FEATURE: Fairfield & David Lynch

Acclaimed director David Lynch entertains questions from the crowd

during his recent appearance at the Maharishi University of Management in Fairfield, IA.

FAIRFIELD

I'm a huge fan of taking daytrips to weird places. If there's an oddly painted water tower, Superman statue, or future birthplace of Capt. James T. Kirk within driving distance, I've probably been there. I dig the weird.

Well, there's weird... and then there's the 2-hour drive from the Quad Cities to Fairfield, Iowa. Weird doesn't begin to cover Fairfield. Fairfield TRANSCENDS weird.

"There isn't another story like this anywhere in the country," says Fairfield mayor Ed Malloy with a smile.

Once upon a time, Fairfield was just like any other small Iowa town. Throughout the 60's, it's shining beacon was the ever-growing Parsons College. The school had recently implemented an aggressive development program dubbed "The Parsons Plan," and enrollment had skyrocketed.

That all changed in 1966, when Life magazine published an article highly critical of the school, spotlighting the college as a safehouse for Vietnam draft dodgers. Within a year, the school had temporarily lost its accreditation and the ringleaders of the Parsons Plan were removed. In 1973, Parsons College celebrated it's 99th year by closing its doors for the final time. With the closure of Parsons, Fairfield could have become just another rural Iowa town past its heyday. Little did they know the town's future was about to be shaped by a giggling guru from halfway around the globe.

In 1974, the campus of the Parsons was bought by an organization fronted by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Iowa was about to meet a world of Eastern philosophy, Yogic flying, and "bubbling bliss."

The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi was an Indian sage who, in 1955, began teaching a technique that supposedly could develop the creative potential and quality of life of its practitioners -- a technique he called Transcendental Meditation (TM). TM is derived from ancient Indian Vedic literature -- some of the oldest sacred texts in existence. Followers claim that through the practice of TM, the mind is brought to a heightened state of awareness known as Transcendental Consciousness - the source of all thought, energy, and being. It is said that following the simple practice for twenty minutes twice a day can activate parts of the brain normally dead to the world.

TM was first exposed to the West in the late 1950's, but really didn't catch the imagination of the Western World until the Maharishi found four new fans named John, Paul, George, and Ringo. In 1968, the Beatles made a highly publicized trip to the Maharishi's ashram in India to study TM and write the songs that would later become The White Album. While the band eventually had a falling out with the guru (the song "Sexy Sadie" is widely acknowledged as a jab at the Maharishi,) the world had been introduced to the practice of TM and the Maharishi found himself a legion of followers.

That legion now includes folks like Oscar-nominated film director David Lynch, techno savant Moby, hip-hop empresario Russell Simmons, and even Jerry Seinfeld. An estimated six million people now practice Transcendental Meditation on a regular basis.

In the summer of 1974, the former Parsons College was relaunched as the Maharishi International University, now known as the Maharishi University of Management (MUM). A fully accredited college, MUM offers twelve undergraduate programs with a focus they call "consciousness-based education." Alongside a standard college curriculum, the university's students also learn and practice the daily art of TM. All meals are organic and vegetarian. Smoking and drinking are forbidden on campus. Students are encouraged to have lights out by 10 p.m.

The Maharishi passed away earlier this year, but the college carries on his work and even takes things to another level -- namely, quantum physics. Behind the leadership of noted physicist Dr. John Hagelin, the University has applied ancient Vedic Science to the quantum theory of the Unified Field -- what Hagelin refers to as the "universal field of intelligence in nature," the primordial sea of everything that exists. When a practicioner "dives deep" into Transcendence, it is claimed that they touch this Unified Field, creating ripples of positivity not just for the meditator, but for the universal intelligence of all mankind. Through TM, the university hopes to accomplish nothing less than world peace.

Quantum physicist Dr. John Hagelin lectures about the Unified Field to the crowd at the 2008 David Lynch Weekend at the Maharishi University of Management, Fairfield, IA.

The university's impact on Fairfield is hard to miss. Fifteen ethnic restaurants surround the small town square. Everywhere in town, the roofs of homes are topped by an ornamental golden domelet called a kalash. The smell of curry is almost inescapable. It is the ultimate marriage of Iowa charm, Eastern philosophy, and progressive thought.

"The cultural diversity of the school spills out into the community," explains Mayor Malloy, himself a practitioner of TM. "There's an entrepreneurial culture in Fairfield that has everyone discussing new ideas, thinking boldly, and being unafraid of risks."

From the mid-80's to the present, 400 companies and 3000 jobs have been created in Fairfield. In 2003, the National Association for Small Communities dubbed Fairfield the most entrepreneurial small community in the nation. It's a reputation the townsfolk wear with pride, and the advances keep coming.

Just to the north of the city limits is the newly incorporated village of Maharishi Vedic City. Created by followers of TM as a model of ideal city life, every home in the small community is built in accordance to Maharishi Sthapatya Veda design "to promote health, happiness, and good fortune." Each building faces east and has a central silent space called a Brahmasthan. At the heart of Vedic City is The Raj, a luxury health center and spa based on the Maharishi's Vedic approach to health.

Just a short drive from The Raj is the construction site of the Abundance Ecovillage, a project separate from the school but definitely impacted by its teachings. When the Ecovillage is complete, 30 modern state-of-the-art homes and some 100 residents of Fairfield will live entirely off the grid -- powered by the sun and the wind, cooled by earth tubes, heated by fireplaces and home-captured methane, and fed by co-op farming and filtered rainwater catch mills.

"TM gives us the direct experience of how things in life are connected," explains Lonnie Gamble, the project's co-founder. "The Ecovillage gives us an intellectual application of how things in life are connected."

Gamble is also a faculty member at MUM, where 60 students are currently enrolled in the world's first undergraduate degree program in Sustainable Living. Students can choose course tracks in renewable energy, architecture, or agriculture.

"The overall idea is to give students the know-how to design, build, and maintain sustainable communities," says Gamble.

Mayor Malloy touts the town's credo of "buy fresh, buy local," and recently created a Commission on Sustainability to discuss expansive green programs for Fairfield.

"It's something for everyone to get together on regardless of views," says Gamble. "We want to make sustainability a thread that runs through our whole community."

It shouldn't come as a surprise that a town as liberal and diverse as Fairfield also plays host to an astonishing arts scene. You almost need a database just to keep up with the town's calendar of events. Every day and night, you can find concerts, art exhibits, poetry readings, and live theatre. The population of Fairfield is only 9700, yet the town boasts over 300 working artists and 22 art galleries.

Fairfield's art walks, held on the first Friday of every month of the year, attract visitors from around the globe and was named the Iowa Tourism Event of the Year in 2005. June's upcoming event pays homage to the food, art, dance, music, song and games of Italy around the Central Park square green.

The jewel of the town's art scene, though, is the newly constructed Fairfield Arts & Convention Center -- a 32,000 square foot center devoted to serving the diverse culture of the town. Housed inside is the state-of-the-art Stephen Sondheim Center for the Performing Arts, the first theatre ever to garner the name and approval of the famed composer and lyricist.


The proscenium theatre boasts 522 seats and plays host to a smattering of local and national theatre and music productions. We were able to catch a recent production of "Godspell," complete with a climactic scene featuring an illusion donated by the estate of legendary magician (and TM follower) Doug Henning. The show was top-notch and brought the house down. Future summer events include the Iowa premiere of "Open Heart," written by and starring 80's film icon Robby Benson.

As we left Fairfield, my mind swirled. In one short day, I'd been exposed to meditation, philosophy, quantum physics, conservation, culture, and, well, some pretty weird vegan food. I don't think I've said the word "wow" more times in one day in my life. Fairfield seems intent on expanding people's minds -- instead, they simply blew mine away.

DAVID LYNCH

One of the most well-known proponents of Transcendental Meditation and the study of ancient Vedic Science is acclaimed film director David Lynch. Such a proponent is Lynch, in fact, that his foundation just donated a cool million dollars to Fairfield's Maharishi University of Management to help defray the costs for students to learn the TM technique. During the university's recent David Lynch Weekend, we were able to sit down with the three-time Oscar nominee to find out more about his passion for meditation.

You're one of our nation's most respected directors. Yet instead of hob-nobbing with the Hollywood elite, you're in smalltown Iowa. Why is Fairfield so important to you?

Well, I love transcendental meditation. I started in 1973, July 1st, on a Saturday morning about 11:00. And I've been meditating twice a day for over 34 years. This university is the flagship school for consciousness-based education. Education which develops the full potential of the student -- enlightenment. And the way to do that is to experience that deepest level of life -- the Transcendent. The technique of TM will get you to that level -- easily, effortlessly, first time, every time. It's a beautiful, beautiful blessing. And so I was asked to join the Board of Directors for this university. It's a very special place. I think it's the future of universities. I don't see self-centered, tormented, stressed, anxiety-ridden students. I see very strong powerful brilliance. And so I like supporting this university and I like supporting the peace-creating groups here in Iowa. I think it's the future, and a bright future. So I'm with it.

Are you seeing changes in the public's reception to TM?

The receptivity is changing. As human beings, we get into certain rigid patterns. Anything new coming along is not always welcomed with open arms, and a lot of misunderstandings can arise. Misunderstandings about meditation are going away. It's not a religion, and people are getting hip to that. It's a mental technique to open the door to the deepest level of life -- the eternal level. And life gets better when you experience that deepest level.


Have the ancient principles of Vedic Science adapted in order to evolve into the new millennium?

No, no. The new millennium has evolved into it. "Veda" means total knowledge. Vedas are the laws of nature. How the un-manifest manifests into everything that is a thing. Vedic Science, the science of consciousness, explains it in the greatest detail -- surpassing physics, surpassing quantum cosmology. The Vedas can be interpreted many different ways, just like the Bible can be interpreted many, many ways. But hiding in there is the truth, and this is where enlightenment comes in. An enlightened human being is living the truth. And it's possible that it's our birthright. We're going to one day unfold the whole thing. It's waiting for us. It's just a question of time.

In the course of this, you've sort of become the de facto recognizable celebrity face of TM. Is this a role you're comfortable with?

I don't like being in the public. But like I said, I believe in these technologies for peace and enlightenment, so I find myself talking about it.


The school seems to emphasize community. In your life, do you find that you're able to do this as part of a community? Or is meditation for you more personal?

What I love about TM is that you don't need anything but the technique. You can meditate anywhere -- you don't need to join anything, you don't need to be in a community. You meditate and you go about your business and you will start to see things get better and better and better. This is what happened to me. If it hadn't, I would've quit meditation. You'll get all these benefits, and it will feed your work. What I like about Fairfield is that every day, just like ancient India, people come together and meditate as a group. And that's a very, very powerful cosmic beautiful thing. Major beautiful. And in this community, if you go around and meet people, they're absolutely unique individuals. You like sitting with every one of them. They're bright eyed, they're eager to listen to you, and there's a big understanding and appreciation for life. It's very special. But this is in all human beings. Get rid of that cloud of stress and you just become more and more yourself. A strong self. TM brings you to a place that's more and more self-sufficient. The Big Self. It's beautiful.

In terms of the global picture, do you consider yourself an optimist?

Total optimist. I'm an optimist because of this beautiful Unified Field. You know, that big ocean. And because of these Vedic technologies to enliven that, I'm a big giant optimist.

If you'd like to learn more about Vedic Science and the technique of Transcendental Meditation, visit www.TM.org or call 1-888-LEARN-TM.

TRANSCENDENTAL MEDITATION

While there's no debating the positive impact that Transcendental Meditation and Vedic Science has had on Fairfield, the practice is not immune to controversy:

• Finding enlightenment may also find you with an enlightened pocketbook. Basic TM training costs $2000 -- and that's after a recent reduction in fees. While the price seems a bit exorbitant by modest standards, TM officials claim there's a reason.

"It's really important to commit to the technique," explains Dr. Wally DeVasier, Director of the Maharishi Peace Palace in Fairfield. "Making a financial commitment leads to making a meditation commitment."

While a recent donation from the David Lynch Foundation has created student scholarships to help alleviate the financial burden, the costs may be too prohibitive for some to experience "bubbling bliss."

What does your $2000 get? Private instruction, 2 hours a day, for 4 days.

"After the four days, you'll have enough info to meditate on your own for the rest of your life," explains DeVasier.


• Advocates of TM frequently affirm that practicing the technique doesn't conflict with any world religion. In fact, the group's website states that it will "enhance your religion... [TM] is a technique, pure and simple. It involves no religion, belief, philosophy, or change in lifestyle."

Some disagree.

Websites like trancenet.net, devoted to critical analysis of TM and run by a former follower, claim that several aspects of the meditation training and technique borrow extensively from Hinduism, invoking and making offerings to Hindu gods. This, it can be argued, could be at odds with the tenets of Judeo-Christianity and other religions.

• Some have even harsher words for the practice.

"In my opinion, Transcendental Meditation fits the criteria of a cult," says Rick Ross, Founder of New Jersey's Ross Institute for the Study of Destructive Cults, Controversial Groups and Movements (www.rickross.com). "TM is a personality-driven organization. People are blindly following an absolute authoritarian leader -- The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi -- and his patentedly absurd claims."

• In 1994, a 24-year-old student at the college, Shuvender Sem, stabbed and killed another MUM student in the college dining hall. Sem was later found not guilty by reason of insanity. The family of the victim filed suit against the University, claiming that the practice of TM was dangerous for a mentally ill student.

"If the practice of TM causes an energized field that creates peace and calm," asks Ross, "then why was there a murder on campus?"

• One of TM's most outspoken proponents, quantum physicist Dr. John Hagelin, is no stranger to controversy.

While Hagelin touts his theories of the Unified Field of Consciousness on his vast network of websites as fact, many members of the scientific community aren't buying it. "What the Bleep Do We Know," a film featuring the theories of Hagelin and other physicists, was recently labeled "pseudoscience" by the American Chemical Society, while a public letter published in Physics Today says that "most laypeople cannot tell where the quantum physics ends and the quantum nonsense begins."

Undaunted by criticism, Hagelin has mounted three unsuccessful campaigns for the U.S. presidency under the Natural Law Party. Recently, he has turned his attention to the creation of the "U.S. Peace Government," a "complentary" government whose website claims will "rule the country at the fundamental level of consciousness." Hagelin is President of the U.S. Peace Government.

"It's not a nefarious scheme to rule the world," says Ross. "It's just another attempt at dividing up the world into fundraising sectors."

• Money seems to be at the root of much criticism of the TM movement.

"Ongoing Fundraising Forever -- that's the Maharishi's real mantra," says Ross. "The Maharishi was superb at one thing: the accumulation of wealth. At the time of his death, his estate was estimated to be in the range of $5-$9 billion dollars. There are a labyrinth of money-making corporations that the group presides over."

At the end of the day, it's hard to pick sides when you're dealing with an intangible concept like transcendent consciousness. The practice of TM could be right for you but wrong for your neighbor. There's plenty of information available online from both sides of the TM debate. We recommend that you do a little research before determining if TM is right for you.

COLUMN: Vegetarian

I will never be one of the cool kids.

Most obviously, I suppose I'm not a kid anymore, as much as I try to block the fact. But age aside, I still don't qualify for hipster status. I don't waste time cultivating any kind of image. I thoroughly enjoy some genuinely awful movies. I'm horribly, embarassingly unread.

But more than anything, there's one profound truth that will forever bar me from full acceptance to the I'm-Cooler-Than-You club: I love a good cheeseburger.

I definitely surround myself with artsy types -- it's just the clique I usually have the most in common with. My friends are authors, painters, musicians, and thinkers. Lately, though, another trend seems to be cropping up among my social circle. More and more often, I find myself surrounded by vegetarians. And for a lifelong carnivore like me, it's a learning experience.

For the most part, I'm sympathetic towards their cause. I get the vegetarian thing, I really do. I grew up in the country, and I can safely say that no cow ever did me harm. They're quite docile creatures, actually. I kinda like 'em. But it's NOT MY FAULT that I kinda like 'em with a sprinkling of garlic salt and some Heinz 57.

Just as it's not my fault that 80% of Earth's vegetables taste icky. When it comes to veggies, I'm a simple guy. Lettuce, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, corn, beans, potatoes -- all acceptable items to enter my mouth. Step outside of that comfort zone, though, and vegetables start gettin' freaky.

For a while, I tried joining one of those diet plans where they deliver a week's worth of pre-made meals to your door. I beamed with pro-active, healthy pride -- until I cracked open one of my first meals to find these strange plant critters staring back at me.

They looked like the sort of thing you'd find growing on Mars -- an alien life form seconds away from releasing an army of toxic spores. They were a sickly green color, and emitted a smell that clearly said, "Hi, Shane. We are absolutely, positively not for eating." Still, I'd thrown down a chunk of change and it wasn't going to waste.

That's how I ended up attempting to consume my first brussel sprout. The next week, I cancelled the meal plan. The smell turned out to be only a mild appetizer to the taste, which was kind of like rancid cabbage meeting rusty metal. Clearly, brussel sprouts were not designed to be a food product. At best, it is home decor, and kind of ugly decor at that.

I'm not designed for the vegetarian lifestyle, and never has that been more clear than this past weekend. The newspaper sent me out to Fairfield, IA to write a story on the Maharishi University of Management. It's an ultra-progressive school that believes one of the basic building blocks to a top education is the ancient practice of transcendental meditation. It's one of the hippest, most liberal schools in the world, and the fact that it's stuck in the middle of Iowa cornfield no-man's-land is amazing.

I had a blast in Fairfield except for one critical part of the day: lunch. As a guest of the school, we were graciously provided a huge luncheon spread, and our escort for the day had arranged for us to spend the lunch talking with the mayor of Fairfield. It was a great opportunity to learn more about the place, and I was totally psyched -- until I walked to the buffet.

That's right. It was a 100% organic vegan luncheon. There I stood, attempting to be an Important Journalist Dude with no less than the mayor of the whole darn town in tow, and I was staring at this cacophony of wholly nutritious evil. I looked for ANYTHING I thought I could stomach. Ah, a potato, sign me up. And rice -- hey, I can do rice. But no, the rice had friends - odd black and white bean-curd looking things mixed in, and did I smell curry? Eww -- I'd better take a pass. I spied some little square patties at the end of the line that looked to be some kind of bread pudding or pancake, that'd work.

I returned to my seat and the mayor was eager to talk up the town. As we listened, I absent-mindedly forked off a bite of this pancake patty and put it in my mouth. DANGER! This was no pancake. It was kinda slimy. It didn't have a taste, per se. More like an aftertaste, and not a good one at that. What WAS this stuff? As I tried to focus on the mayor, my mind kept flashing to scenes from Soylent Green. Yet I had to eat most of it. I had to be appreciative -- this was a free meal, and I bet somebody had to work hard at making these mushy, gelatinous, nausea-squares.

Eventually, the mayor excused himself and I spun to my colleague. "What the (expletive) have I been eating?" I whispered.

"Tofu," he replied. "And shut up. It's good."

THIS is tofu? This is the modern vegan's idea of a tasty protein? Are you KIDDING me? Well, cross this off my list of life experiences. I ate tofu, and despite possibly being haunted by its evil slimy grossness for the rest of time, I suppose I lived.

The cool kids can keep their tofu. And if you're a fan of the stuff, sorry if I've caused you to bristle. Look on the bright side: one day you'll likely be able to dance the Vegan Shuffle on my cholesterol-laden grave. Me? I sought solace the only place I could -- the drive-thru window of McDonalds.

Idle Time

Hello again, idle time!

God, how I've missed you.

For the past two weeks, I've been mired. A couple weekends back, Friend Jason and I made a daytrip to the Maharishi University in Fairfield, IA.

Why? To perform my sworn duty as a journalist, of course, and cover the important, groundbreaking, and world-peace-creating endeavors of the Transcendental Meditation movement.

Okay, I lied. We went out there to meet David Lynch.

Mission freakin' accomplished. It was a high point in life, even if all the guy wanted to talk about was TM. I'm a shallow guy and I just wanted to shake the hand of the guy who made Twin Peaks, the second most devastatingly brilliant TV show of all time (Lost has stolen the crowd, I'm afraid.)

But in order to share the same air as greatness, I DID have a job to do. Not just anyone gets an audience with David Lynch. You've got to either be extremely cool (nnnnope) or a journalist willing to hear out the wonders of the TM movement (yep.)

So I talked to the powers that be at Castle Dispatch/Argus and they were down with the idea of a story on Fairfield, Lynch, and the Maharishi University of Management.

For the past two weeks, I've been trying nightly to piecemeal that story together. For a guy who usually gets paid to write snarky comments about stupidity, this was an epic task of proper journalism.

See, Fairfield is a crazy place. Some of it is crazy cool. Some of it is just plain crazy. And I came home with a day's worth of interviews and countless questions about the practice, the validity, and the truth of the TM movement.

The folks from Fairfield believe that Transcendental Meditation is the key to world peace. The folks at trancenet.net and a host of other websites believe that Transcendental Meditation is a dangerous and money-hungry cult.

This becomes tough to balance in an article. There's great things going on at Fairfield -- the Ecovillage in particular, where a whole neighborhood exists entirely off-grid (wind and solar power, coop farming, recycled rainwater, the whole 9 yards -- the director of the place drives a car that runs on - I kid you not - recycled massage oil.) The new theatre in town is spectacular. The culture and diversity is mind-blowing.

At the heart of it all is the University and their belief that meditating touches the very fabric of the universe. Is it hocum-pocum? A realist like me has serious reservations. Their "science" seems sketchy at best.

Yet these are some of the nicest people you'll ever meet. Everyone at the university seems to be an optimist with a world view of helping society. It's not a cult - people are free-willed & come and go as they please.

At the end of the day, NO, I don't believe that some dude meditating in the middle of Iowa can help bring about world peace. BUT, that said, if a person feels that meditation helps them reach their creative and cognitive zenith, I'm all for it. It hurts no one (except maybe your pocketbook - learning TM ain't cheap.)

So for the past couple weeks, I've had to balance the good with the weird and attempt to do my best to put a nice feature story together. I've been able to interview everyone from Lynch to the Fairfield mayor to a national expert on cults -- and hopefully what I've come up is a fair representation of the whole deal, pointing out the good bits AND the controversial bits.

At its base, transcendental meditation is an intangible, spiritual concept based deeply on personal experience and unprovable yet undeniable theories. So who are ANY of us to judge whether its right or wrong? It's simply a case of Believe It Or Not. Hopefully that's the angle my story presents.

Keep your fingers crossed - I turned it in today, and if all goes well, it'll publish this Sunday.

In the meantime, I'm SO happy to have idle time back where I'm NOT researching quantum physics and/or cult leaders until the wee hours.

Two simple weeks and I'm already out of the pop culture loop -- Mariah got married?? To Nick Cannon?? How's Lindsay doing? Has Miley shown any more skin????

Thank God I can get back to serious work again. :)

COLUMN: Quake

We did it, Quad Cities. We made it.

If you're reading this now, it means that you're one of the survivors. The gods of fate have dealt us a terrible hand, but we've yet to fold. The challenges over this past week have been nearly insurmountable, but we as a people refuse to give up. Heck, the fact that our newspapers continue to circulate in these harrowing times is testament in and of itself to the undefeatable nature of the human spirit. Curse my naivety, I never thought it would be this bad.

So take pride, dear readers, for we are the survivors of the Great Midwest Earthquake of 2008. The damage has been done. The only thing left now is to pick up the shattered pieces of our broken lives and somehow find the courage and strength to move on. It will be a tough row to hoe, but I must have faith that one day, life as we know it will return to normal.

Some folks have had the gall to declare the quake "no big deal," that it was barely noticeable. These people are obviously in Stage 1 of coping with the aftermath of a terrible event of terrifying terror: DENIAL. If you encounter one of these hapless souls, be kind. Entertain their non-sensical notions that the earthquake was anything less than the Most Awesomely Awesome Event of our lives. Only in our understanding and compassion will they evolve out of denial into grief, acceptance, and, eventually, sheer and utter panic.

Those of us better skilled at coping cannot deny the horrific truth: At 4:37 a.m. on Friday, April 18, 2008, our peaceful towns were rocked by a quake of such might and fury that some of us actually woke up for a second or two. I know, I couldn't imagine what it must have been like to be in their shoes (or, in this case, PJ's.) I was one of the lucky ones who made it through the night unscathed and asleep, but every one of us knows someone touched by the epic rumble.

"I woke up all of a sudden," one of my friends recounted. "And I didn't know why. There were dogs barking everywhere for a minute. Then they stopped so I went back to sleep. I don't know why you're making a big deal out of it, Shane."

Oh, the horror. Can you imagine it? Enjoying a proper night's sleep when suddenly you're ripped from slumber by the sound of baying hellhounds?

"I woke up, too," another of my friends explained through his suffering. "I just thought I had to pee. Are you sure we had an earthquake, Shane?"

"STOP ASKING ME ALL THESE STUPID QUESTIONS!" said yet another friend, clearly irritated. Yes, irritability is but one of the many tragic symptoms of sleep deprivation. That's what happens when your REM cycle gets momentarily interrupted by the mighty forces of nature.

I, too, feel their pain. I may have missed the night quake, but at 10:40 the next morning, our world was rocked again by a 4.5 magnitude aftershock. There I was, minding my own business, as I bounced twice and my office chair scooted 2.5 inches forward. That's 2.5 inches I will never get back again, stolen by the cruel hands of fate. I can barely bring myself to talk about it. It's through true willpower and the comfort of a well-stocked vending machine that I made it through the workday alive.

And where, might I ask, is the government in all this? I try to keep politics out of this column, but when, may I ask, is the President arriving to survey the damages and tell people that it's alright? Where is FEMA? Where are the network news vans and my fellow trusted journalists, the only folks smart enough to sensationalize this story to the levels it deserves?

The truth is harsh: the world has forgotten us in our time of need. All we have to rely on is our wits, our neighbors, and an ample supply of Red Bull for those who might not have gotten their recommended eight hours of sleep.

The way I see it, there's only one person who can help us. One voice capable of easing fear and returning our quake-riddled midwest to normalcy. One man with the legacy and experience to help us make sense of this nightmare and begin the long road towards healing.

That's right, I'm talking to you, Bono of U2.

You've fed the world, you've opened free trade, and you still haven't found what you're looking for. We humbly beseech your wisdom and guidance. I've lived through the horror first-hand, I've been on the street talking to townsfolk, and clearly what will best serve our communities right now is a balding, self-important Irish master of the overblown song lyric.

I'm thinking charity single. Maybe an all-star cover of "You Shook Me (All Night Long,)" with proceeds going directly into the hands of Quad Citizens. Because, hey, nothing soothes rattled nerves quite like cold, hard cash. I'd never fear another night quake if I slept in a protective padded cocoon of hundred-dollar bills. Come on, Bono, won't you please lend a hand?

All I ask is that the charity single somehow involve Ashlee Simpson (though preferably not in a singing capacity.) Because, and I may be speaking out of line here, but the next best thing to cold hard cash is hot cute celebrities. Through perserverance, faith in our fellow man, and perhaps a nice dance number from a skantily clad Gwen Stefani, we WILL survive.

Best Sitcoms Ever?

The fine folks at AOL have tried to come up a list of The 50 Best Sitcoms Ever. Your thoughts?

MY thoughts:

• My #1 would simply have to be "Frasier." There's never been a smarter, funnier show on TV.

• Though it aired for only something like what, 9 episodes, it's a crime to list the best sitcoms of all time and NOT include "Fawlty Towers." The John Cleese masterpiece, while definitely a BBC sitcom not intended for the funny bones of us Yanks, was almost the perfect blueprint for all sitcoms to follow.

• The AOL list doesn't shy away from the cheezier sitcoms -- "Gilligan's Island" made the list, for !*&#'s sake -- yet we don't get "Three's Company" on the list anywhere. I'm not saying that it's cinematic genius by any stretch, but "Three's Company" was the catalyst and greatest purveyor of one of the easiest ways to get a laugh: Put 4 characters in a room, have 1 of the characters overhear a conversation but misunderstand what they overheard, and let the antics begin. Totally puerile stuff... but if you think about it, it's the same plot device used almost every week on "Frasier."

• No "Mork & Mindy"? You've gotta admit, it was a wildly inventive show for its day, though most of the laughs were merely the world being introduced to Robin Williams, a guy who we'd sort of like to forget nowadays.

• Other shows I'd consider: Reno 911, Futurama (a show I find infinitely funnier than "The Simpsons" on average,) The Young Ones, Home Movies, and the criminally short-lived Undeclared.

And their 1-50 order is totally wrong.

That's MY take, at least. You?

COLUMN: Banned

(or, the column where Shane ticks off half the Catholics in town.)

Time for a quick quiz: Name three things in history that have been banned by the church. Go!

Okay, let's see. 1) Abortion. Hmm, lemme think. Oh, okay: 2) Harry Potter. One more to go... umm, something banned by the church, eh? OH! I know. 3) ME.

That's right, folks. I am officially a Bad Boy. You read correctly -- lil 'ol me has been unceremoniously banned from an area church. The way I see it, I am one motorcycle and a temporary tattoo away from being an official menace to society.

It didn't even take much, either. I didn't have to bite the head off a bat or anything. Heck, I didn't even get a chance to bear false witness. Truth be told, I was banned from a church for reasons quite trivial.

Unless you've been living under a rock, you've probably been exposed to the recent wave of charity trivia contests happening around town. What started as a small monthly gathering at the Blue Grass Community Club has evolved into an outright local fad. If it's a Saturday night, you can almost guarantee that somewhere close by, teams are gathering together to test their knowledge and raise money for a host of worthy causes.

I'm part of a team that plays in trivia events nearly every weekend. In fact, there's a good chance you might actually hate me. See, my team has this nasty habit of winning nearly every event we attend. I look at it not as a stroke of luck or a triumph of skill -- it's more like a testament to the pitifully embarassing nerds that we are. If you get beaten by my trivia team, don't feel bad. Pity us and take pride that you've had better things to do with your life than let piles of useless knowledge stack up in your brain.

My teammates are weird trivia junkies. We met one another at various trivia functions and joined forces to become a giant, 8-headed nerd monster. We're not undefeatable by any means - in fact, we've had our egos handed to us on many an occasion. But if the questions line up just right, we can be unstoppable.

We've got a geography guy, a history guy, a sports buff, a lit junkie... heck, we've got a 14-year-old on our team with more book smarts than the rest of us put together. And then there's me. I am our team's go-to guy for the most useless of knowledge: pop culture. I fit in nicely, as my smarty-pants teammates tend not to care a whole lot about Paris Hilton.

Most importantly, we make each other laugh -- and that's what we were doing the other night at a trivia event held at a Davenport church when all heck broke loose.

It wasn't the first time. At the same church last year, we were in the middle of a round of questions when one of the event staff came to our table and demanded that we immediately remove our notebooks. Our BLANK notebooks, mind you, which we use to scribe out and debate answers around the table. We were stunned, but obliged -- only to have the same dude hover over our table with a wary eye for the rest of the night. They never said it out loud, but the inference was loud and clear: someone suspected us of cheating.

Really? Come on now. Cheating at a charity benefit, especially one at a CHURCH, in hopes of winning the grand prize of $20? In the great list of Reprehensible Acts, that would be somewhere between baby-stealing and beating up Santa Claus. My teammates were flabbergasted and some vowed never to return to that church.

Me, I could forgive and forget. And besides, this church held great events. So we put together a new team and signed up for their contest last weekend. We even brought nine players, since we had routinely seen other oversized teams at their past events. We had something to prove, and this time, we left the notebooks at home.

The game went our way. There was even a Beatles category for me to salivate over. We won handily and felt redeemed. All in all, it was a great night out... until the organizers declared that our team had to forfeit due to our extra player. Never mind that 9-person teams could be seen all over the room and that a TEN-person team had won there last year. Never mind that they gladly took the entry fees from all nine of us without complaint.

Our team captain was livid and went to complain. We didn't care about taking home a prize, we cared about respect. Eventually, they begrudgingly credited us with the win. But as we packed up to leave, things escalated. Suddenly, there was the event organizer quite literally SCREAMING at our team captain, calling us "losers." Calling us things I can't print in a family paper. And -- in the middle of a church, mind you -- yelling at us to "get the (expletive) out and never come back." Not that I'd dream of returning.

It's stupid to get worked up over what's supposed to be a fun game for a good cause. I suppose it was stupid of me to write complaint letters this week to everyone from the church pastor to the head of the Davenport Diocese. And maybe it's stupid of me to whine about it in a column. But being called a loser and getting banned from a church wasn't exactly on my weekend "to-do" list, so I think I deserve a whine or two.

In the meantime, I guess I've got to get used to my newfound bad boy image. Join me next week, when I take candy from babies and rip tags off mattresses with wild abandon.

Yowza!

Okay, here's where I deserve to be slapped around a bit, as I've spent the past month righteously neglecting this blog.

The GOOD news, though, is that I'm making up for it by posting the last 4 weeks worth of columns all at once. They should be below. I'll be more diligent in the future. Which reminds me, diligent is a funny word. Diligent diligent diligent.

COLUMN: Fiction

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my absolute lack of concern when it comes to fashion. I wouldn't know what trends are in vogue even if I was looking in Vogue while listening to En Vogue.

Still, I've apparantly got enough fashion smarts to recognize one thing about myself: I look terrible in green.

One of my closest friends spends her off hours writing books for the demographic I believe you're supposed to call "young adults." And she's great at it. She's already managed to woo a big city agent and is hopefully on her way to a publishing deal.

Happily, whenever she finishes a new book, she lets me have dibs at reading the first draft. This makes for some spirited lunches, where we ponder such questions as "If you were the main character and in 9th grade, and you were kinda cool but not SUPER cool yet somewhat intellectual, would you listen to Beyonce?" (Answer: Beyonce isn't cool no matter WHAT grade you're in.) The wait staff at Ross' must think that we're certifiable.

She just finished her new one, and it's fantastic. It's truly a page-turner, despite the fact that it's clearly written for people half my age, more specifically GIRLS half my age. I didn't care. I got sucked in to her story line regardless, and by the halfway point, I was sitting there going, "Omigod, she had BETTER find a boyfriend before the big Homecoming dance!"

It's so weird that every character, every line of dialogue, and every word in this book came out of the brain of one of my best friends. I'm so happy for her, and so hope that she finds success in such a difficult market to break. That said, the whole scenario is also turning me an icky shade of green.

I can't NOT hear the evil voice in my head that goes, "If SHE can do it, YOU can, too!" That's not to say that I fancy myself a better writer than her, but I mean, heck, the newspaper donates a page for my drivel every week, ergo I must be a Super Awesome Talented Writing Dude, yeah? Fiction for kids -- how tough can it be?

Answer: Very.

Over the past few weeks, I've put pen to paper (okay, who am I kidding, fingers to laptop) and tried to muster up a Work of Fiction For The Ages. Specifically, the ages of 12-15.

This isn't my first stab at cracking open my laptop and hoping that the Great American Novel will pour out. Writing a classic novel involves a level of intellect I simply can't muster up. Think back to your lit classes in high school. Powerful fiction involves symbolism and imagery and poetic narrative and all that other stuff that bores me to tears. I don't think like that, and I can't write like that.

Maybe my problem, though, is that I've been setting my sights too high. I could write 10,000 pages about grapes, and they'd never end up Wrathful. My Gatsby would not be Great; he would be The Mediocre Gatsby at best.

Kids, on the other hand, don't need symbolism. Dr. Seuss didn't write allegorical morality tales about mankind's struggle against societal oppression. He wrote about cats. In hats. This is more my speed.

In fact, I've got a few ideas for a kid's adventure book that could theoretically work if someone with talent were to piece it together. Unfortunately, I decided to do it instead. Bad move. After writing a few pages, I sat back to re-read the beginnings of my epic tale. Annnnnnnd WOW do I suck. What I was convinced would be a future career move turned into the fastest-deleted file in the history of my laptop.

Apparantly, I'm incapable of writing in ANY voice other than the one you're reading now. What I created was no less than five characters who were all, umm, me. Everyone talked, thought, and acted exactly like I would in their situation. My young protagonist hero already had a sarcastic pessimism and a sailor's mouth. The girl of his dreams was a sarcastic pessimist in Katie Holmes' body. The parents could have been locked up for child neglect, whom they neglected in a most sarcastically pessimistic way. The underlying moral at work appeared to be "Well, kids, life's a hopeless suckfest, might as well make fun of it while you can." It was not a good start.

I needed help, so I turned to the mecca of children's adventure lit: I went out and bought myself a Hardy Boys book. In the great pantheon of kid-lit, no heroes were truer to my heart than the brothers Hardy. I opened the book excited to relive my youth.

One small detail the 8-year-old me must have never picked up on: it was written in 1927! I'm somehow supposed to use THIS as inspiration? Seriously, these are lines in the book like:

"Say, we fellows should search for my jalopy after we dine on this Welsh rabbit!" "That's a swell idea, chum!"

Greeeat. Then we can all watch a new-fangled talkie and do the Lindy Hop down to the speakeasy while we oppress minorities and give women subservient societal roles! That'd be the bees knees! Sigh.

So I'm back to square one: a half-corked idea and a writer with a loooooooong way to go. J.K. Rowling I am NOT. Still, I'm not giving up quite yet. Maybe there's a novel idea of a novel in me yet. I'll still keep plugging away at the laptop, though I've changed out of my envious green into a more comfortable embarassment red.

COLUMN: Spooky

Well, it's official. Spring has sprung. In little to no time, birds will be chirping. Skies will be blue. Leaves will grow, flowers will bloom, hills will be alive with the sound of freakin' music. It's the happiest time of the year.

Which, of course, is why I've been surrounding myself these days with gloom, doom, and things that go bump in the night.

I don't know what the deal is, but every time I've turned on the TV this past week, I've been sucked into random shows about ghosts and ghouls and witches and aliens and any assorted hodge-podge of hocum-pocum. I don't understand why these shows are attacking our airwaves in such fury this month, and even more baffling, I don't know what my strange compulsion is to constantly watch them.

I'm no fan of being scared. While many of my nerdling friends made heroes out of Freddy and Jason and Michael Myers, I was having none of it. In early high school, I came up with the brilliant idea of asking a girl to one of the "Nightmare on Elm Street" flicks. Not a bad idea, right? Freddy kills somebody, the girl goes "eek" and seeks comfort in the strong, brave arms of her ruggedly handsome teenaged escort.

As I sat there in the theatre watching this thing, I should have been concerned about getting to second base. Instead, I was concerned about trying not to pee my pants every time Freddy jumped out. That was my last in-theatre trip to a horror flick.

And those movies are super corny compared to the monstrosities that play in theatres now. Just sneaking up on some hapless victim with a hatchet is SO 1985. Today's horror movies don't stop rolling until the hapless victim is fileted, dismembered, and if you're especially lucky, eaten. And frankly, theatre owners should put a stop to it, as you'd assume there MUST be a negative correlation between the number of full-screen disembowelments and concession sales of hot dogs.

The point is, I hate being scared. I hate movies where everything is nice and peaceful and calm and BWAAAAAAA LOOK OUT FOR THE HATCHET! I get no entertainment value out of elevated blood pressure. On the OTHER hand, if something can be eerie and creepy without being downright scary, sign me up.

I dunno why, but I've always wanted to believe in ghosts and aliens and paranormal whatzits, provided they keep their hatchets to themselves.

When I was a kid, I saw an allegedly true story about a group of lost hikers somewhere in the desert Southwest. Those hikers would have died, had it not been for the kindly ghost of an Indian tracker who led them all to safety. Neat story until I went to bed that night.

See, my aunt had recently given me a large stuffed dog. I mean, LARGE. The sucker stood taller than me and took up a third of my bedroom. And when my mom would tuck me in and shut off the lights, all you could see at first was this dog's huge plastic eyes. Except, after watching that show, it wasn't a dog.

Nope, it was the Indian tracker ghost. He was stuck inside my dog, he was staring at me through those soulless plastic eyes, and he was anything but kindly. I'm pretty sure he wanted to eat my brain. So every night, after my mom would tuck me in, I would silently creep out of bed, remove the covers from my pillows, and flop them over the dog's eyes so that whatever lurked inside couldn't spy on me. I did this for YEARS.

So a good ghost story can have an impact. That's why I'm addicted to stuff like Sci-Fi's "Ghost Hunters" and A&E's "Paranormal State." I want to find out if there's even an iota of truth to the paranormal, and these shows, while admittedly campy, at least try to use some semblance of science to seek answers. Sure, usually it's a team of people going, "Ooh! What was that banging noise?" followed by an hour trying to establish if it was something banging or SOME THING banging. Most episodes end with a question mark and no conclusive evidence, but at least once a season, they manage to capture some seriously spooky audio or video that makes even the biggest of skeptics raise an eyebrow or two.

I'd love to be a firm believer in the paranormal, but I'd certainly prefer my ghosts to be of the "Casper-the-friendly" variety. I'd like to hope that, should an afterlife exist, I'd prefer it involve more than floating around my apartment for all of eternity spooking any new tenants. If your only job is to make the occasional banging noise in the middle of the night, you'd think that would certainly equal a lot of post-mortem downtime.

Still, I'm fascinated by it all. When the Iowa Paranormal Advanced Research Team investigated an area haunting about a year ago, they let me tag along to write a story for the paper. IPART is the region's only investigators recognized by TAPS (the folks behind the "Ghost Hunters" show,) and they take the job seriously. After the article ran, I became a member of IPART. I don't have many weekends free to go spectre sleuthing, but I still love to take part in the evidence analysis and their efforts to prove the existence of the supernatural. Laugh if you want, but there are weirder hobbies out there.

So, hey, if you think you've got an undead buddy lurking in the shadows of your house, shoot me an e-mail and I can pass it on to IPART. Unless they're chasing you with hatchets, in which case I'll wish you well and take a raincheck.

COLUMN: Toilets

As I was leaving work last Friday, I bumped into Sean Leary, our entertainment editor. Sean's mere days away at this point from becoming a first-time dad, so his life has been a whirlwind of home remodeling and baby-prepping.

"How're things going?" I asked. "Did you get the place all baby-fied?"

He then spouted off a checklist of accomplished renovations. Room redesign, nursery creation, wall painting... the list went on and on while my head swam. Here was somebody of similar age and mindset to myself -- yet all grown up, mature, and doing things with his living space I couldn't dream of. He's putting up wallpaper. I, meanwhile, still get jittery when I have to change a lightbulb (Am I using too much force? Is the bulb going to shatter? Should I wear an oven mitt?)

I've got to face it. When it comes to fix-it type stuff (and, well, most things related to independent, self-sufficient survival,) I'm pretty much a flunky. Yet this week, I accomplished my most challenging feat of home improvement yet. And it started, as most good stories do, sitting on the toilet.

There I was, deeply engrossed in some pretentious music magazine's list of The World's Greatest Albums Ever. What? How could they ignore the genius of The Kinks' 1970's output? Any music critic with half a clue would tell you that -- KA-BAM!!!!

-- And I was falling to the floor.

My natural instinct was to assume that I had been shot. Obviously, a pack of toilet-raiding banditos had broken into my apartment, crept into my bathroom with ninja-like stealth and precision, and offed me at point-blank range. And that's where they'd find me, pants around my ankles, just like Elvis. LIFE OF COLUMNIST TRAGICALLY FLUSHED AWAY BY BATHROOM NINJAS, the headline would read.

But I wasn't shot. Not even grazed. In fact, the only thing wounded was my pride. So what the heck happened? That noise -- the ear-splitting, heart-stopping bang -- was the sound of my toilet seat snapping in two. Half was still attached to the toilet, the other half on the floor with me.

This would normally be a clear-cut sign that it's time to lose some weight -- or, at the very least, introduce fiber to my diet. In fact, it would have officially Freaked Me Out, had I not known it was coming. See, during my last home improvement kick - Installing A New Shower Head - I tried a fancy manoevre involving standing on the toilet seat for leverage. Leverage I did NOT attain, but cracking the toilet seat I DID manage to pull off flawlessly.

That was four years ago. In the epic battle of Laziness vs. Toilet Repair, lazy won out. I had learned to live with that crack through the good times and bad. You know how annoying it was when your grandmother would come up and pinch your cheeks? Well, it's kinda like that -- if grandma was a toilet seat and she was pinching an altogether different set of cheeks.

Still, I made do, and just assumed that one day, it'd break. And that day, it broke. I needed a replacement post-haste. But where does one turn for toilet seats? I'm a total novice here. Is there a Toilet Seat Emporium someplace? A catalog I could peruse? Shockingly, the Yellow Pages had no section for Toilet Seats.

Ergo, I went to one of those 24-hour-Super-Mega-Conglom-O-Marts. "Welcome," said the greeter, "can we help you find anything today?"

"Sure can," I replied with a chuckle. "You won't believe it, but I sat on my toilet seat today and broke the thing in two!" In the world of Too Much Information, this was perhaps a record-setting statement. Despite looking at me as though I were there to lure small children into my unmarked van, she dutifully pointed me to the toilet seat aisle.

And I mean aisle. I was expecting toilet seats, but I certainly wasn't expecting a wall of them. Blue ones, pink ones, ones with little palm trees and ocean vistas so that every trip to the potty is like a tropical get-away. Happily, though, I was able to whittle away the selection right away. Why? One word -- "cushioned."

In my day-to-day activities, I am a fairly well-cushioned individual. I lead a padded life, from my poofy desk chair to my overstuffed sectional, from my padded pillows to the padded cell they'll probably lock me in one day. I'm a guy who appreciates cushions. That said, one place where cushions NEVER belong is the bathroom.

I never want to sit on a toilet and hear "koooooooooooosh" as the seat deflates. And let's not even dwell upon the awkward issue of trying to stand up while the vinyl seat is adhered to one's nether-region, as if the toilet itself were clinging to its only companion for dear life. Fact: Padded potties are just gross.

Finally I found a sturdy, no-nonsense, run-of-the-mill replacement seat. And I brought it home and installed that sucker all by myself (though the deceptive pop-top screws almost threw me for a loop.) Yes, my hands had to touch parts of my plumbing that could be legally classified a level 3 biohazard, but I got the job done. I am a Mr. Fix-It after all.

So good news, ladies of the Quad Cities. I'm apparantly mature and stuff, which means (at least according to my grandchild-pleading mother) that it's time to procreate. Step lively, the line forms to the left.

COLUMN: Clothes

If there's one thing out there that I tend not to give a hoot about, it is -- as my friends can likely attest -- fashion. On any given day, my wardrobe usually consists of a funny t-shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of cheap Vans. If it's a work day, I'll have an ugly polo or sweater temporarily hiding the funny t-shirt o' the day. And if you catch me on a particularly high-fashion day, maybe -- just maybe -- I'll have on my Greek fisherman's cap.

Long ago, I realized that my brain simply isn't in tune with fashion sensibilities. I get a kick out of watching that show "Project Runway" -- the kid who won this season is a show unto himself -- but I've NEVER understood it. Every episode builds to the climactic runway show, where the wanna-be designers parade their outfits down the catwalk to the assorted ooh's and eww's of the judges.

And I can never tell the difference. An outfit can stroll by that I think looks fairly decent, and then you'll see Heidi Klum making a concentrated effort to restrain her gag reflex. I've just never taken much stock into what people are wearing. God forbid I ever get robbed one day:

"Sir, can you describe the assailant? What was he wearing?"
"Umm... I'm pretty sure... yes, I'm positive that he was wearing clothes."

The truth is, you could safely come up to me dressed as a rutabega and I probably wouldn't take note of it. My brain is simply not programmed to notice these sorts of things. The only way you could get me to remember your outfit is if you forget to wear it altogether. Naked people I remember well.

So naturally, me and clothes shopping don't get along. I'm not a fan whatsoever, and when I DO have to do it, I want to bring home enough clothes that I don't have to do it again for a really long time. Lately, though, I've been running into a problem.

That problem? My wallet. You would think that my problem would entail my wallet being too empty to shop for clothes. Au contraire. The problem is that my wallet is too full. Acquaintances from decades past, enough insurance cards to provide medical coverage to most of the Quad Cities, little slips of paper with phone numbers that may or may not be of crucial importantance -- my wallet is the centrifuge of my life.

The downside, though, it that it does bad things to pants. In the course of the past month, I have managed to put holes in the rumps of no fewer than three pair of older khakis, all due to the strain of trying to cram a hard drive full of information into my back pocket.

There's only one thing I hate more than clothes shopping, and that's laundry. Less hole-free clothes = more trips to the laundry. More laundry = more wear and tear on my shrinking pants collection. It was a losing cycle, and I had to admit that it was time to (gulp) shop.

One place exists that caters to the fashion ignorants of the world. A store where everything is so fashion-free that it's a safety zone for shopping idiots like me. A store where everything pretty much matches everything else. In fairness, I won't say the name of this store in print -- let's just say that it rhymes with Old Gravy.

Now, I won't give Old Gravy much grief, because it truly is a Godsend. Admit it, the store is so generic that it might as well have a blue and white sign that just says "CLOTHES" in front of it. And I'm perfectly okay with that. I'm all in favor of a store that lets you leap in, buy some cheap pants, and leap out uninterrupted and with sanity intact.

Only one problem, it turns out. It appears that I am now OFFICIALLY a walking freakshow, as I now require a pant size that's an endangered species in and of itself. I know I'm an out-of-shape, roly-poly mess, but I didn't quite think that I was the ONLY out-of-shape roly poly mess in the universe. Apparantly I am, as my pant size was practically non-existant in the racks of Old Gravy.

In fact, I went through every stupid pair of khakis the store had and discovered exactly SIX pair my size, and I bought the lot. Of those six, four of them actually fit when I got home. I know, I know. Shoulda tried 'em on at the store, stupid. But I can't wrap my head around the fact that a waist size should be a waist size should be a waist size, right? It's a measurement, it shouldn't be open to debate. Yet it appears that those little waist numbers mean a vast variety of things in the language of Old Gravy.

Still, I made do, and even picked up some more polos and sweaters to cover up my burgeoning mid-section as best possible. Maybe my two non-fitting pants will be a catalyst to get off the couch and shed some of this belly. And these cargo pants even look big enough to hold the overweight cargo I call a wallet, so maybe they'll last a while. Sadly, though, my word limit for the week has reached its end, which means I can no longer use this column as an excuse to avoid doing laundry. Wish me luck.

2 Hours of Life Lost

Okay, so there are bad movies.

And then there are REALLY bad movies.

And then there's "Next" with Nicholas Cage.

BAAAAAAAAAAAD OnDemand choice, Shane.

I'm just sayin'.

Sorry for the lack of updates, I've been forgetful. New columns coming in the next day or two, promise.

COLUMN: Keys

I am SO not a morning person.

The only thing that allows me to function as a somewhat productive member of society is the morning ritual. Set the brain to autopilot and hopefully wake up at work. Complete all steps efficiently and I make it to work on time. If anything louses up, I'm late. I hate being late. Almost as much as my boss hates me being late.

Everyday's the same. Crawl out of bed. Plop down in computer chair. Suck some coffee and Google up the morning headlines. (I suppose, as a newspaper employee and all, that I should tell you how I get all of the day's pertinent info from my morning paper. Truth be told, my neighbor steals my paper every day before I awaken. I'm pretty sure she uses it to line her vast multitudes of birdcages. I'd say something, but I'd hate to jeopardize our market reach to the much- coveted cockatiel demographic.)

Eventually I drag myself into the shower and throw on some clothes (hopefully in that order.) Grab a coat. Walk to car. Unlock car...

And that's where I froze up last Friday. After doing the hand-in-pocket shimmy for comically too long, I finally realized that I had left my car keys inside. So I trot back up to the apartment... but they're not there. In fact, they're nowhere to be seen whatsoever.

When something is lost, a new kind of ritual takes over that defies all senses of logic and reason. This usually involves two things:

(1) Looking in inane places. Hmm, did I set them inside the microwave? No. Okay, hmm, maybe they fell into the toilet. Nope, not there either. How about this drawer I haven't opened since the mid-1990's?

(2) Checking, re-checking, and re-re-checking my pants pocket, as though my first four searches somehow weren't thorough enough. This invariably ends in me emptying all of my pockets onto the kitchen counter to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that wee key faeries didn't sneak them into my pocket while I wasn't looking.

By this time, I'm in full panic mode and breaking a sweat. Five minutes later, I give up. My car key has obviously somehow been sucked from my apartment in some kind of anti-matter vortex. No choice but to call a cab.

I say "A" cab because it seems that, in the Quad Cities, there is only one. Seriously, I think I've had to use a taxi five times in my life, and every time, it's been the same dude driving. And whenever you need him, he's in Silvis, or Dewitt, or Djibouti.

Keys don't just get up and walk away. That's when I started looking at my cats with a harsh glare. They sure looked innocent. Maybe TOO innocent. I was just about to interrogate when my cab showed.

After a nice five minute lecture from left-field on the FDA's regulations of hot dogs (Why, cabbie guy? Why at 9 a.m.? I was ALREADY sick to my stomach!) and a $20 hole in my pocket (that's $.54 PER BLOCK,) I made it to work. As soon as I could, I called my dealership to find out what would happen if my key was, in fact, lost in the ether.

"No problem," said the parts dude. "I can order you up a new one. It runs about $150. And you'll need to get it programmed, that's another $50." $200? FOR A KEY???

"Well, yeah," he explained. "These electronic keys have some pretty serious technology."

Now, I own a remote control that runs my TV, stereo, X-Box, DVD player, and I'm pretty sure it can make you coffee if you ask nicely. It cost me $20. Serious technology, my fanny. That settled it, I needed to find my key. And the only way I could do it was with the help of those I call the SuperFriends.

"GREAT NEWS!" I exclaimed to friend Jason over the phone. "You've been selected to participate in the 1st Annual Shane Brown Celebrity Pro-Am Treasure Hunt!"

"Uh oh," came the reply.

"At great personal expense and sacrifice, I have hidden one slightly used key to my car. The first one who finds it shall be declared WINNER!"

He didn't buy it, but he still came over after work, as did my friend Linn. We tore the place up. We dared disturb the fragile and delicate ecosystem of the underside of my couch. The upshot of this was finding $42 in pocket change, but no key. We decided the last step would be to cut open the lining of the couch and learn what exactly comprised the bulbous tumor of debris sticking out of its back corner.

"Okay," I said, but I'd gotten so warm I first needed to lose the sweater I was wearing. I went to toss it into the hamper when a gleam of silver caught my eye. There, in the very bottom of my clothes hamper, was my elusive key. How it got there remains a mystery. I wasn't near the hamper the day before, nor had yesterday's pants made it that far yet.

It took a while to get the apartment back in shape -- and the Tumor O' Mystery remains embedded in my couch. Perhaps one day I'll open it like a time capsule and reminisce about the rogue French fry I spilled down a crack in the summer of '06. For now, though, I'm content just to drive to work without learning exactly what by-products comprise a hot dog. Sometimes ignorance IS bliss.

COLUMN: Rock Band

I'm breaking my own vow this week, Quad Cities. I promised myself long ago that, no matter what, I would waste no more column space talking about the video game Guitar Hero. If you're a regular visitor to my niche of the paper, you'll know that my embarassing obsession with the game has worked its way its way into many of my past missives.

But let's face it -- my journalistic integrity, not to mention my true goal of using my column to woo eligible bachelorettes, would be best served with topics designed for, say, people over the age of 12. Besides, as much as I love playing Guitar Hero, the truth of the matter is that I kinda stink at it. Beating a song on Expert mode requires a brain obviously hard-wired differently than mine. So I gave up on Guitar Hero. Thankfully, Rock Band was there to take its place.

Rock Band is the competition to the Guitar Hero franchise, and it takes nerddom to a new level. In addition to the plastic guitars, Rock Band incorporates plastic drums and a plastic microphone, so you can create your own little fake band right in your living room. And one night, after discovering that I was no better at the Rock Band guitar than I was at Guitar Hero, I picked up the mic.

Here's the thing: I can't sing to save my life. When I try, the voice that somehow erupts from my larnyx is feeble, high-pitched, and goes against the very nature of testosterone. But what the hey -- it was a late night and I had no audience except for my cats, and they're pretty good about keeping secrets. So I gave it a shot. And I did it. Actually, I didn't just do it -- I kicked butt at it.

Thus began my newest obsession. Every night, after you and yours were safely asleep, I would be up and alone in my apartment, quietly warbling into a plastic microphone. Eventually, I had the guts to do it in front of my fellow Rock Band-obsessed friends. And despite tears of hysterical laughter, they gave me props at my ability to somehow score huge points. As of this writing, out of the millions of people playing the game, I am ranked the #132nd greatest vocalist in the world. It was time to go public.

Which is why I spent last Saturday at Rock Island's Gameology in their first ever Rock Band tournament. We needed four people to sign up, and we went in with a blistering powerhouse -- me on vocals, my friend Chris on guitar, Linn on bass -- and on drums? Some kid we met that day who agreed to play with us. I didn't even get his name. Like Spinal Tap, our band goes through drummers like water. We needed a band name to sign up, so we improvised: Angry Bob & the Sucktone.

As we waited our turn, we scoped out the competition. Strangely, every other entrant in the tourney was at least 5-10 years younger than us. I know -- hard to believe, right? But who's to say we're too old to rock? Tell that to Neil Young. Tell that to Ozzy. Heck, I'm pretty sure Keith Richards actually died ten years ago and no one's had the heart to tell him. And being old might have its advantages: half of these kids hadn't heard of bands like Molly Hatchet until they opened their copies of Rock Band. We might have this thing won.

That's when we saw them. Our newly-found arch-nemesis. A band whose name I can't even print in a family paper. But they were there to fake rock better than anyone else. They had outfits. Capes. Leather. They carried their little Rock Band guitars in real beat-up guitar cases. They looked like Whitesnake, if Whitesnake had been a fake band playing fake instruments. We were hosed.

As if that weren't bad enough, fate dealt us blow after blow. In the "random song" round, we were the only band to draw "Teenage Lobotomy" by the Ramones -- a fast song that wrecks your hands. Happily, we were also the only band to remember to pack analgesic ointment -- nothing encapsulates the essence of rock like a tube of Ben-Gay. It all came down to our final song -- and fate crushed us. "The Number of the Beast" by Iron Maiden. One of the hardest songs in the whole game. Note: if your singing already sounds high-pitched and embarassing, NEVER try an Iron Maiden song.

But we gave it our all. My friends clicked away on their plastic guitars. I reached for vocal notes no man should ever attempt. When it was done, we may not have been perfect, but it was enough for the other teams to break out into a round of applause regardless. I think we ended up in 4th place, which wasn't too bad for our embarassed troupe of geriatrics. There's another tourney at the end of the month, and we're already signed up. If you've got the chops to take on Angry Bob & the Sucktone, I encourage you to do the same.

Now if you'll excuse me, fake band practice starts soon.

COLUMN: Consultant

The sun hurts my eyes as I raise my weary head from my pillow. I sit at the edge of my bed and wait for the fog to clear my sleep-addled brain. There was something I had to do today, but I can't put my finger on it. And why is there this textbook laying on my --

OMIGOD. I HAVE A FINAL TODAY. I OVERSLEPT. I FORGOT TO STUDY. I grab my keys, hop in my car, and zoom to class. I slam open the door and the whole room spins and looks. The professor glares at me disapprovingly. That's when I look down. I FORGOT TO PUT CLOTHES ON!

I know it's one of those stereotypical dreams the experts discuss, but I think I'm the only one who actually dreams it on a routine basis. So what's the I-forgot-to-study-and/or-wear-pants nightmare supposed to represent? Fear of failure? A lack of self-confidence? Extreme insecurity? Too many tacos before bed? Because I'm guilty of ALL those. And if I didn't have self-awareness of my own shortcomings, I might not have made it through this past week.

For the last seven days, we've had a consultant join us here at the paper. A fellow whose job it is to come in, evaluate our performance and our department, and then offer recommendations toward improvement. And my job, apparantly, was to turn completely neurotic about the whole affair.

Not that the guy put us under any undue pressure or anything. In fact, he was kinda chummy. No, I'm just an idiot and react poorly to the prospect of any type of judgement or criticism. He wasn't there to find the weakest link, but still, all it takes is the knowledge that some kind of Big Brother is watching for me to become unhinged.

In a way, it was exciting. This is a guy who's visited hundreds of newspapers around the world, and certainly can bring a thing or two to the table. We can -- and we did -- learn some pretty cool stuff from him. But at the same time, I've felt a strange uneasiness all week. Whether chummy or not, this guy WAS checking all of us out. What if he went into a meeting with top brass and went, "Gee, I dunno about that Shane guy. He kinda creeped me out. Your best track towards improving this paper would be firing THAT weirdo nerd"?

And then there's the surprisingly shallow and indignant part of me. The immature and irrationally proud part of my brain that wants to scream, "How DARE you come in here and try to tell ME how to do MY job, buddy? MY butt's been warming this chair for 13 years, but if you think YOU can do a better job, plop right on down and show me your magick, dude!" THIS is the part of my brain that probably requires professional help.

But in the end, it was a very harmless and productive learning experience -- apart from the mandatory final training session being scheduled at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday, a time of day not seen by THIS earnest journalist since, oh, the mid-90's or so. But for all the awkwardness of the week, it really wasn't anywhere as bad as my brain had plotted out. In fact, we gained some new ideas that you might be seeing in these pages over the coming months. He offered some criticism, but -- despite this sentence shattering your image of me and bringing the social strata of the Quad Cities to its knees -- I'm not perfect.

This week DID raise an interesting question, though. How exactly DOES one become a professional consultant? I mean, I'm sure our guy came from an extensive background in the newspaper industry, and I'm sure our top brass knows all that, but we underlings were never told this guy's credentials. For all I know, he could be a plumber who one day had his arm halfway up a toilet and went, "Y'know, I've got some swell ideas for the newspaper business."

So maybe THAT'S my true calling. I could be a consultant. Imagine getting paid for walking into a strange place and telling people how to do their jobs. If you found yourself amid a bunch of employees you hate, YOU COULD TELL THEIR BOSS TO FIRE THEM. And before all heck breaks loose, *poof* you're on a plane to the next place who's hired you. All told, that's a pretty sweet gig. The power would be intoxicating. If only I was qualified to consult at anything. Lemme think... Hmmm...

I've got it. The one thing I'm a certified expert at. I hereby offer my consulting services to dance clubs across the globe. My job? To inform inebriated revelers when their dance skills are woefully lacking. Surely I've reached expert status at making fun of drunken morons. Too often a dance floor full of promise gets ruined by someone busting a VERY ill-conceived move. How many potential nightclub hook-ups have been wrecked by some prospective suitor failing to successfully pop, lock, or drop it? It needs not be a horror any longer, America. Just hire me to come in and stand there. At the first sign of a poorly executed breakdance, I step in and just go, "Dude, no. No, dude." And if anyone so much as tries to do the running man, they're banned for life.

Consultants are everywhere. Googling "consultant" brings up 304,000,000 hits. The music you hear on local radio was probably programmed by a consultant in Florida who thinks he knows best what the Quad Cities wants to hear. Your neighborhood was probably designed by a city planning consultant. There might be one showing up to YOUR job tomorrow. But if it goes anything like ours did, don't worry and keep an open mind. It might end up being a good thing. Just remember to wear clothes.

COLUMN: Augie

I hate change.

As nifty as progress can tend to be sometimes, there's overwhelming comfort to be found in the familiar. That's why my living room pretty much looks the same as the day I moved in. That's why my closets brim to the brink of structural failure with junk that I simply refuse to throw away. That's why, if I ruled the world, "Frasier" and "Friends" would be forced by law to remain on the air forever. Change is for the birds.

Unless, of course, the change comes with some sort of necessary and/or super awesome technological advancement. My old entertainment center, for instance, had loads o' sentimental charm -- until I got my hi-def widescreen installed, and that's the exact moment it lost its charm.

So change is bad... unless said change happens to be awesome, in which case I'll let it slide. I realize that it's a somewhat childish approach to life. I should be encouraging and accepting of change. But I'm okay with living in a routine if the routine is comfy. That's why each day I drive the same route to and from work. And each day, that route takes me past a big ol' heaping pile of change. I could close my eyes and pretend I don't see it, but driving blind could put the welfare of at least 2-5 freshmen in jeopardy.

I'm talking about my alma mater, Augustana College. Yes, from 1988 to 1992, Augie helped mold me into the person I am today. Were it not for those classes I took, I might not have this column with which to wax poetic on a weekly basis. And were it not for those classes I skipped, I might have the knowledge and fortitude to find something better to do with my life. Yes, I owe it all to those hallowed halls of learning.

Too bad, then, that I can barely recognize the place today. Augustana is the Michael Jackson of academics: the tunes are still pretty wicked, but the face is newer every year. Homecomings get weirder and weirder as we realize just how much the place has changed.

The dorms have internet. Some of them even have air conditioning. In my day, the internet was a new-fangled curiosity only found in the dungeons of the campus computer labs. And as for air conditioning? I remember my roommates and I being threatened by an irate clerk when we paid for $4 of gas in pennies, all for the luxury of driving around in an air-conditioned car for a couple of hours.

And what of Augie's historic Carlsson Hall? Well, drive down 7th Ave. and you can see for yourself. They've gutted the former dormitory and are remodeling the beast into classrooms. In its place, last year Augie opened Swanson Commons, an uber-dorm of modern living that's so nice, I frankly wouldn't mind living there now.

Plus there are Transitional Living Areas where the kids can play My First Apartment, a couple new science buildings, the rec center... it's a different world. Even the college center snack bar -- once home to flimsy tables hosting smoky-aired, marathon card games -- now has booths. BOOTHS, I TELL YOU! These kids have it so good these days.

Which is why, of course, the alumni are trying to stop it. I logged onto Myspace the other day to a frightening message: "SAVE THE AUGUSTANA QUAD!" I clicked to find a letter-writing campaign in its infancy. Augie has plans to erect another new building -- a student center -- and this warning stated that they were going to stick it square in the middle of the school's park-like outdoor quad.

I called one of my fellow dorm-dwellers from back in the day: a kid named Kirby Winn, who now happens to be Augustana's Director of Public Relations. Kirby informed me that yes, Augie IS building a new student center with an optimistic 2010 completion date. But NO, it's not going smack in the middle of the quad. After consulting with the architectural and campus planning firm of Sasaki Associates, they've decided to build into the hillside southwest of Andreen Hall.

Kirby says he envisions the new student center to be a "sixteen-hour-a-day hang-out space," and I'm down with that. Best of all, it will probably mean a new home for WAUG. Did you even know that Augie had a student radio station? Probably not -- unless you live in the dorms, the only way to pick it up is to be within a block of campus, and it probably wouldn't hurt to cover your whole car in tinfoil beforehand. But the little-station-that-could has had a huge impact in regional radio. Ever listen to Captain Kirk on Q106? Jeff James on Star 93.5? How about Scott Steele, morning guy on Cedar Rapids' top-rated KHAK? They all got their start on WAUG -- and for a short, sweet time from 1990-1992, I was their boss. WAUG currently broadcasts out of a studio roughly the size of my bathroom, and a new student center means an upgrade to something at least the size of a bathroom-and-a-half.

So, sorry Myspace. I'm all for causes, but you guys have this one wrong. Yes, I'm sure a tree or two will lay down its life for the sake of progress, but this one's worth it. If it wasn't for change, Augie would still be one building teaching to Swedish immigrants. The students at Augie need a new hang-out. WAUG needs a new home. This is one change you won't hear me complaining about.

COLUMN: Flat

That's it. I've had it.

I can't deny it any longer, Quad Cities: I'm in a funk. The world has been conspiring against me lately. Let's take stock of the current situation, shall we?

Our entire universe is covered with ice. The temps have dropped from cold to freezing to unsustainable-for-human-life. When it's not been sub-zero out, we've made up for it in treacherous snow dropped on us by the pound. It's been so abysmal outside that the only recourse is to hide out in one's apartment and watch TV -- but thanks to the writer's strike, the only TV option appears to involve grown men and women dueling one another with giant Q-Tips on "American Gladiators."

And, of course, to top it all off, this week finds me staring down the umpteenth Valentine's Day spent woefully single and alone (Eligible Bachelorettes: insert pity party here).

Suffice to say, the world is my bummer. I'm sick of bringing people down with exasperated sighs. I'm sick of answering "how are you today?" with mono-syllabic grunts of displeasure. It's time I brought myself out of these winter doldrums.

That's why I had a brilliant idea for this column. I would write an epic ode on things to be thankful for, even in this, the winter of my discontent. Spring is a month away. The writer's strike is ending and new episodes of "Lost" are on. Our company's parking lot may be a solid block of ice, but perhaps we could rent it out to the QC Flames as a practice rink. There's no need to be so glum. I was looking on the bright side. I left work that night excited to compose my cheery masterpiece.

So what if there was a -20 wind chill? (Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah!) Why fret over a new-fallen inch of snow? (Zip-A-Dee-Ay!) Who cares about THE FLAT TIRE ON MY CAR? (My oh my, what a sucktastic day.)

It was dark, it was freezing, and my back left tire was flat as a fritter. I got in the car, turned on the heat, and screamed every single one of George Carlin's seven words. I even made up a few new ones of my own. Then I called the only person who I knew could help me: Julie, my personal roadside assistance claims tele-representative. I might have been freaking out, but Julie had a good head on her shoulders, I could tell.

"Do you have a spare tire in your car?" she asked.

Well, let's think about this. The contents of my car's trunk, as best as I can recall: Two or three blankets. A bag of decaying garbage. Somewhere around 100 ruined cassette tapes. Shards of glass from the bonehead who put a brick through my back window a couple years ago. The body of Jimmy Hoffa. The lost treasure of the Sierra Madre. And somewhere, deep under that metric ton of debris, was my spare tire. I knew what had to be done.

"Nope," I replied.

"I can call you a tow," said Julie. "You said you were leaving work. What's the name of the business?"

"The Dispatch," I said.

"Okay, what dispatch?"

"The Moline Dispatch," I clarified.

"Sir, your tow will be dispatched from Moline. I need to know where you're at."

"I'm AT the Moline Dispatch office. That's the business."

"You're at a dispatch office for what business?"

"No, I'm not at a dispatch office. I'm at The Dispatch office."

Once we got the Abbott & Costello routine out of the way, she informed me that someone would be there lickety split -- provided, of course, that my definition of lickety split was in the range of 90-120 minutes. I hung up and called my friend Jason, who gets serious kudos for bringing out an air compressor.

"It took me forever to fill my bike tire with this thing," he told me as he hooked it up and headed back to the heat of his car. "This'll be a while."

"What's it reading now?" he asked me a few minutes later.

"I dunno," I replied, craning my neck to read the gauge in the dark, "forty-five something?"

Jason and I have been best friends for over a decade, and I have NEVER seen him move faster in my life.

"SERIOUSLY?" he yelled. "Oh my God, get out of the way!"

Truth be told, Paris Hilton probably knows more about fixing a flat than I do. But that night I learned that my tire holds 30 pounds of air pressure, and that we had just forced nearly 50 pounds into the thing and narrowly avoided the tire popping like a grape with my head inches away.

We got the tire filled as my tow truck showed up. Rather than risk my bumper to a tow, we had the truck follow us as I drove slow and steady to the one place open at 8:30 p.m. for a tire fix. The one place that defines everything that is NOT me: Farm & Fleet.

And it was a learning experience. Their nice staff hooked me up with a pair of new tires while Jason and I sought entertainment browsing the "Bowhunting" aisle. (And you know what? For as much of an animal rights guy as I am, if deer are dumb enough to be lured by cheap cardboard cutouts of 2-dimensional she-deer, then maybe they deserve the occasional arrow strike.) And in the absolute best moment of the week, I was perusing their CD bargain bin and found an exceptionally horrifying Best of John Travolta disc for four bucks (SCORE!)

So the world isn't so bad after all. I survived the flat tire, the farm, AND the fleet. I'm going to survive this winter, too. And hey, I might not have a girl this Valentine's Day, but the next time I do, she's getting a mixtape with some awesomely awful Travolta action on it.

Eclipses Rule.

Photo thieved maliciously from CNN.com

Eclipses are cool. I went outside like the nerd that I am and stared up at the moon for about five minutes. Two neighbor kids were outside gossiping about boys and music. I wanted to explain to them how an eclipse happens. I wanted to explain to them that the little star right next to the eclipsed moon is actually Saturn. They didn't care. They didn't even look up. They were far too busy trying to figure out what rapper does the song "Low." I knew it was Flo-Rida, but I didn't tell them.

COLUMN: Superbowl

The Diary of a Sunday that can only be described as fairly Super: A story in which our hero faces 5 hours of wall-to-wall hi-definition football coverage and lives to tell about it.

4:30 p.m. Friend Chris beats the snow and arrives at my apartment armed with a metric ton of chicken wings, a box of Coke, and nacho fixins aplenty. We brown some hamburger, throw on some cheese and salsa and sour cream, and dump it all atop an armada of tortilla chips. It is, by all definable measurements, an unquestionably super bowl of nachos. We are focused, primed, and football-ready.

4:50 p.m. The precise moment when the month-long pre-game show apparantly runs out of things to say about the game. This is the only acceptable answer as to why football legends are currently on my screen reading the Declaration of Independence. Something tells me that "the freedom to watch awesome, bone-crunching action" was NOT atop the Founding Fathers' pros and cons list for revolution. Still, these historic words have never carried such weight as when they're read by great orators like, oh, Peyton Manning.

5:30 p.m. Kick-off.

5:36 p.m. Bud Light claims their product can make people breathe fire. Friend Chris and I have a quick con-fab before pronouncing the idea "pretty cool."

5:46 p.m. Internet start-up SalesGenie.com decides that the best way to spend $2.5 million dollars is to make condescending racial stereotypes of Indian workers. Later their next ad involves crudely animated panda bears and stale jokes. Each second of these two spots costs around $83,000. I could do a lot with $83,000. They could have simply given me $83,000 and I could have walked around telling people, "Hey, visit SalesGenie.com," and it would have been a better thought-out ad campaign.

5:47 p.m. An announcer informs us that 30 minutes of the pre-game show was powered by a roomful of ridiculously muscle-clad people on exercise bikes. I laugh snarkily, and that laugh was powered by one dude sitting on a couch eating nachos.

6:03 p.m. Derek Jeter is the new face of Gatorade G2. Now, there's no one on Earth more diametrically opposite myself than a professional athlete. That said, I recently discovered that I quite like Derek Jeter's new cologne (men, ask your Avon reps!) If I like his cologne, perhaps there's hope for his low-calorie electrolyte beverage as well.

6:24 p.m. Sobe Life Water decides that their product is best represented by lizards dancing to "Thriller" with Naomi Campbell. They are VERY wrong.

6:32 p.m. New England QB Tom Brady starts to look less than perfect. I celebrate by running to the kitchen for a tasty beverage when I distinctly hear the announcer from the other room. "Oh, say," he says. "Human urine helped break up that play." Hrrrm. A myriad of thoughts course through my brain. I'm not exactly Mr. Sports, but I at least thought I knew the basics of football. That said, I must admit that I was unfamiliar with the human urine section of the playbook. In fact, I feel that human urine should count towards pass interference at the very least. Then I walked back in and discovered that "Oh, say, human urine" is, in fact, Giants defensive end Osi Umenyiora.

6:40 p.m. Pepsi gives me a highlight of the night: watching Justin Timberlake get tortured for 30 seconds. But the question DOES exist: Why does Pepsi even need to advertise? Is there somebody out there going, "Hmm... Pepsi or Coke. Well, which one would Justin drink?" Why would you want to spend 2.5 mil on 30 seconds of airtime if you were Pepsi? There's only one logical answer: people are willing to put up absurd amounts of money for the joy of seeing Justin Timberlake get tortured.

7:08 p.m. Someone needs to alert the authorities: Tom Petty has been kidnapped and replaced by someone's very, very ugly grandfather. Happily, no wardrobe malfunctions occur and a grateful nation breathes a sigh of relief. Yes, nothing says hip, exciting entertainment like a geriatric rocker and his mid-tempo anthems o' blandness. Congrats, NFL, you've managed to suck almost ALL the life out of halftime. Maybe next year you can seal the deal by simply re-animating the corpse of Glenn Miller for the most rip-roarin', rootin'-tootin', swing-tastic bathroom break of them all.

7:36 p.m. Bridgestone wants to prove the durability of their tires by showing a car deftly swerving and NOT running over exercise guru Richard Simmons. Dear Bridgestone, I would be a far bigger supporter of your company had you proven the durability of your tires by repeatedly running over exercise guru Richard Simmons.

And then somewhere around here it all goes a bit grey, as my charming stroll through the world of advertising keeps getting interrupted by a pesky good game of football. New York wins while New England coach Bill Belichick storms off the field like a pouty baby. Either that or he wanted to be the first to log on to SalesGenie.com.

All told, a good night out without ever having to leave the apartment.

The winners: The Giants, Justin Timberlake, the E-Trade baby, and Chris' nachos.

The losers: The Patriots, SalesGenie.com, anyone who likes Tom Petty, and my nacho-ravaged GI tract. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go. I think the 2009 Super Bowl pre-game show starts in like 20 minutes.