COLUMN: Fall Sucks.

Ah, yes, a column which I would like to call:

WHY THIS FALL SUCKS: An Essay in 5 Parts.

1. THE WEATHER. Okay, so by the time you read this, it's supposed to be perfectly fall-like in nature outside. 60's, breezy, partly cloudy, etc. This would have been well and good -- in SEPTEMBER, when it's supposed to turn breezy and cool. Instead, as I write this, it's 92 degrees outside and I'm sitting with my a/c on blast.

If this is global warming, then okay, fine, Al Gore, you win. I'll start doing my part. I'll shut the water off while I'm brushing my teeth. Whatever I have to do. Because I like summer, but I also occasionally like summer to end.

Fall is my favorite time of year. I like walking through leaves. I like wearing a jacket. I like cuddling up around a campfire. None of this works in scalding weather. Mother Nature's already been wrecking my plans willy-nilly.

This weekend and last was the Spoon River Scenic Drive to the southeast. It's a festival that lures you in with the promise of fall scenery and then sells you funnel cakes and lemon shake-ups until you finally explode. If you somehow survive with your sanity, you likely do it with a hole in your wallet and a car full of knick-knacks, most of which are probably somehow made out of corn cobs. It's wacky and tacky fun, and my kinda fest.

But it's certainly not a 90+ degree outing. Mmm... the heat index is 102, I could sure go for a hot mug of apple cider. Yeah, not happening. Chicken and noodles? Chili? No way. So we cancelled plans and I stayed home and Grinched my way through what should have been a great roadtrip.

2. MY NOSE. On the other hand, staying inside might be a good thing. I don't know what's happening to the air outside this week, but I certainly know that I'm allergic to it. I don't normally have bad hay fever, but October has been a nightmare thus far. The other day, I woke up, blinked my eyes, and promptly sneezed... 37 TIMES. IN A ROW. Sneezes feel kinda good at first, but man, after 37 of 'em, I start to worry about busting an O-ring or something. My eyes are puffy, my sinuses are throbbing, and I'm living from Claritin to Claritin. Forget fall, I'm ready for all that ragweed to get buried under a foot or two of snow at this point.

3. THE CUBS. Okay, I'm the world's worst baseball fan. I don't think I've watched an MLB game since the Sox were in the World Series. Real Cubs fans probably want to kill me, and hey, rightfully so. But even us fair weather fans have to root for the perennial home state underdogs. It's one thing to place high hopes on a team that fails, but it's another altogether when that team chokes so bad that you start WISHING for a Steve Bartman to blame it on.

4. NASCAR. Yes, I know it's a character flaw that I love watching Nextel Cup racing, but I don't care. Despite the sane part of my personality, I inexplicably love NASCAR. But there's only a handful of races left, and then it's done for the year. Then what will I do with my Sundays? I've already tried looking out the window and watching cars turn left, but somehow it's just not the same.

5. THE FALL SEASON. One thing I WON'T be doing to bide the time is watching network TV, because -- newsflash -- the new fall season reeks. Every year like clockwork, I get all excited about the new slate of shows coming to network TV. Then, every year like clockwork, I actually watch them. Bad move. When my choices start to become "Hmm, do I watch the Geico cavemen or the bionic woman," that's when it's time to choose C: none of the above. As opposed to CSI: None of the Above, which will probably be coming NEXT fall.

I mean, seriously -- there's a new show on TV this year about a guy who's a private investigator by day, VAMPIRE BY NIGHT. Are you kidding me? The collective braintrust of network execs couldn't come with a better premise than that? What's next? A heartwarming sitcom about a yeti who babysits 3 precocious kids? Actually, I wanted to give the vampire show a chance, but only because it's got that Jason Dohring kid in it who was fantastic in Veronica Mars. But now every time I see him on the vampire show, it just reminds me what a BETTER show Veronica Mars was, and if it hadn't been cancelled last year we could be enjoying its fourth season right now, and... and...

I'm officially saying it: Bah humbug. In October. That's a new record. I'm gonna go pout in bed. Somebody wake me up when winter gets here.

COLUMN: Assembly

A friend of mine and I were joking the other day about how I should use my column as leverage to go to places in town that I've always wanted to check out -- you know, exotic locales where the general public isn't allowed, like the top of the Kone tower, or a security camera room aboard one of the casinos, or even the creepy old house that sits atop the 25th St. hill in Rock Island. Those are places I've always wanted to see first-hand (and wouldn't say no if the opportunity presented itself *cough*).

Yet even without the help of my column, I still occasionally find myself in the oddest of places. Take last Friday, for example, when I went somewhere I never thought I'd go again: high school.

Not MY high school, mind you. That's all the way down in Galesburg, and trust me, there's enough bad adolescent karma there to crush my soul and re-open the wounds of puberty seven-fold. But I DID, however, get to pop in to Rock Island High's fieldhouse for their homecoming assembly last week.

You guys know that I moonlight as a DJ on the side, right? Well, the Rocky High cheerleaders came to me a few weeks ago all sad-puppy-eyed and desperate, and asked if I'd mix the music for their homecoming routine. All of this in exchange for some homemade cookies. I'm such a sucker. Plus I'm still waiting for those cookies (*double cough* Am I getting sick?)

Since I knew a few of the adults on-hand, I figured I'd pop my head in and see for myself exactly what I'd spent the last few weeks soundtracking. And right off the bat, it was odd.

Arriving early, I walked in to a near-empty gymnasium and found some of my age-appropriate friends already staking out prime bleacher real estate. I clumsily plopped down next to them, and instantly started worrying about how NOT to lose a car key out of my pocket and into the dark recesses of Bleacher Netherland. Man, I'm becoming an old fuddy-duddy.

Then a bell rang and it happened. Students began filing in out of nowhere like livestock, and it hit me. Every high school neurosis I had ever had. Wham. Sherman and Mr. Peabody had set the wayback machine to 1987. Years may change, but high school pep assemblies remain the same.

There was the slightly befuddled yet clearly respected principal type, asking over and over again for the kids to quiet down. There were the ragged-looking teachers, who were obviously not having the time of their lives shepherding their classrooms into some form of organized seating.

There was gossip. In case you care, from what I heard over my right shoulder, someone named Keisha is totally getting played by someone named Dre, who is "straight trippin' even though he fiiiine."

Then there was the Rocky alma mater song. Okay, YES I know that I'm sure it's a sacred tradition I should respect, and YES it was probably written by some famous historical Rock Islander who was a great person, and YES the Rocky choir did a fantastic job tackling it. But MAN, what a downer of a tune.

I couldn't quite make out the lyrics, partly due to the gym acoustics, partly due to the continuing saga of Keisha and Dre, but I'm pretty sure it was something like: "Alma mater, alma mater, we mourn this dirge for thee/In crimson and gold we drape our dead/Hi de li de dee."

Okay, I'm just kidding. Please don't send me hate mail. It had real words which were probably touching and poetic. But at a pep assembly, I just wanted something, well, peppy. Maybe it could be reworked to the music of "Hey Hey We're the Monkees" or something. I'm just sayin'. All I know is that when a kid behind me spiced it up with a little beatboxing to the chuckles of his fellow students, I had to stifle a laugh myself.

But on the whole it was a great assembly. It was neat to see the Rocky cheerleaders do their thing to music I helped make. And it was neat to see such fantastic school spirit from the whole student body. It turned out we were sitting in the sophomore section, and the sophomores went on to win the spirit contest at the expense of the remaining shards of my eardrum.

"School spirit" is a weird concept, isn't it? When we're IN school, we're told that it's important to have. But why? Does it translate to the real world? Has anyone ever gone, "Well, you got a 10 on your ACT and you've got a 1.2 GPA, but you've got school spirit so WELCOME TO HARVARD!" But maybe it IS important to have spirit in everything you do. Maybe we need pep assemblies in the real world, like here at the paper. Our publisher could tell us all to quiet down, then we could have a spirit contest between the writers and the sales staff, and I could finally be elected Homepaper King!

Or maybe I'm just an old no-fun-nik and it's NOT 1987 all over again. After all, I scanned the seats but never saw MY high school clique anyplace: the outcasts. Where were the kids in black turtlenecks and Joy Division t-shirts making crass comments about lack of individualism and people behaving like sheep? I saw not ONE kid sticking it to The Man. I just saw a school full of spirit and having a blast.

Maybe that's what pep assemblies are all about. All I know is that -- even though I remain a Silver Streak by birthright -- I high-fived a stranger when I saw on the news that the Rocks crushed Quincy in the big game.

COLUMN: Crockpot

When you're a single, aging, chubby, nerdtastic man-boy such as myself, moments of sheer ego-boosting don't come often. And when those fleeting moments DO occur, you've got to cherish them and ride that ego wave for as long as you possibly can. which is why I don't need to apologize before telling you all about how TOTALLY SUPER AWESOME I am.

I achieved something this weekend. Something I've never been able to pull off before. Something that I'll be patting myself on the back over for weeks to come. To the average person, it's probably nothing. It's probably going to be a huge anti-climax. It's probably going to cause that one dude to make his "IS THIS NEWS?" comment when this column runs online. But I don't care. I did it and I'm proud.

I... cooked dinner.

And here's the kicker: It was good. Like, REALLY good. Like, friends-asked-me-for-the-recipe kinda good. This may seem like no big deal to you, but for a culinary moron like me, it's nothing less than an epic moment of achievement.

It's not like I have any particularly deep-seeded ethical conflicts with my kitchen appliances or anything. It's just that -- as a single guy with a surplus of jobs, activities, and laziness aplenty -- cooking takes up waaaay too much time. First you have to cook the food. Then you have to clean it all up. And THAT is why Pizza Hut is on my speed dial.

I actually enjoy cooking when the mood hits. But since I make my own meals 0.0001% of the time, I'm incompetent at it. Among my many misdeeds:

- Making spaghetti in a hot pot. Call it a learning experience. Call it a science experiment. Call it time to buy a new hot pot, because whatever substance the spaghetti transfigured itself into lines the walls of that hot pot to this day.

- Frying bacon in a pot. Hey, my only skillet was busy with instant pancakes at the time, so I figured "what-the-hey" and threw some bacon into a pot -- whereupon it shriveled up into a series of grease-coated bacon death-balls.

- Baking a cake. Once on a dare, I decided to pull out the craziest cake recipe I could find and try to make it for a Food Day here at work. The finished product never made it to Food Day, but it could have served as a formidable blunt weapon and/or doorstop quite well.

But recently I discovered my problem. I was merely using the wrong appliances. Stoves, ovens, mixers -- all these do is exascerbate my culinary ineptitude. Why bother learning how to use these energy-wasting and skill-requiring implements when modern science has provided us bachelors with the ultimate cooking tool.

I speak, of course, of mankind's greatest creation: the crock pot.

Crock pot cooking is DEFINITELY more my speed. Throw some stuff in, switch the thing on, go watch a NASCAR race and some football, and a mere 8 to 10 hours later, din-din is served. Nerds especially dig the ease and creativity of crock-pots. If you don't believe me, type "crock pot recipes" into Google and enjoy the 2,370,000 results. If they sell it in a grocery store, you can probably melt it in a slow cooker with a gob of Velveeta and some soup mix and turn it into Bachelor's Delight.

Still, I find myself not using my crock pot as much as I thought I would. I guess I tend never to know what I want 8 hours prior. When I wake up in the morning, I have a hard enough time picking breakfast cereal, let alone what I might fancy eating 10 hours down the road. So the crock pot sits most the year gathering dust. I don't know what force of nature caused me to pull it down on Sunday, but I'm so glad I did.

I found some red potatoes and threw 'em in. Added some baby carrots. Plonked in a can of condensed Cream of Chicken Soup. Then I cut up four round steaks, topped it off with a cup of red wine and a packet of pot roast seasoning. I was terrified as it was slow-cooking away, since (a) even I know that beef and chicken together isn't normal, but it was the only Cream-Of soup I had, and (b) for the first 3 hours, it smelled like I was making wine soup.

But I'll tell you what, the end result was GREAT. Try it yourself and tell my ego that it's wrong. Okay, sure, maybe I cheated with some canned soup and a seasoning packet, but I don't care. It was tasty and hearty and it came from MY kitchen. So who knows, maybe there's hope for me yet. But fear not, restaurants of Rock Island -- unless I finally figure out how to slow cook up a pepperoni pizza, you're not rid of me quite yet.

COLUMN: Defrost

Congratulate me, Quad Cities. It's only taken 150 columns worth of effort, but I have finally had a moment of pure self-improvement. Yes, a fleeting glimpse at what my life would be like were I a pro-active human being and not the lump-o'-lard couch potato of reality. And it didn't take me pouring my heart out in a column, it didn't take one iota of soul-searching. It just took me getting sick.

There's nothing ickier than a summer cold, and I just got over a doozy of one. I was working on a draft of what would eventually become last week's column when -- achoo! -- the rapid-fire sneezing started and I knew I was doomed.

That reminds me -- do you know what my biggest pet peeve ever is? People who hold their sneezes in. There are girls who I work with who, when they sneeze, make dainty little noises like this: "Fft." "Fft." When I sneeze, I go like this: "WHAFLAAAARGHL!" If I tried to "fft" my sneezes, I'd most certainly rupture my eardrums and quite possibly pop my eyeballs right on out of my head. Doesn't it HURT to hold in a sneeze? Sneezing feels GOOD. It's your body's way of going, "BEGONE FOUL GERMS!" Don't be afraid to let the sneezes loose, folks, that's all I'm sayin'. We won't think less of you. But I digress.

So this nightmare of a cold arrives like an unwanted relative and sets up camp for a week. And then I screw up and do what I ALWAYS do: over-react and immediately call in sick to work. This is a habitually dumb move, because it always takes about 2 days for the worst bits of a cold to hit, and I invariably jump the gun. Still, I called in more of a courtesy to my co-workers than anything else. The last thing any of them wants is sniffly little me showing up to WHAFLAAAARGHL all over the department like a walking, talking biohazard.

Instead I stayed home. And turned on the TV to what can only be described as catastrophically bad viewing options. This is my least favorite part of being home sick: While a get-out-of-work-free card sounds positively wonderful, the reality is that my apartment can be FAR more boring than the workplace, and within an hour, I've developed cabin fever on top of my ACTUAL fever. So I sat around and stewed for awhile. All this did was turn my thoughts into a running monologue of "I hate being sick. I hate being sick." I couldn't take it any more. I needed to take my mind off feeling icky.

I stood up. I looked around. And then, out of sheer boredom and desperation, I started (gasp) cleaning.

First I re-alphabetized all my CD's (don't laugh, I'm such a music nerd that this is a FIVE HOUR process.) Then I alphabetized my DVD's. Then I figured it was time for an orange juice break, so I opened the fridge in search of some Vitamin C deliciousness.

"Hey," said Mr. Moldy Burrito, "Enough with the lights. Some of us are trying to decay in peace here!"

Well, maybe he didn't say that. But he sure did smell that. Being a single guy who lives (and will probably one day die) by the hand of fast food, refrigerator upkeep is NOT one of my strong suits. There's always some beverages in there, always a pizza box or two, and what's left is invariably an ugly collection of mustards, jellies, and forgotten leftovers, usually covered in the sort of mold that could likely either kill mankind or save mankind. I leave those answers to science.

It was at that moment I remembered buying ice cream the day before. I know that ice cream isn't on the recommended diet of the ill and infirm, but I had a craving. A little nibble wouldn't hurt anything, right? So I dug in and grabbed a spoonful to find the ice cream (a) mushy, and (b) tasting a tad bit like Mr. Moldy Burrito.

Enough was enough. There's a fine line between messy and, well, gross, and the fridge had crossed the line. Cold be damned, it was time for action. I stood there and cleaned out the whole thing. The ice cream was mushy because my freezer had collected so much ice that the door wouldn't even shut right, so after I cleaned, I defrosted.

Problem was, I didn't just have ice in my freezer. I had tremendous, global-warming-solution-sized icebergs. So imagine me standing there literally for HOURS: a pot of boiling water in one hand, a blow dryer in the other, Kleenex shoved up each nostril, Vicks smeared on my chest, doing my best to conquer both an ugly cold and an ugly, not-so-cold refrigerator at the same time.

But you know what? It really WAS a proud moment. Two weeks have passed, I feel much better (though I still managed to infect several co-workers off sick as I type this,) and my refrigerator looks and works a million times better. Maybe I WILL get the hang of this bachelor life one of these days. Let's just hope it doesn't take the flu to do it.

COLUMN: Randy, Pt. 2

I know this is supposed to be the "dog days of summer," but I never thought I'd get to live them so literally. The plot thus far, if you happened to read last week's column: Shane finds a small hapless terrier puppy in his parking lot. Shane takes dog to the pound. Owner pulls a no-show. Shane adopts dog and, for reasons unknown, names him Randy.

Here's the thing, though. I can't really have a dog. I work two jobs and I'm just not home enough. Plus, the vet told me that this puppy could put on up to 40 more pounds, which would be highly problematic in my already cramped abode. And any hopes I had of keeping a dog were dashed right away by my feline roommates.

The night I found the dog and took him to the pound, I returned home coated in dog hair and walked in to my apartment. As usual, my cats came barreling out from the bedroom. But this time it was different. Both of them came to a screeching halt. Sniff. Sniff. Hair goes up on their backs, and they made a slow, slinky retreat to the bedroom. They knew. And if I wasn't sure, I woke up the next morning to find the hair-covered shirt removed from the laundry basket and relocated to the middle of the living room. They knew, and they were NOT amused.

This is where my friend Linn comes in. I'll say it in print right now: Linnea Crowther is the most awesome person on the planet ever.

Why? Because Linn turned her Moline house into a foster home for Randy and did most of the legwork in finding him a good home. Linn deserves far more than a simple shout-out in the paper, but for now, this'll have to do.

It's fun to watch puppies learn new things. For instance, on Day 1, Randy discovered that he had teeth -- and he could use those teeth to bite, well, pretty much anything: hands, feet, shoes, sticks, and even large portions of a defenseless wooden patio. But his favorite thing to nibble on? Toby, Linn's sweet old-timer of a dog. Toby's as big as a house and as nice as they come, and was surprisingly patient in dealing with a puppy who spent most of his waking moments trying to turn Toby mental.

On Day 2, Randy discovered his nether-region, and spent the better part of the day doing his own version of the Humpty Dance with anything in sight. THIS is where Toby drew the line, and understandably so.

Still, Randy was a great puppy. When he wasn't traversing the yard humping or biting everything in sight, he was underfoot or licking your face or curled up in a ball on one of our laps, making us say words like "awww" and "lookit" far more times than I'm personally comfortable with. We didn't just need to find him a home, we needed to find him an awesome home. I ran an ad in the paper and we whittled our way through potential candidates.

I was suddenly going from Shane Brown, Dog Owner to Shane Brown, Adoption Advocate. There's no worse situation to be in than having to decide between a bunch of potentially great dog-owners. Finding Randy a great home was a mission, and part of that mission meant having to disappoint some folks, and I never want to be in that position again.

One family sounded great on the phone, and we scheduled a time for them to stop by and have a look-see. Of course, this was the day Randy had started teething and was thus gnawing on everything until he was bleeding from his gums. It was also the same day we discovered he'd caught kennel cough from his brief stint in dog jail. So, as if on perfect cue, the family shows up to look at the dog that we had promised them was cute as a button... to find Randy running around at warp speed, hacking and bleeding. Then Toby, who had the misfortune to be a white dog, saunters up COVERED in blood from Randy's gums. Suffice to say, it was NOT a love connection. It was more like an outtake from Cujo.

Eventually, though, we found Randy a PERFECT new life with a wonderful family out in Edgington. 4 kids, a beautiful house, a huge yard, and all the love and attention this dog could ever want. Plus I saw copies of our papers in their recycling bin, so they passed the first test.

I must admit, though, that when we brought Randy out to them, I noticed a Fred Thompson support sticker and a Rascal Flatts CD, meaning that Randy's new family are Republicans AND country music fans. Little do they know that in the two weeks we had him, Randy became a lifelong Democrat with a distinct affinity for indie rock. But we'll keep that our little secret.

Oh, and from what I've heard, Randy is becoming Sammy, but I can live with that. I had initially hoped that my folks would take the dog, and if that had happened, he'd be cursed with a name like Snooky or Pookums by now. Besides, the new owners have promised to send us photos and updates so that Linn and I can watch our little foster child grow up.

So here's to you, Randy-Sammy. Thanks for stopping by.

COLUMN: Randy Pt. 1

This column's gonna be a quick one, folks. This is the first moment of peace I've had in two weeks, and I simply don't want to spend it in front of a laptop. I've just been through one of the most stressful times in my life -- and, as usual, it's all Taco Bell's fault.

See, if it wasn't for the irresistable lure of the Gordita Supreme, I wouldn't have headed out to my car that night at midnight. And if I hadn't walked out of my apartment that night, I never would have met Randy.

I saw him standing there right away. I'm not prone to dealing with strangers in my parking lot at midnight, so I tried not to make eye contact. In fact, even though he was obviously making a bee line for my car, I ignored him and drove off to Taco Bell. But fifteen minutes later, when I returned, he was still there loitering in the parking lot. I had no choice - I had to deal with him. I tried to step out of my car, but I didn't have a chance. As soon as I opened the door, Randy jumped on my lap and started licking my face.


It's been well established in these pages that I am proudly a cat guy. I'm incredibly lazy and cats are incredibly low maintenance, and that symbiotic relationship is the only way I can relate to a pet. But when a lost terrier puppy hops into one's car and starts licking one's face, you can't help but fall in love.

I took the little guy in, gave him some food, and called the cops. I practically couldn't bear handing him over to animal control, but my cat-dominated apartment was ill-equipped for a dog on the premises, and besides, surely this puppy had an owner out there deeply concerned.

The next day, I put an ad in our Lost & Found section and waited for a call from the dog's grateful owner, who was likely roaming the streets of Rock Island in a sleepless daze looking for their awesome puppy. But the call never came. I couldn't believe it.

Animal control holds dogs to try and find their owners for a week -- and for that entire week, I couldn't shake the pup from my mind. I was hoping they were taking good care of him. I was hoping he wasn't mad that his new friend had sent him straight to dog jail. But as the week progressed with no owner in sight, I started having thoughts that surprised even me.

Could I raise a dog? It's not as if I've had no experience with dogs. I grew up in a dog-friendly home. When I was a kid, we always had some kind of little yip dog in the house. But could I cope with the trials and tribulations of dog-owning? As much as I love my mom, the dogs she raised always seem to turn into spoon-fed social maladjusts -- their last dog would break out in "stress bumps" every time it got upset, and their current dog gets pancreatitis every time it sees its shadow. Would this dog befall the same fate? And could I cope with it? The potty walks? The baths? The vet bills? What if I wanted to go out of town for a weekend? Pets are fun, but dogs are responsibilities.

Still, every time I had a blank thought that week, it was filled with images of this puppy sitting sadly in the pound. Now, the truth of the matter is that this dog is SO friendly, it probably was having the time of its life in that kennel. But my mind painted the picture of one of those impossibly huge-eyed sad dogs you see in velvet paintings, and by the end of the week, I'd made my decision: I was getting this dog.

So I went to the pound to spring him from the clink. I had a few questions, though. How old WAS he? Three months, they guessed. Wow, he really WAS just a puppy. Was this dog done growing? Nope, thought the vet. They estimated he could still put on up to 40 more pounds.

I ignored it at the time, but upon hearing that, I knew I had a change of heart. I MIGHT be able to have a little tiny thing in my apartment, but a fifty pound dog? My cats would never forgive me. My apartment's barely big enough for me, let alone a dog that could grow up to be a third my size. Still, I had made up my mind to spring him from the joint, so I ponied up the dough and adopted him -- but did so in order to find him a perfect home.

Step one, though, was picking a name, even if it was destined to be temporary. I thought it would be funny to have a dog with a common name. My friends and I considered Eric, Tim, and Doug, before settling on... Randy. Yep, Randy the Dog. And a few days later, when Randy discovered his own nether-region and what exactly he could, umm, DO with it, I realized the name was appropriate.

But more on that next week. Right now, I just need a nap.

Anatomy of a Trainwreck: The 2007 VMA's

Discussion points on the annual trainwreck that is MTV's Video Music Awards. This year, though -- the show's first stint in Vegas where they, in true MTV style, rented out the entire Palms hotel -- was tremendously MORE of a trainwreck than previous years:

* First off, cutting the show from 3 hours to 2 yet NOT cutting back the # of "featured entertainers." Bad move. We'll get into that later.

* The Pre-Show:

1) Dear John Norris, WHY DO YOU EXIST? Sincerely, The Earth. Really, is there anyone creepier than the aged MTV news guy who you NEVER see except trying to lamely host the pre-show coverage for one of these award atrocities? Look, John Norris was annoying 15 years ago when his sole job seemed to be filling air time while Kurt Loder went potty. A decade on, he's now rocking dyed hair and what appeared to be EYE SHADOW? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Ick, please go away.

2) Let's put the red carpet on the casino floor of the Palms? Whose bright idea was this? The whole thing just looked like a hot mess. Nobody appeared to have room to move, twirl, or suck up appropriately to the paparazzi. And on camera, it just looked like human chaos.

* BRITNEY. Oh, dear. I mean, really. Look, I'm not going to wax poetic about Britney Spears' troubles of late. We all know what a horrific year she's had, right? But you know the best thing about pop culture? It is hopelessly FORGIVING. If Britney truly wanted to resurrect her career, all she had to do was show up, dance sexy, lip sync, and be her sluttily charming self, and all would have been forgiven. Instead, we got bizarro half-a**sed Britney. Well, if ONLY her a** was half. Instead, it was like a doublewide. Look, I'm a big guy, I know what it's like to be chunky and flabby. I, however, hide it appropriately in baggy pants and oversized t-shirts. Britney, on the other hand, decided to shake her thang wearing little more than a moist towelette. And her thang was a tad too big for that kinda skimpily-clothed shakin'. Add to that her barely-trying dance moves and why-even-bother lip syncing, and what do you get? CAREER SUICIDE. It's over, girl.

* Sarah Silverman. Wow, don't you think MTV was setting Britney up for failure by bringing out Sarah Silverman directly afterwards? Sarah Silverman who earns a living by making the kind of crass, off-color, offensive, hurtful jokes that can instantly wreck a person? The thing is, though, usually Sarah Silverman's funny as hell. Tonight, though, she was just a mess. A couple potshots at Britney that were such low blows that she lost both the crowd AND her timing all at once. It was an ugly crash-and-burn.

* The Neutrogena Party Suite, or whatever it was called. Apparantly Neutrogena, a major sponsor of the show, had some kind of contest where you could win a trip to the VMA's. But instead of actually going to the SHOW, these poor contest winners appeared to be sealed in a hotel suite at the Palms with a food tray, DJ, and karaoke machine, with TV's to watch the event going on above and below them. And Neutrogena kept paying for these ad spots where they broadcast live from this Empty Funless Room of Despair, as if these kids were a part of the action. Granted, the 5 or 6 kids sealed in this room looked like they were having FAR more fun than the people at the ceremony itself, so maybe there's something to be said for Neutrogena. Besides, their room was hosted by Heroes starlette Hayden Panetierre, and there are few other people I'd ever want to be trapped in a hotel suite with. So maybe they really WERE the night's big winners after all.

* So the award show was splintered off two ways. First, you had the main event in the Palms grand ballroom or whatever. But at the same time, 4 of the suites in the hotel were holding "private" shows -- one hosted by Fallout Boy, one by the Foo Fighters, one by Kanye West, and the last, dubbed the "Southern Hospitality" suite, co-hosted by Timbaland and Justin Timberlake. Each of these suite parties looked like a pretty decent time and chock full of great performances... TOO BAD MTV DIDN'T SHOW ANY OF THEM. As a result of basically 5 events going on simulteanously, the network tried to cram coverage by going, "Alright, now let's check in on the Kanye West suite." The cameras would then take us to the suite, where we'd join whatever song was occurring live in progress, get to watch for about a minute, then *poof* coverage returns back to the main room, where there decidedly was NOT a party going on. There was some seriously cool stuff going on in those suite performances. At one point, they send things up to the Foo Fighters room and join the band in mid-song. What's NOT noted, though, is that Pat Smear, who used to play guitar for the band in their early days, was onstage with the guys. That's a pretty monumental occurence, and if you weren't paying careful attention, you wouldn't have even noticed. Guests were omnipresent in the rooms. Gym Class Heroes and Rihanna joined Fallout Boy; Cee-lo, Lemmy from Motorhead, and Serge from System of a Down joined the Foo Fighters; Soulja Boy was performing with Kanye; TI and 50 Cent were onstage with Justin & Timbaland. Heck, one time they cut to the Foo Fighters party and the Foos were nowhere to be seen, it was Queens of the Stone Age playing! And all we got to see was scattered minutes of what may have been legendary performances (with vague promises from MTV that their website would have highlights from the suites that didn't make the show.) WEAK.

* Whoever did the seating arrangement for the main party needs to be fired, like, NOW. From what it looked like on TV, fans were either relegated to the back of the main ballroom or were up in one of the 4 party suites, leaving the artists on the main stage to play to what appeared to be a room full of bored record executives. Seriously, no one seated at any of the front tables looked younger than 35. That's not a way for MTV to market themselves. As a result, NO performances got the crowd hype necessarily to make them legendary.

* Chris Brown. Okay, the kid can dance. Like, really, in a jaw-dropping sorta way. But he went to the Britney Spears School of Less-Than-Great Lip Syncing as well. What happened to at least having a live mic to augment the pre-recorded vocals? Even though it was impressive dancing, the whole thing felt like mime without even pretending to sing live. And, inexplicably, in the middle of his performance, Rihanna pops out to do a verse of "Umbrella." And she was singing live. Now, there's a remix of "Umbrella" out there that features Chris Brown, so I was naturally expecting him to do his verse. Nope. It was just a disjointed Rihanna cameo that made NO sense in the set.

* I really don't want to, but I totally like that new Linkin Park song.

* Alicia Keys. Let me get juvenile for a second... WHEN DID ALICIA KEYS GET THAT BOOTY? She took to the stage with a J. Lo sized posterior that seemed to magically have grown out of nowhere. Like, can you get butt implants? That said, Alicia Keys is a TRUE performer and was definitely the highlight of the televised performances, even if she DID bust out a Wham cover (?!?!)

* According to Jennifer Garner, the Best New Artist of the Year is someone called "Gym Class Fallout." If only they existed...

* Apparantly, the highlight of the show happened prophetically during a commercial break, when Tommy Lee and Kid Rock got into a slugfest, presumably over the love of leather-skinned, hepatitic Pammy Anderson. Now seeing THAT woulda been worth my time. Oh, and MAD props to Diddy for his "please stop the violence in rock and roll" ad-libs -- that was THE best moment of the night, and vindication for every hip-hop artist in the audience.

* The awards themselves. Okay, so the MTV Video Music Awards never had THAT much credibility in the first place. I mean, who decides who wins? The marketing dept. at MTV? It's NEVER been explained. But, still, they used to at least go through the motions. This year, the awards were such an afterthought that they followed trend with their movie awards and just started making up stupid categories for the awards. It was like somebody at MTV thought, "Hmm, we should give Justin an award, so let's make a category called 'Most Totally Awesome Performance By A Former Boyband Member Whose Last Name Rhymes With Bimberlake'!" It was ridiculous. The categories were literally that lame.

* What happened to the Video Vanguard award? Or Director of the Year? I suppose there's no point, especially considering MTV doesn't air videos anymore.

So congratulations, MTV, for your absolutely worst awards show to date. I thought it would be impossible to make the show worse than last year's, but hey, you pulled it off. Maybe next year, you should just do away with the awards altogether and call it what it is -- a badly thrown together excuse to get a bunch of celebrities to celebrate themselves.

Vanessa Hudgens Nude

...will not be found on this site.

But hey, since the entire male population is scouring the internet this weekend looking for her nudie pics, maybe it'll help my blog get some more hits. Yes, Virginia, I WILL sink to that level.

What IS this affliction plaguing young starlets of the world that compels them to think, "Hey, I know, why don't I get naked and take some embarassing sexy pics that would easily result in a career catastrophe were they to get in the wrong hands! [Insert temporary skeevy boyfriend here] would NEVER make those pictures public! He, like, totally loves me!"

And, more to the point, why has this affliction never touched Katie Holmes?

(Psst... besides, those pics of Vanessa Hudgens naked? They're totally crap.)

COLUMN: Weekly World News

I love our newspapers, I really do -- and in more than an it-puts-food-on-the-table kind of way. It consistently blows my mind that I'm allowed to write about pretty much whatever suits my fancy every week -- and equally mind-blowing that occasionally you folks care enough to read it. Over the years, you've come to trust our company to provide you with the best daily news that our rag-tag team can muster, and I, for one, am humbled beyond words at the opportunity.

Too bad, then, that it's all a load of hooey.

As hard as we try, we're obviously lacking when it comes to the big picture. Sure, we bring you news, but it's usually just filler gobbeldygook. You know, insignifigant stuff like floods and murders and government and hog plants, yada yada. As well-intentioned as our newspapers may be, we just don't have the backbone to bring you the information that REALLY matters. Is it a conspiracy? Perhaps. After all, the Quad Cities DOES have its share of grassy knolls. But perhaps not -- because the same yellow-bellied fate befalls nearly every newspaper in the country.

Every newspaper, that is, except one. One publication out there with the guts to bring you the REAL news. The news that affects our lives on a cosmic scale. The news that no other paper has the guts to print. The news that could save your very life, especially if you're planning a vacation to the yeti-infested mountains of Nepal.

What, you ask, is this paper that puts us to shame? This bastion of knowledge, defender of truth, hope for the masses, and all-encompassing guide to the REAL whereabouts of Elvis? (Answer: Pluto.)

I speak, of course, of the heroic pinnacle of journalism known as The Weekly World News.

And, dear readers, it is with profound soundness and regret that I must inform you of its passing. Yes, last week marked the very last issue of the Weekly World News that you'll ever find in newsstands, bookstores, and -- most importantly -- next to the Wint-O-Green gum in checkout aisle #11.

I know what you're thinking. Some of you are probably convinced that The Weekly World News is nothing but a supermarket tabloid full of bogus stories and Photoshopped images dreamt up by a pack of punks that excelled in their college Creative Writing courses.

Well, THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT THE GOVERNMENT WANTS YOU TO BELIEVE. If you were a true reader of the Weekly World News, you would realize that, were EVERYONE to know that a race of alien vampire ninjas was thiiiis close to launching an attack, society would be crippled in fear. If you were to understand that the government was REALLY being run by a very-much-alive-thank-you John F. Kennedy and his close advisor, "slain" rapper Tupac Shakur, your faith in our nation would crumble.

And now, somehow, Someone (with a capital s) has seen to it that The Weekly World News is silenced forever.

My only advice to you brave souls? RUN. Run like the wind and be very, very afriad of EVERYTHING. The true horror is that -- without the trusty reporting of the Weekly World News -- by now, Bat-Boy could be anywhere.

It was in 1992 that the Weekly World News first discovered the half-human, half-bat hybrid living in an underground lair in Virginia. Despite the hubbub that must go hand-in-hand with Bat-Boy leading the police on a three-state car chase, the WWN was the ONLY press on top of the situation, as well as their crack team of investigative reporters who found out that Bat-Boy had enrolled in a small liberal arts college in upstate New York under the pseudonym Guy Fledermaus. In October of 2006, Bat-Boy was captured on film (by the Weekly World News reporters, natch) riding atop a New York City subway car.

Today? Without the keen reporting of the WWN, Bat-Boy could be anywhere. He could be right here in the Quad Cities. Wait -- what was that? Odd, I could swear I just heard flapping outside my window. Ah well, it's probably... nothing. OR WAS IT?

When I was a kid, my mom used to snag the WWN from my grandmother's coffeetable every week. And then like clockwork, I'd go in and snag it off my mom's nightstand a few days later. Why Mom didn't grab it off the rack and proudly present it to the supermarket cashier is beyond me. Well, she probably didn't want to tip off the government (or at least Tupac and JFK) that she was an Informed Reader. Too much knowledge can be dangerous. That's why she faked that she was embarassed to be seen with the WWN in her house every week - it was for MY SAFETY! Thanks, Mom!

And now, with the demise of the WWN -- officially attributed to a decline in circulation but we all who's really responsible (Bigfoot, and maybe Elvis) -- we now live in an uncertain time. Bat-Boys and yetis could be running around willy-nilly without a trace of documentation.

So, dear friends, I vow that at least one humor-columnist-who-likes-to-pretend-he's-a-reporter will remain vigilant. Sleep easy, Quad Cities, for I will maintain a constant journalistic lookout for Bat-Boys and assorted Elvi aplenty. The Weekly World News may be gone, but true journalism remains. Well, at least until the vampire alien ninja uprising begins.

I haven't disappeared. Promise.

So I've been fielding a few phone calls and e-mails this week from Leader readers wondering what's up with my column, or lack thereof, in a couple of recent issues. Don't worry, it's no big deal.

With all the headaches that come with putting together The Leader every week in its awesome new format, it's easy to accidentally omit something... and twice this month, my column was the accidental forgotten victim.

I'm told that this week's issue will contain both last week's omitted column AND this week's brand new one. So hey, a double dose of yours truly awaits.

COLUMN: Comments

I remember the first time I got on the internet. All at once, it was the gateway to a new dawn, an exciting future opening up over the horizon, and at least three or four other equally corny phrases.

Where would it all lead? Perhaps a portal for commerce. Maybe a way to communicate with people on the other side of the globe. A design to bring humanity together, to strengthen the bonds of man, to unite us all as one.

Or maybe, just maybe, it would be an easier way for a random stranger to call me a jerk and an idiot.

I love our newspaper's website, but I'll tell you what, I sure loved it more when you couldn't anonymously comment on every story. Actually, I don't mind the occasional criticism -- I'd just prefer it came from RATIONAL human beings, and rationality doesn't come easy on the internet.

In a way, it's karmic retribution. When I first got online, one of the first places I hung out at was a site for like-minded pop culture nerds such as myself. The premise was that it'd be a super-neat way to meet people from around the world and have thoughtful discussions and discourse about the state of popular entertainment. The reality was that it was a super-neat way to meet people from around the world and insult them mercilessly. You don't like this band? Then you CERTAINLY must be stupid. Oh, yeah? Well, YOU'RE stupid, stupid! Ad infinitum.

I know what it's like to get burned by somebody online, so I shouldn't take anonymous criticism too seriously. Yet every time I see a negative comment on one of my columns, I have to forcibly stop my competitive side from yelling "Game On!" and writing an equally pointless vitriolic rebuttal. Every week, the ritual goes something like this:

(1) I write a column. I try to be funny. Sometimes it works, sometimes not so much.

(2) The first online comment that always appears is something along the lines of: "Is this what passes for news nowadays?" NO. IT'S NOT. I'm a columnist, not a reporter. The day I break a news story will be the day you realize that something has gone horribly, horribly amiss at the paper. Not every iota of a newspaper is devoted to hard news. You'll find as much news in my columns as you'll find in one of our cookie recipes or an average strip of Nancy (Newsflash: Aunt Fritzi is still hot. Nancy is still creepy.)

(3) Another anonymous post will usually say something like: "I woke up today and I ate some cereal for breakfast. Then I took a shower. Can I get a job as a writer now, too?" I like this guy's style, I do. And once, just to get his goat, I tried to write an entire column about eating cereal. Sadly, that one out-mundaned even me. (Though, for the record, I once threw up after being force-fed shredded wheat by a slightly off-kilter 3rd grade teacher. But that's the extent of my breakfast material, sorry.)

From there, it devolves into an I-like-Shane, I-hate-Shane comment war that lasts until the next column pops up and people forget about the old one. Last week, though, I was especially scared.

There's a chance that my last column may have caused some controversy within the quaint town of Welton, IA. It may have stemmed from my opening line, which read, "Dear residents of Welton, IA: I hate you all, and I hate your stupid little town." You see, my car chose Welton, IA as the perfect place to break down on me recently. Ergo, via simple logic, Welton must be to blame, right? Okay, sure, I was overdue for an oil change and maybe I skipped the last 2 or 3 check-up appointments, but that's beside the point. Every story needs a villain, and in this one, it's clearly the humble (yet evil) village of Welton.

When the story ran, I was a bit ancy. Something told me that maybe some Weltonians might not get the joke. Sure enough, a couple comments popped up online from folks a bit miffed that I chose their town to have some fun with. The "is this news" guy showed up. Even the cereal guy made an appearance. But, for the most part, the comments were positive. Heck, I even got phone calls from a couple people in Welton who got a kick out of the column, one who shared a laugh because he saw me out there with my hood up waiting for a tow. Not to sound like Sally Field winning an Oscar, but hey, YOU LIKE ME! YOU REALLY LIKE ME!

Well, some of you do. Others? Well, I'll imagine the online comments will continue to flow. And I'll remain humbled by the good ones & neurotic over the bad ones. This week, I asked a few of my fellow columnists how they dealt with negative comments. Most told me to ignore them. Our own Johnny Marx, though, reminded me that -- good or bad -- the comments mean that you guys are reading our papers, caring about what we say, and paying our bills. When you think about it, what better compliment could a guy ask for?

COLUMN: Breakdown

Dear Residents of Welton, Iowa:

I hate you all, and I hate your stupid little town.

Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. I'm sure that Welton's a fine little community full of good folk who live in harmony. Truth be told, prior to last weekend, I had never even heard of Welton, Iowa. More truth be told, though, I wish I were still unaware of its existence.

The afternoon started off peachy. I decided to go for a drive with a friend of mine of the female persuasion. It was one of those aimless, Al-Gore-would-not-be-amused afternoon pleasure cruises with no particular destination in mind.

My car had other plans, though, as indicated by the temperature alarm and red lights of the not-good-at-all variety popping up on my dashboard. We were 40 miles away from home.

"Gee, golly," I said in the imaginary family-friendly-newspaper world where I never swear in real life, "This is certainly a pickle."

Happily, less than a mile away I could see a gas station. By the time I got there, though, the Beetle was making a scream under the hood not unlike the sound my cat made the other day when I accidentally rolled my desk chair over her tail. This was NOT good.

See, I've mentioned a billion times in print by now that I'm kind of a weenie, right? And most definitely, one of the chapters of "How To Be A Super Awesome Macho Dude" that I managed to skip in life was the one about automotive maintenance. I know where the gas goes, I know where the oil goes, I know where the key goes. For anything else, I know where my credit card goes.

But that repair shop was 40+ miles away. It's 1000 degrees outside, I'm trying desperately to impress a girl in my car, and I'm effectively nowhere. Excuse me, no, I'm effectively in Welton, Iowa. Ever wonder where Welton, Iowa, is? Answer: It's in NOWHERE.

I opened the hood. There's no discernable reason why I did this, because a car engine makes as much sense to me as a book written in Swahili, but I did it anyways. I checked the oil -- yep, I had oil. I checked the coolant -- yep, I had coolant. In fact, I learned that I had coolant because the moment I broke the air lock on the cap, it all boiled up and all over the engine and onto the pavement. Indeed I HAD coolant. Now the parking lot had it instead. Many apologies to the Welton townsfolk for turning your gas station into a miniature biohazard.

I went into the gas station, added some water, and tried to fire the car back up. It was not amused, and responded by squealing and bleeding all that water right out onto the ground. So I thought for a couple seconds. I needed a plan of action. A plan that would somehow allow us to be rescued, and me to save face in front of the travelling companion. I needed help, but I didn't want to LOOK like I needed help. There was one person I could call.

"Umm, hi, mom," I sheepishly said into the cell phone. "I've got a problem..." That's right. I'm man enough to admit it. My mom knows more about cars than me. It's okay, really, it is. I know more about working at a newspaper and DJing at a dance club than she does, so there. Not that my mom could do a whole heck of a lot, because my car was completely jacked. But trust me, when you're in the middle of nowhere and totally frazzled, your mom's voice can be a good one to hear.

I called a tow truck. I called a friend to come rescue us. Then I waited. And spent more time in Welton than I ever care to. (To add insult to injury, a sign informed us that Friday was "Halibut Day" at that gas station. Curses, missed it by only one day!)

Our crisis was averted. My friend showed up in record time, and, eventually, so did the tow truck. My poor car got hauled back to Moline where I learned that both my water pump and timing belt had gone ker-blooey. Also ker-blooeyed? My checking account, once I paid for the repairs AND the cross-country tow. All told, it was certainly the most expensive daytrip I'd ever taken.

In retrospect, I don't feel so bad that I'm an idiot when it comes to car repair. I mean, even if I HAD known what I was doing under the hood, it wasn't like I could've MacGyvered up a new timing belt with some paper clips and chewing gum. Even if Jeff Gordon had been in the car, we still would've been standing around waiting for that tow truck.

So good people of Welton, I apologize for my earlier outburst. I'm sure your car-eating town is a pleasant place to be. In fact, some of you stopped to see if I needed a hand, and that was pretty cool (though if I had a nickel for every time I heard, "I thought the engine was in the BACK har har," I'd totally have 35 cents by now.) Just forgive me if I'm not exactly in a rush to return to your neck of the woods (Halibut Day notwithstanding.)

John From Cincinatti RIP

Well, it's happened to me again.

I get all into a show and the sucker dies a quick death.

Hollywood Reporter is confirming today that HBO has pulled the plug on "John From Cincinatti," a mere two days after its first season finale. Ten episodes is all we're gonna get.

I wish I could explain why I fell for this show. It was, at its core, an exercise in "artsy for the sake of being artsy," but I was still compelled. When, occasionally, 10 minute scenes would drone on without making hardly ANY sense, I was still compelled. When every third word of the dialogue became "f***," I was still compelled.

It was a show that occasionally made me bristle in its badness. Yet I'm still convinced that the creators were shooting for a really big and powerful message in it somewhere. Redemption... salvation... hope where there should be none... theology... capitalism.

Somewhere in there it all makes sense. And I sincerely hope that there's gonna be a DVD release with some SERIOUS creator commentary.

Uncensored Idol!

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."

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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!

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."

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.

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.