recall? I MUST RESEARCH THIS TROUBLING THEORY IMMEDIATELY!" Folks, if you've got time to investigate the stickiness of your preferred brand of deodorant online, you officially have less of a life than I do -- and that's sayin' something.
I'm starting to realize that I could become an internet sensation and the king of the cyberworld if I just start peppering my columns with popular search words. Of course, that would be pandering and I'm above that. So instead, I'll leave you with this humble nugget of wisdom:
Hot free nude Britney Justin. Truth Kennedy assassination aliens ghosts Star Trek. Free mp3 Harry Potter ending. Playstation X-Box pwned Warcraft Halo 3 cheats. Even more naked grandmas.
Yes, words to live by.
If you may have noticed in the dealy at the bottom of each week's column (I believe the proper journalistic term is "dealymajig,") I maintain an online blog in association with the column. It's nothing fancy, just a repository archive for my writing, plus a handy outlet if anything amusing happens during the week.
Well, when I first started the blog up, I hooked it up to a stat tracker program. The tracker lets me know how many visitors I receive in a given time frame, what columns get the most reads, etc., etc. Mostly I forget it's even there and only remember to check it a couple of times a year. Well, the other night I was goofing around with it and realized that it also records some other pretty interesting stuff.
No, it doesn't give me anything useful like your credit card or social security numbers, so sadly I still can't steal your identities and start life anew on some tropical island with a staff of woman-servants. But it does show some unexpected details, such as what country you're from, what kind of computer you're using, your web browser of choice, etc., etc. Oh, and one other VERY interesting thing: keyword searches.
Let's say you're doing a Web search using a popular search engine like Yahoo or Google. If you search for a particular phrase that somehow pulls up MY blog as a result, my tracker lets me know what you searched for -- and what I found is proof positive that humanity is a very scary beast. Let me show you:
These are actual keyword phrases that folks have searched for online over the past 12 months, leading them to my blog:
• "MY KID IS HYPERTENSE" - When you type this exact phrase into Google, as 117 people this year have, my blog is the #1 link. Why? No clue. I must've used the words "my," "kid," and "hypertense" in close promixity to one another in a column sometime in the past 3 years. Just for the record, I don't know what to do if your kid is hypertense.
• "CHUBBY TONGUE" - Again, no clue why this phrase would pull up my blog. But even less clue why anyone would be searching for this in the first place.
• "OFFENSIVE JANITORS" - What? There's no OffensiveJanitors.com?
• "CHIPS AHOY USING RUBBER IN THEIR COOKIES" - Funny, but mildly frightening, as I'm a solid fan of Chips Ahoy. Am I ingesting rubber? Do we need to get our news dept. on top of this?
• "DARRELL WALTRIP THREE LEGGED DOG" - Boogity boogity boogity!
• "FAKE PEE PANTS" - Is this a real product? Is there a marketing guy out there somewhere going, "C'mon, it's hysterical, you can fake all your friends into thinking that you have bladder control issues! That's AWESOME. Why is no one buying a pair?"
• "PARANORMAL EXPERIENCE WITH HUMMING ECTOPLASM" - Impressively specific.
• "BAD STUFF ABOUT JAPAN" - Because, let's face it, all we hear about Japan is Hondas and Playstations and Jackie Chan. At least one person out there's concerned about the seedy underbelly of "bad stuff" occurring in the Land of the Rising Sun.
• "KATIE HOLMES NUDE" - Hey, if I had THAT, I'd have better things to do than write this column.
• "KIDNEY STONES THAT LOOK LIKE PINK CANDY" - If I emitted kidney stones that looked like pink candy, my first stop would NOT be the internet. It would be the emergency room.
• "NAKED GRANDMAS" - Great. About a year ago, I wrote a column about one of the most embarassing moments of my life: accidentally walking into the sight of my 100-year-old grandmother in mid-wardrobe change. As a result, I appear to now be disappointing scores of perverts. Oh, and speaking of perverts:
• "SEXUAL ORIENTATION OF QC WEATHERMEN" - You know, I watch a lotta TV. I've seen my fair share of weather forecasts. And not ONCE have I stopped and wondered what any of those folk do after dark. I only wonder if I'm gonna need a coat the next day. Maybe I'm missing out.
Which leaves my favorite:
• "IS MITCHUM DEODORANT MORE STICKY NOW" - Can't you just picture the guy who searched for this? Getting out of the shower, rolling on his trusty Mitchum when suddenly the painful reality sets in - "What the...," he says, incensed, "Is it me, or is this deodorant more sticky than I recall? I MUST RESEARCH THIS TROUBLING THEORY IMMEDIATELY!" Folks, if you've got time to investigate the stickiness of your preferred brand of deodorant online, you officially have less of a life than I do -- and that's sayin' something.
I'm starting to realize that I could become an internet sensation and the king of the cyberworld if I just start peppering my columns with popular search words. Of course, that would be pandering and I'm above that. So instead, I'll leave you with this humble nugget of wisdom:
Hot free nude Britney Justin. Truth Kennedy assassination aliens ghosts Star Trek. Free mp3 Harry Potter ending. Playstation X-Box pwned Warcraft Halo 3 cheats. Even more naked grandmas.
Yes, words to live by.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
COLUMN: Spicy
A couple of weeks ago, I found myself at a casual business luncheon with some associates of the newspaper. We decided to go to a nearby Mexican restaurant that whips up a mean meal. When our food arrived, though, I couldn't help but notice how my dining companions eagerly grabbed the salsa and liberally doused their entrees.
Now, normally I play it safe when it comes to spicy foods, but hey, I just watched 3 people turn their meals into salsa soup, so it must not be too hot, right? I leaned in and dipped a chip in a healthy amount of salsa, put it in my mouth, and realized my error in roughly 2.4 seconds. This salsa wasn't just a little hot; it was a LOT hot.
In an attempt to escape my already-sealed fate, I decided it would be best to skip the whole "chewing" nonsense and swallow the chip and the rapidly-burning salsa as quickly as possible. This, of course, resulted in me giving myself a nacho tonsillectomy and a sore throat that lasted the better part of the week. Yay.
I do NOT understand the appeal of overly spicy foods. I mean, there are a few common-sense guidelines that I like to live by, and one of them is simply: "Food should not be painful." Yet I have masochistic friends who think that setting one's tongue on fire makes for a superb night out. Friends who buy hot sauce so nightmarish that merely one drop can turn a vat of chili into a gastro-intestinal abomination. Friends who are, clearly, idiots.
I'm not saying that I don't enjoy flavor to my meals. Flavor is nifty. But there's a difference between something being flavorful and something being downright death-hot. Take that salsa for instance. It didn't taste particularly salsa-y. It didn't taste like much of anything. It just tasted like BURNING.
Look, nature didn't make peppers hot for a taste sensation; they're hot in SELF-DEFENSE. That way, when Peter Cottontail goes hopping down the bunny trail in search of something to nibble on, he skips the jalopenos. Otherwise, Little Bunny Foo Foo learns an important life lesson in what to and to NOT gnaw on. That way, the peppers survive and make little baby peppers until one day we are ruled by a supreme race of habaneros. So, to that end, I suppose we should be grateful for those of us stupid enough to enjoy sticking the things in our mouths.
Perhaps some people are simply born lacking the taste buds required to go, "Hey, mouth on fire = bad." Me? I'll take the safe route, thanks.
In the decade that I've worked for our papers, the building across the street from our main office has seen many incarnations: antique shop, coffee shop, etc. But the weirdest was its short stint as a Mongolian barbecue joint. Now, I'm thinking "mmmmm, barbecue," right? Throw another pig on the spit and sign me up, I loves me a good barbecue.
And when some of the bigwigs here at the paper decided to go check it out, I invited myself right along. Back then, I was the new guy who nobody knew, and any opportunity to get a little face time with some of our more distinguished co-workers couldn't be a bad thing. This would be my time to shine, to schmooze it up, to make myself known, to climb the corporate ladder. Little did I know my plan would be stymied by the Mongols.
Wikipedia informs that the Mongols ruled over the largest continguous land empire in history, conquering and covering some 12 million square miles. They accomplished this task by obviously inviting their enemies over for some barbecue. Now, I can't say for certain what the primary ingredients in a Mongolian barbecue are, but if I had to guess, I would say: battery acid.
Within seconds of my first bite, I was red-faced, sweating, and drinking my body weight in water. My stomach, meanwhile, was expressing its displeasure via a series of well-timed grooooooooinks. So there I am -- all red, sweaty, and groinking -- trying my best to make impressive small talk while my lips melted off my face. My coworkers, meanwhile, just keep shoveling the stuff in their mouths happily.
"Hoo, this has a bit of a kick to it," one of them said. A BIT OF A KICK? I thought, trying desperately to fend off full-on systemic failure. I ate half of the bowl-o'-terror, excused myself, ran back to my office, drank our vending machine out of milk, and spent the rest of the day taking care of business (and I sadly don't mean working.) A good impression is exactly what I DIDN'T make that day.
But I don't care. I walked out of there with my mouth on fire but my sanity intact. Spicy food's for the birds. Well, no, I bet a bird would DIE if it had eaten that barbecue.
Maybe I'm just destined to be one of those old guys you see at the buffet restaurants every day -- you know, the places with no fewer than 200 exceptionally bland varities of food, all of which strangely taste like chicken? I'm not a fan of bland food, either, but with that I can at least guarantee the safety and well-being of the fragile ecosystem known as my lower intestine.
Now, normally I play it safe when it comes to spicy foods, but hey, I just watched 3 people turn their meals into salsa soup, so it must not be too hot, right? I leaned in and dipped a chip in a healthy amount of salsa, put it in my mouth, and realized my error in roughly 2.4 seconds. This salsa wasn't just a little hot; it was a LOT hot.
In an attempt to escape my already-sealed fate, I decided it would be best to skip the whole "chewing" nonsense and swallow the chip and the rapidly-burning salsa as quickly as possible. This, of course, resulted in me giving myself a nacho tonsillectomy and a sore throat that lasted the better part of the week. Yay.
I do NOT understand the appeal of overly spicy foods. I mean, there are a few common-sense guidelines that I like to live by, and one of them is simply: "Food should not be painful." Yet I have masochistic friends who think that setting one's tongue on fire makes for a superb night out. Friends who buy hot sauce so nightmarish that merely one drop can turn a vat of chili into a gastro-intestinal abomination. Friends who are, clearly, idiots.
I'm not saying that I don't enjoy flavor to my meals. Flavor is nifty. But there's a difference between something being flavorful and something being downright death-hot. Take that salsa for instance. It didn't taste particularly salsa-y. It didn't taste like much of anything. It just tasted like BURNING.
Look, nature didn't make peppers hot for a taste sensation; they're hot in SELF-DEFENSE. That way, when Peter Cottontail goes hopping down the bunny trail in search of something to nibble on, he skips the jalopenos. Otherwise, Little Bunny Foo Foo learns an important life lesson in what to and to NOT gnaw on. That way, the peppers survive and make little baby peppers until one day we are ruled by a supreme race of habaneros. So, to that end, I suppose we should be grateful for those of us stupid enough to enjoy sticking the things in our mouths.
Perhaps some people are simply born lacking the taste buds required to go, "Hey, mouth on fire = bad." Me? I'll take the safe route, thanks.
In the decade that I've worked for our papers, the building across the street from our main office has seen many incarnations: antique shop, coffee shop, etc. But the weirdest was its short stint as a Mongolian barbecue joint. Now, I'm thinking "mmmmm, barbecue," right? Throw another pig on the spit and sign me up, I loves me a good barbecue.
And when some of the bigwigs here at the paper decided to go check it out, I invited myself right along. Back then, I was the new guy who nobody knew, and any opportunity to get a little face time with some of our more distinguished co-workers couldn't be a bad thing. This would be my time to shine, to schmooze it up, to make myself known, to climb the corporate ladder. Little did I know my plan would be stymied by the Mongols.
Wikipedia informs that the Mongols ruled over the largest continguous land empire in history, conquering and covering some 12 million square miles. They accomplished this task by obviously inviting their enemies over for some barbecue. Now, I can't say for certain what the primary ingredients in a Mongolian barbecue are, but if I had to guess, I would say: battery acid.
Within seconds of my first bite, I was red-faced, sweating, and drinking my body weight in water. My stomach, meanwhile, was expressing its displeasure via a series of well-timed grooooooooinks. So there I am -- all red, sweaty, and groinking -- trying my best to make impressive small talk while my lips melted off my face. My coworkers, meanwhile, just keep shoveling the stuff in their mouths happily.
"Hoo, this has a bit of a kick to it," one of them said. A BIT OF A KICK? I thought, trying desperately to fend off full-on systemic failure. I ate half of the bowl-o'-terror, excused myself, ran back to my office, drank our vending machine out of milk, and spent the rest of the day taking care of business (and I sadly don't mean working.) A good impression is exactly what I DIDN'T make that day.
But I don't care. I walked out of there with my mouth on fire but my sanity intact. Spicy food's for the birds. Well, no, I bet a bird would DIE if it had eaten that barbecue.
Maybe I'm just destined to be one of those old guys you see at the buffet restaurants every day -- you know, the places with no fewer than 200 exceptionally bland varities of food, all of which strangely taste like chicken? I'm not a fan of bland food, either, but with that I can at least guarantee the safety and well-being of the fragile ecosystem known as my lower intestine.
RIP Charlie Pace
Godspeed, little Hobbit. We barely knew thee...
Thoughts on the season finale, anyone?
Thoughts on the season finale, anyone?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
COLUMN: Country
As a self-proclaimed elitist music nerd, there are a few simple rules to follow to remain cool:
1) Whenever possible, listen to bands that people around you have never heard of.
Ride, The Boo Radleys, Of Montreal, Belle & Sebastian... know 'em? No? Good. They're my 4 favorite bands. Another of my faves has NO name; they simply go by "!!!", which is super cool (until you're looking for them in a record store and you have NO idea how the clerk alphabetized them.) These bands don't get played on the radio. Why? Because you're cooler than radio.
2) If you can find it in a mall, don't buy it.
You're also cooler than chain stores. That's where your mom shops. Your elitist tastes deserve indie record stores. You go to Co-op. You hop online and visit Parasol.com & Tonevendor.com, the bibles of musical cool. The harder it is to find a release, the better it probably is. Don't stop until you find a band SO obscure that they only release albums on player piano reels during odd-numbered autumnal equinoxes. I guarantee they will rock.
3) Above all, don't ever -- EVER -- listen to country music.
Country music is the least hip, least cool music ever made, and you will be mocked by your elitist music nerd friends for liking it.* (*with the exception of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, & 70's era Glen Campbell. Those are all super cool. Probably because they're dead. Well, except Glen Campbell - but anybody with the guts to release "Rhinestone Cowboy" is inherently way cool.)
But I did it. I just broke Cardinal Music Rule #3. And I lived.
I volunteered to review the Brad Paisley gig at the Mark last week.
Why? Call it an experiment in open-mindedness. Call it a test of courage and willpower. Call it an unhealthy and borderline illegal obsession with opening act Taylor Swift, the current lolita goddess of country.
The point is: I went. Worse yet, if you read my glowing review in the paper the next day, I actually had a great time. I think I might even like a couple of Brad Paisley's songs now. I'm scared.
I DID, however, learn some interesting things about the previously unconquered world of country music that I didn't have space to squeeze into the review. Among them:
* It was a novel experience to be at a gig you could UNDERSTAND. At most rock shows, the sound is so jacked you're lucky to make out the obligatory "thankyougoodnight" at the end of the show, let alone ascertain any lyrics. My sincere kudos to the sound engineers, who made the vocals bright and the music powerful.
* Country music fans are really, really nice. I'm used to going to shows where people bump into you, where you're packed in like sardines, where no-one acknowledges one another in the crowd. Right off the bat, this was different. First off, I was totally worried that my new camera would get confiscated. Little did I know cameras are totally cool at country shows. I've been to hip-hop shows where the security frisk-down was more detailed than your average doctor visit. Friday night was pat-pat, come-on-in. Easy peasy. Bump into someone? THEY APOLOGIZE. After the show, I went onto Brad Paisley's website and looked at fans already trading pics, stories, and making meet-up plans for future gigs. The sense of community almost creeped me out.
* Country music STARS are also really, really nice. I'm used to shows where the crowd isn't even acknowledged by the band, or worse yet, gets berated by the band. I was at a show by the British band Suede once where the guitar player told us to "shut the (expletive) up" before he played a note. If Brad Paisley had tried that, he would've been lynched. Instead, the acts at the Mark that night thanked us profusely, looked embarassed when we cheered, kissed babies, threw guitar picks, and generally seemed grateful at the folks who spent money to come down. The opening acts made themselves available to sign autographs for anybody who wanted them. That's a whole lotta name signing. And that was ONE gig on a massive world tour. Frankly, I'd be worried about carpal tunnel come my 20,000th autograph.
* At the same time, though, there's an evil corporate streak to it all. I mean, there must have been at least 25 different t-shirts to buy. And hats, bracelets, photos, autographed CD's, you name it. I'm used to bands selling A t-shirt in order to make gas money to the next gig. Like I said, I went to Brad's website after the show, and when I saw people commenting about the Moline gig, I tried to post a reply. Sadly I had neither $19.99 nor a major credit card handy. They might be nice folk, but they sure know how to turn a buck.
All in all, it was a good night out. It was nice to be at a show where people (be it the crowd OR the band) weren't trying to perpetually out-weird one another. I'm not saying I'm a convert to country music or anything (though I admit, I listened to my fair share of WLLR over the weekend just to make sure,) but it was FAR from a bad time. I'm all for artsy music and challenging lyrics and what-not, but the simplicity and earnestness of country music just lets you switch your brain off for a while and relax and be entertained, and heck, that's what I want out of my Friday nights sometimes.
1) Whenever possible, listen to bands that people around you have never heard of.
Ride, The Boo Radleys, Of Montreal, Belle & Sebastian... know 'em? No? Good. They're my 4 favorite bands. Another of my faves has NO name; they simply go by "!!!", which is super cool (until you're looking for them in a record store and you have NO idea how the clerk alphabetized them.) These bands don't get played on the radio. Why? Because you're cooler than radio.
2) If you can find it in a mall, don't buy it.
You're also cooler than chain stores. That's where your mom shops. Your elitist tastes deserve indie record stores. You go to Co-op. You hop online and visit Parasol.com & Tonevendor.com, the bibles of musical cool. The harder it is to find a release, the better it probably is. Don't stop until you find a band SO obscure that they only release albums on player piano reels during odd-numbered autumnal equinoxes. I guarantee they will rock.
3) Above all, don't ever -- EVER -- listen to country music.
Country music is the least hip, least cool music ever made, and you will be mocked by your elitist music nerd friends for liking it.* (*with the exception of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, & 70's era Glen Campbell. Those are all super cool. Probably because they're dead. Well, except Glen Campbell - but anybody with the guts to release "Rhinestone Cowboy" is inherently way cool.)
But I did it. I just broke Cardinal Music Rule #3. And I lived.
I volunteered to review the Brad Paisley gig at the Mark last week.
Why? Call it an experiment in open-mindedness. Call it a test of courage and willpower. Call it an unhealthy and borderline illegal obsession with opening act Taylor Swift, the current lolita goddess of country.
The point is: I went. Worse yet, if you read my glowing review in the paper the next day, I actually had a great time. I think I might even like a couple of Brad Paisley's songs now. I'm scared.
I DID, however, learn some interesting things about the previously unconquered world of country music that I didn't have space to squeeze into the review. Among them:
* It was a novel experience to be at a gig you could UNDERSTAND. At most rock shows, the sound is so jacked you're lucky to make out the obligatory "thankyougoodnight" at the end of the show, let alone ascertain any lyrics. My sincere kudos to the sound engineers, who made the vocals bright and the music powerful.
* Country music fans are really, really nice. I'm used to going to shows where people bump into you, where you're packed in like sardines, where no-one acknowledges one another in the crowd. Right off the bat, this was different. First off, I was totally worried that my new camera would get confiscated. Little did I know cameras are totally cool at country shows. I've been to hip-hop shows where the security frisk-down was more detailed than your average doctor visit. Friday night was pat-pat, come-on-in. Easy peasy. Bump into someone? THEY APOLOGIZE. After the show, I went onto Brad Paisley's website and looked at fans already trading pics, stories, and making meet-up plans for future gigs. The sense of community almost creeped me out.
* Country music STARS are also really, really nice. I'm used to shows where the crowd isn't even acknowledged by the band, or worse yet, gets berated by the band. I was at a show by the British band Suede once where the guitar player told us to "shut the (expletive) up" before he played a note. If Brad Paisley had tried that, he would've been lynched. Instead, the acts at the Mark that night thanked us profusely, looked embarassed when we cheered, kissed babies, threw guitar picks, and generally seemed grateful at the folks who spent money to come down. The opening acts made themselves available to sign autographs for anybody who wanted them. That's a whole lotta name signing. And that was ONE gig on a massive world tour. Frankly, I'd be worried about carpal tunnel come my 20,000th autograph.
* At the same time, though, there's an evil corporate streak to it all. I mean, there must have been at least 25 different t-shirts to buy. And hats, bracelets, photos, autographed CD's, you name it. I'm used to bands selling A t-shirt in order to make gas money to the next gig. Like I said, I went to Brad's website after the show, and when I saw people commenting about the Moline gig, I tried to post a reply. Sadly I had neither $19.99 nor a major credit card handy. They might be nice folk, but they sure know how to turn a buck.
All in all, it was a good night out. It was nice to be at a show where people (be it the crowd OR the band) weren't trying to perpetually out-weird one another. I'm not saying I'm a convert to country music or anything (though I admit, I listened to my fair share of WLLR over the weekend just to make sure,) but it was FAR from a bad time. I'm all for artsy music and challenging lyrics and what-not, but the simplicity and earnestness of country music just lets you switch your brain off for a while and relax and be entertained, and heck, that's what I want out of my Friday nights sometimes.
Monday, May 07, 2007
COLUMN: Photography
"You can be anything you want to be, if you put your mind to it!" That over-used adage was a frequent flyer at the Brown household when I was growing up. And that sagely nugget of wisdom, alongside heaps of encouragement from the World's Greatest Parents, is probably the main reason why I can be a sales rep AND a columnist AND a club DJ at the same time. I DID put my mind to it, and I DID become whatever I wanted to be. What a great life lesson.
And that, kids, concludes the "Reading is Fundamental" portion of this week's column. Now hand the newspaper back to mom and dad and go wash up, alrighty?
Okay, parents. Have the kids stopped reading? Good, because now we can talk. We all know the "be-anything-you-want" bit is a giant load of hooey, right? Otherwise, I'd be Mr. Katie Holmes right about now and getting paid millions to sit and watch TV all day. The REAL phrase should be something like this:
"You can be anything you want to be* (*except for a bunch of stuff that you're bound to be totally inept at.)"
The truth has revealed itself harshly over the years. It started in middle school. It was band sign-up, and I wanted to play the trumpet. My mommy told me I can be whatever I want to be, and I want to be the guy who plays the horn so fierce that my cheeks poof out like Louie Armstrong. "Sorry," Mr. Band Nazi said, "your cheeks aren't poofy enough and your lips aren't shaped right to play a trumpet. Here, go bang on this drum instead."
And so it began. Can't be an astronaut 'coz I get sick on a Tilt-a-Whirl. Can't be a beekeeper 'coz I'm allergic. Can't be a supermodel coz... well, coz I'm SO painfully sexy that it would be unfair and cruel to all other aspiring male models. And now there's another one I can cross off the list:
I've always wanted to be a great photographer. Not gonna happen.
I have a friend who has the world's greatest eye behind a lens. Seriously. She can go on vacation and point-and-click a roll where EVERY shot could be an album cover. I, meanwhile, am the only photographer I know of capable of making the Rocky Mountains look UGLY.
My folks wanted to foster my early love for photography, so I was the first kid on our block to have my very own camera. I've still got some of those old pictures, too -- they're in an album I like to call "Gallery of the Headless." There I was, capturing on film every person who shaped my upbringing, and, without fail, chopping off their heads. It's a cavalcade of torsos. Actually, there's ONE picture in which I managed to fit in frame both the subject AND her head - it's one I like to call "7 Year Old Shane Surprises Mom on the Toilet."
Almost 30 years later, I'm still inept at taking pics. So what's a photo idiot like me to do? Take a class? Buy a book? Naw. If I stink at photography, it must be the CAMERA'S fault, right? That's why I blew my tax return on a fancy new digital SLR. Well, not a FANCY one, because I didn't realize how much cameras cost these days. Another photographer buddy of mine recommended a model, which sounded great -- until I went to the store and saw the $2200 price tag.
$2200? For a CAMERA? Are you KIDDING me? If I'm spending $2200 on a camera, I expect that camera to, at the very least, see through the clothing of attractive women. No X-ray powers? I'll take the basic model, then, thanks.
And with my new camera, soon all of you would be basking in the wonder of my artsy-ness. Too bad, then, that it then spent the entire week raining. Ergo, the debut of my wonderful new camera was spent taking exactly 187 pictures of my housecats, whose retinas may never be the same again.
Still, though, it's a start. When the rain cleared, my friend Jason and I took the camera out on a day-long test drive in the country. I took a LOT of pictures -- towns, rivers, flowers, nature, whatever -- and some of 'em are actually kinda good. I was almost getting confident about my photo-taking ability until Jason fixed that for me:
"Dude, why do you hold the camera so dorky?"
What? I can't even HOLD the camera right? Instead of looking through the viewfinder straight on, apparantly I turn my head to the left. To me it makes sense -- my nose doesn't get scrunched up against the back of the camera, and it affords my eye a perfect fit on the viewfinder. And, apparantly, looks super dorky.
But you know what? I don't care. I may not be Ansel Adams, but I still have fun trying. So I'm not giving up. Maybe I still CAN be whatever I want to be if I put my mind to it. Maybe I WILL go buy a book on photography and learn how to compose a decent pic. Keep your eyes on my blog - if I start taking masterful photos, I'll post them. Until then, SAY CHEESE.
And that, kids, concludes the "Reading is Fundamental" portion of this week's column. Now hand the newspaper back to mom and dad and go wash up, alrighty?
Okay, parents. Have the kids stopped reading? Good, because now we can talk. We all know the "be-anything-you-want" bit is a giant load of hooey, right? Otherwise, I'd be Mr. Katie Holmes right about now and getting paid millions to sit and watch TV all day. The REAL phrase should be something like this:
"You can be anything you want to be* (*except for a bunch of stuff that you're bound to be totally inept at.)"
The truth has revealed itself harshly over the years. It started in middle school. It was band sign-up, and I wanted to play the trumpet. My mommy told me I can be whatever I want to be, and I want to be the guy who plays the horn so fierce that my cheeks poof out like Louie Armstrong. "Sorry," Mr. Band Nazi said, "your cheeks aren't poofy enough and your lips aren't shaped right to play a trumpet. Here, go bang on this drum instead."
And so it began. Can't be an astronaut 'coz I get sick on a Tilt-a-Whirl. Can't be a beekeeper 'coz I'm allergic. Can't be a supermodel coz... well, coz I'm SO painfully sexy that it would be unfair and cruel to all other aspiring male models. And now there's another one I can cross off the list:
I've always wanted to be a great photographer. Not gonna happen.
I have a friend who has the world's greatest eye behind a lens. Seriously. She can go on vacation and point-and-click a roll where EVERY shot could be an album cover. I, meanwhile, am the only photographer I know of capable of making the Rocky Mountains look UGLY.
My folks wanted to foster my early love for photography, so I was the first kid on our block to have my very own camera. I've still got some of those old pictures, too -- they're in an album I like to call "Gallery of the Headless." There I was, capturing on film every person who shaped my upbringing, and, without fail, chopping off their heads. It's a cavalcade of torsos. Actually, there's ONE picture in which I managed to fit in frame both the subject AND her head - it's one I like to call "7 Year Old Shane Surprises Mom on the Toilet."
Almost 30 years later, I'm still inept at taking pics. So what's a photo idiot like me to do? Take a class? Buy a book? Naw. If I stink at photography, it must be the CAMERA'S fault, right? That's why I blew my tax return on a fancy new digital SLR. Well, not a FANCY one, because I didn't realize how much cameras cost these days. Another photographer buddy of mine recommended a model, which sounded great -- until I went to the store and saw the $2200 price tag.
$2200? For a CAMERA? Are you KIDDING me? If I'm spending $2200 on a camera, I expect that camera to, at the very least, see through the clothing of attractive women. No X-ray powers? I'll take the basic model, then, thanks.
And with my new camera, soon all of you would be basking in the wonder of my artsy-ness. Too bad, then, that it then spent the entire week raining. Ergo, the debut of my wonderful new camera was spent taking exactly 187 pictures of my housecats, whose retinas may never be the same again.
Still, though, it's a start. When the rain cleared, my friend Jason and I took the camera out on a day-long test drive in the country. I took a LOT of pictures -- towns, rivers, flowers, nature, whatever -- and some of 'em are actually kinda good. I was almost getting confident about my photo-taking ability until Jason fixed that for me:
"Dude, why do you hold the camera so dorky?"
What? I can't even HOLD the camera right? Instead of looking through the viewfinder straight on, apparantly I turn my head to the left. To me it makes sense -- my nose doesn't get scrunched up against the back of the camera, and it affords my eye a perfect fit on the viewfinder. And, apparantly, looks super dorky.
But you know what? I don't care. I may not be Ansel Adams, but I still have fun trying. So I'm not giving up. Maybe I still CAN be whatever I want to be if I put my mind to it. Maybe I WILL go buy a book on photography and learn how to compose a decent pic. Keep your eyes on my blog - if I start taking masterful photos, I'll post them. Until then, SAY CHEESE.
COLUMN: Breaking News
Long ago when I had a dream of someday having my own weekly niche in the newspaper, I never expected that I would use said niche to compare the Cable News Network to Bobcat Goldthwait. But hey, weirder things have happened, I suppose.
A few years back, a friend and I went to see Bobcat perform live at a local comedy club. It was a REALLY funny gig, but it got awkward at the end. As the show was concluding, it became painfully evident that Goldthwait had used up most of his planned material. However, the wait staff hadn't finished closing out tabs and seeing people off. This left Goldthwait in the unenviable position of having to kill time until the wait staff sorted out everyone's bills. While he did a decent job ad-libbing a few extra minutes, it was QUITE obvious to those of us in the crowd that the material Goldthwait was offering was filler at best.
This past week, I was on vacation. Well, no -- vacation implies that I was somewhere fun doing something fun. I simply was being paid to NOT be at work. Rather than use my vacation time to tour some exotic land, I chose to stay at home, recharge the batteries, and watch a remarkably unhealthy amount of TV.
Little did I know that I picked a doozy of a week to sit glued in front of the TV. What I thought would end up being a week's worth of television comedy at its finest turned into a week-long telethon of tragedy. Between the horrors at Virginia Tech, the senseless workplace shooting at NASA, and the sad loss of a Navy Blue Angel, I spent a LOT of my vacation staring at CNN with my head shaking.
But as much as I appreciate the instant coverage that the TV news channels provide, I realized this week just why I love newspapers as much as I do: newspapers give you news -- on paper. In one glance, you can read all there is to know about a major news event. No hubbub, no spectacle, just the facts as we know them prior to that issue's deadline.
I'm a here-and-now kinda guy. I realize that today's society lives as mere rest stops on the information superhighway. I respect and admire the fact that, like what happened numerous times last week, someone can call me and go, "Dude, are you watching this? Turn on the TV right now," and within seconds, I'm up to pace. But that right there is also the problem of cable news: It DOES take mere seconds to get up to speed on a breaking news story... yet the networks give these stories hours and hours of coverage, some of which is crucial and informative, but most is just pure filler.
When the tragedy at Virginia Tech occurred last week, all the major networks broke in immediately with all-day coverage. CNN quickly procured a video filmed on a cell phone by a VT student. The video showed the exterior of Norris Hall. Inside of that building, unspeakable horror was being played out, yet outside all you saw was a building, the awful sound of gunfire, and then audio of someone yelling.
In other words, the video served little purpose as to coverage of the event. It wasn't news; it was shock-and-awful. I stopped counting after CNN replayed that video 45 times that afternoon. Not only replayed it, but interviewed the student who shot the video three times. Each interview, they asked the student what the yelling at the end of the tape was. Was it students? The gunman? No, it was a police officer yelling at the amateur documentarian to get away from the building.
When the Blue Angel pilot was sadly killed at the air show this past weekend, once again the networks rolled into wall-to-wall Breaking News mode. Problem was, other than waiting for the Navy press conference, there really wasn't much to talk about.
Yet we were subject to hours of the news networks riffing about the Blue Angels, the Carolina coastline, airplanes in general, etc., etc. At one point, CNN contacted one of their reporters embedded in the Middle East and woke her up in the middle of the night to put her on air. Why? Because years prior, this reporter had flown with the Blue Angels in a fluff piece. Her much-needed international insight? "Those planes travel fast." Meanwhile, on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, it's mentioned in passing that a charter plane crashed in the Florida Keys killing 3. Why does THAT tragedy merit only a crawl?
The cable networks aren't dumb - they know that breaking news equals viewers. It doesn't matter if it's O.J.'s car chase, Anna Nicole's kid, or one of the greatest tragedies to ever strike our nation -- the news networks will be there, looping film footage, over-analyzing, talking to witnesses who witnessed nothing, and covering stories when the stories themselves haven't been written yet.
At some point, the cable channels need to know when Breaking News becomes Broken News. If you want to survive in the business of information, you need to inform -- NOT mindlessly riff and kill time like a comedian struggling to get offstage.
A few years back, a friend and I went to see Bobcat perform live at a local comedy club. It was a REALLY funny gig, but it got awkward at the end. As the show was concluding, it became painfully evident that Goldthwait had used up most of his planned material. However, the wait staff hadn't finished closing out tabs and seeing people off. This left Goldthwait in the unenviable position of having to kill time until the wait staff sorted out everyone's bills. While he did a decent job ad-libbing a few extra minutes, it was QUITE obvious to those of us in the crowd that the material Goldthwait was offering was filler at best.
This past week, I was on vacation. Well, no -- vacation implies that I was somewhere fun doing something fun. I simply was being paid to NOT be at work. Rather than use my vacation time to tour some exotic land, I chose to stay at home, recharge the batteries, and watch a remarkably unhealthy amount of TV.
Little did I know that I picked a doozy of a week to sit glued in front of the TV. What I thought would end up being a week's worth of television comedy at its finest turned into a week-long telethon of tragedy. Between the horrors at Virginia Tech, the senseless workplace shooting at NASA, and the sad loss of a Navy Blue Angel, I spent a LOT of my vacation staring at CNN with my head shaking.
But as much as I appreciate the instant coverage that the TV news channels provide, I realized this week just why I love newspapers as much as I do: newspapers give you news -- on paper. In one glance, you can read all there is to know about a major news event. No hubbub, no spectacle, just the facts as we know them prior to that issue's deadline.
I'm a here-and-now kinda guy. I realize that today's society lives as mere rest stops on the information superhighway. I respect and admire the fact that, like what happened numerous times last week, someone can call me and go, "Dude, are you watching this? Turn on the TV right now," and within seconds, I'm up to pace. But that right there is also the problem of cable news: It DOES take mere seconds to get up to speed on a breaking news story... yet the networks give these stories hours and hours of coverage, some of which is crucial and informative, but most is just pure filler.
When the tragedy at Virginia Tech occurred last week, all the major networks broke in immediately with all-day coverage. CNN quickly procured a video filmed on a cell phone by a VT student. The video showed the exterior of Norris Hall. Inside of that building, unspeakable horror was being played out, yet outside all you saw was a building, the awful sound of gunfire, and then audio of someone yelling.
In other words, the video served little purpose as to coverage of the event. It wasn't news; it was shock-and-awful. I stopped counting after CNN replayed that video 45 times that afternoon. Not only replayed it, but interviewed the student who shot the video three times. Each interview, they asked the student what the yelling at the end of the tape was. Was it students? The gunman? No, it was a police officer yelling at the amateur documentarian to get away from the building.
When the Blue Angel pilot was sadly killed at the air show this past weekend, once again the networks rolled into wall-to-wall Breaking News mode. Problem was, other than waiting for the Navy press conference, there really wasn't much to talk about.
Yet we were subject to hours of the news networks riffing about the Blue Angels, the Carolina coastline, airplanes in general, etc., etc. At one point, CNN contacted one of their reporters embedded in the Middle East and woke her up in the middle of the night to put her on air. Why? Because years prior, this reporter had flown with the Blue Angels in a fluff piece. Her much-needed international insight? "Those planes travel fast." Meanwhile, on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, it's mentioned in passing that a charter plane crashed in the Florida Keys killing 3. Why does THAT tragedy merit only a crawl?
The cable networks aren't dumb - they know that breaking news equals viewers. It doesn't matter if it's O.J.'s car chase, Anna Nicole's kid, or one of the greatest tragedies to ever strike our nation -- the news networks will be there, looping film footage, over-analyzing, talking to witnesses who witnessed nothing, and covering stories when the stories themselves haven't been written yet.
At some point, the cable channels need to know when Breaking News becomes Broken News. If you want to survive in the business of information, you need to inform -- NOT mindlessly riff and kill time like a comedian struggling to get offstage.
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