COLUMN: Brittany

Dear Hollywood starlet Brittany Murphy,

Please stop stalking me.

I'm sorry to bring this up in a public forum. I admit, it was fun at first, but things have gotten out of hand. I realize that I, like my uncle James, am a sex machine. But you need to learn some self-control. The facts are simple. You're MARRIED. I have a GIRLFRIEND. It's just not going to work out, and you need to get that through your head.

It started oh so many years ago. My friends and I purchased tickets to go see a little movie called "Clueless" -- which, of course, we went to out of purely scientific reasons: to see the smokin' hot chick from the Aerosmith videos. Little did I know that you would soon step on screen and make me forget all about Alicia Silverwhatzit.

That's when I made my mistake. When your lovely visage strolled into view for the first time, I turned to one of my friends and whispered my heart-felt passion for the beautiful and eternal unrequited love I instantly felt. Words cannot express the deep emotional connection that you and I shared that day, but what I came up with was fairly close. I believe, in fact, it was something like, "Duuuuuuuuude. That chick is WAY cute AND way hot. High five."

I thought I whispered it under my breath. Apparantly not, because somehow... some WAY... word must have reached you of the virile and sexy man-boy from Illinois with the passionate heart and the magical way with words. That's the only reason I can find as to why you've gone out of your way to haunt my life.

The evidence is over-whelming. See, I'm an average (yet incredibly handsome and intelligent) modest guy. And, speaking for all other average guys, naturally we just want one thing in life: movies and more movies in which Ashton Kutcher gets married. So when Ashton released his seminal getting-married movie, the aptly titled "Just Married," I was one of the many single hip guys in the opening night audience. And just when we were about to enjoy the timeless comedic stylings of Mr. Kutcher, he has to ruin it all by marrying YOU. I was so overcome with undying lust for you that I could barely focus on Ashton's subtle comedic nuances -- I hope you're happy.

It was merely the first of countless films you've inserted yourself into to get my attention, knowing full well that I would one day watch them. You ruined my appreciation of Eminem's struggles in "8 Mile." You gave new meaning to the term "Sin City." You even had the unmitigated gall to interrupt "Girl, Interrupted." I can't even enjoy the hit Fox animated comedy "King of the Hill" without your melodic voice coming out of Luanne's mouth. Back off, sister.

As if appearing non-stop in movies wasn't enough, then you got SERIOUSLY dastardly. That's when you decided to start appearing in my subconscious. There I was in the middle of one of my usual dreams -- wherein I and a rotating cast of friends are chased through Gothic settings by nameless, faceless bad guys (we can save the psychoanalysis for a future column, thanks) -- when I looked over and who was running beside me in my dreamscape but YOU. Why you were only wearing a skimpy bikini was anyone's guess.

And now we've come to this. As I'm writing this very column, film crews are out today in the Quad Cities shooting a made-for-cable disaster movie with the working title "Megafault." The male lead has been announced: It's Eriq LaSalle, best known as Dr. Peter Benson from NBC's "E.R." What HASN'T been announced is the female lead. But I'm a smart guy with ears to the streets, and I've heard rumors who that actress is. I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with Frittany Murphy.

The gossip mill offers a variety of reasons for the secrecy. They say it's a case of an overprotective and loving husband. Or maybe it's a fear of the ruthless Quad City paparazzi who harass me on a daily basis. But it's clear what the REAL reason is why everyone's being so hush-hush: she's in town to secretly stalk me. Apparantly my movies and my dreams just aren't enough, eh, Brittany? You just had to show up in person to chase down the love we dare not speak of.

It's just too late, my dear. I'm in a happy relationship, and you've got a new husband to think of. Our romantic liaison can't happen. Fate has dealt us a semi-sweet hand and our tryst is just not in the cards. The madness must end. I'll do whatever it takes to be left alone. The way I see it, there's only one way to prove once and for all that our love simply can not and must not carry on:

I need to take you to dinner, famous actress Brittany Murphy. Perhaps once and for all, in a romantic setting before a steaming plate of Rossmeat with extra bacon, you'll gaze into my eyes, bear witness to my brute machismo, and once and for all realize that I'm not the humor columnist for you. Tell you what: I'll even pay.

The torment must end. I realize that I'm a hunky, hunky guy. And if the price I must pay for my hunkiness is to constantly fend off A-list Hollywood celebrities with a stick, then so be it. But Brittany Murphy, you need to forget about me. At the very least, you certainly shouldn't call me at the newspaper office Monday through Friday during normal business hours at the number conveniently located in all major Quad City area phone books. And you certainly shouldn't e-mail me at sbrown@qconline.com. Or look up my Facebook profile that I check multiple times in a day. Get over it, babe. It's time to stop living in a fantasy world. Cough.

COLUMN: Discotech

It's official: I hate getting old. I know that's a horribly cliche way to start a column, but it's the truth.

I refuse to go quietly into that night, but the facts are simple. I am 38 years old. That makes me an awful lot closer to 40 than 30. If the show Thirtysomething were still on the air and casting, I would probably be considered too old. The fact that I even remember the show Thirtysomething makes me too old.

People my age are rapidly becoming fuddy-duddies. Don't deny it - you are. At 38, you're no longer in a coveted advertising demographic. You're not supposed to listen to and/or comprehend Top 40 radio. When we watch shows like "South Park," we're supposed to grimace and say something like, "What ARE we teaching our kids these days?"

I don't wanna teach kids. I wanna BE a kid. As a life-long single dude who's yet to chalk up any dependents and/or crying infants whose lives I'm inexplicably required by law to sustain, I end up having a lot more in common with your average 18-year-old than someone my own age.

And normally I'm cool with that. I think I'm holding my own fairly well thus far. It's not often that I've had a Danny Glover moment and announce that I'm too old for this feces. But last weekend? I was too old for this feces.

You guys know I'm a bit of a music nerd and still DJ every weekend at a dance club down in the District, right? Well, not to bore you with weird DJ minutae (unless you want me to, because I can -- oh yes, I can,) but part of being a super awesome DJ is spending an inordinate amount of time online, digging for remixes and tracks to make me sound better than the dude DJing down the street.

Well, most of the remixes that I rely on come from a couple guys out of Milwaukee called DiscoTech. Well, the other day I get a text message from one of my DJ friends: "DISCOTECH IN PERSON. IOWA CITY. SAT NITE. COMING?" You didn't have to ask me twice. Within minutes, I had arranged a fill-in at the club and a carful of friends itching to roadtrip.

After wandering around downtown Iowa City for a bit, we settled on a little restaurant called Givanni's where I had THE best piece of salmon in my life followed by a stellar creme brulee - it was a full-on foodgasm and our whole table was smitten.

Afterwards, we headed to the gig -- to find ourselves pretty much the only ones there. we settled on a booth when they first started showing up. College kids by the truckload. It turns out our relaxing night out was the last stop on one of the biggest bar crawls of the school year. Within a half hour, the place was at capacity with barely legals, all clad in identical baby blue bar crawl t-shirts, all of whom appeared to have been crawling since, oh, noon-ish, I'd reckon.

Kids would walk by me yelling while their drunken spittle would land on my face. Girls were dancing on tables. Guys were high-fiving each other. At one point, I swear to you, two hundred people started yelling "To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!" for reasons unknown. Two hundred people who weren't even alive when "Animal House" was made.

Suddenly I began to wonder if I never feel out of place at my club only because I'm safely tucked away in a DJ booth. Out in the thick of things, I felt like Old Man Brown the Hipster Buzzkill. A few instant truths about today's dance-clubbing college kids: (1) They all look like they're 12. (2) They're now officially young enough to be my children. (3) Regardless of age, no one in Iowa can dance, and alcohol doesn't help matters. (4) I wanted to knock half of them upside the head and yell, "GROW UP!"

Still, the guys from DiscoTech put on a great show, and it's always humbling to watch DJ's waaaaay better than myself. I just wish I wasn't forced to see them while surrounded by the cast of "High School Musical 8: The Collegiate Binge Drinking Boogaloo." But would anybody else my age care about a couple of great DJ's?

I say yes. We just can't let the kids know. It's time we almost-40's take the fun back from today's generation - they're clearly too idiotic to handle it. So here's my plan, middle-agers. We open a club just for US. But we have to be sneaky about it.

Outside the place, we pipe out nothing but Billy Joel and Celine Dion on an endless loop. Then we hire a couple people to sit by the window, read the paper and put together jigsaw puzzles. This is to ensure that no 20-something ever step foot inside. Then on the inside, we fill it with everything we've ever wanted to do but felt too old for:

Hip-hop music. Guitar Hero & Rock Band. Lazer Tag. The Cupid Shuffle. Wii Bowling. Video screens that air nothing but "South Park" and "Gossip Girl." We might be losing our hair, but there's no rule that says we can't still pop, lock, and drop it from time to time. We'll just keep the lights reeeeeal low on the dancefloor so noone has to see it.

Something MUST be done. The war against fuddy-duddy-dom must wage on. When I go out of town and witness world class DJ's in an upscale nightclub and all I want to talk about is how great my salmon dinner was, there's a problem. It doesn't have to be this way. Rage, rage, I say! Rage unto the dying of the light! We're only as young as we feel!

On that note, I need to call it a day. The arthritis in my typing fingers is really acting up -- rain must be a-comin'.

COLUMN: Area Rug

I've got a dilemma, Quad Cities. My feng shui is all kinds of funked up.

Let's flash back to a decade or so ago. My wee little efficiency apartment that had seen me through the latter half of my college years was becoming a touch less than efficient. With every nook, cranny, and corner of the apartment piling up with an excess of my stuff, I was officially outgrowing my habitat.

Just as I was gaining the gumption to begin a new apartment search, my landlord came to me with an offer. A one-bedroom unit had recently opened upstairs in the same complex, and it could be mine at a reduced rate -- if I didn't mind the current state of the unit's carpeting, which was, as she put it, "a little stained."

I went upstairs and had a peek. "A little stained" was the understatement of the year. The only thing "little" was the part of the carpeting that WASN'T stained. You almost had to applaud the enthusiasm and level at which the previous tenant desecrated his living space. Perhaps he was an aspiring auto mechanic who chose to practice his oil changes in the center of the living room. To call it "a little stained" would be like calling a Jackson Pollack painting "a little off-white."

So the carpeting sucked, but the rest of the place was quite nice, and the price was right - so I did it. I boxed up my stuff, bid adieu to the one room I had called home for nigh on a decade, and moved on up to a deluxe apartment in the sky. It's the place I still call home to this day.

My first order of business, though, was the carpeting. I rented a floor cleaner and gave it the ol' college try, but it only turned the stains from ungodly to unsightly. There was only one choice left - hide the carpeting at all costs. Or actually, given my budget, hide it at as low a cost as possible.

That's how I found myself at one of those 24-hour big box stores browsing for area rugs. And if there's one thing that big box stores are known for, it's clearly NOT floor coverings. When shopping for a rug at a megalithic-mart type place, there's only one question you have to ask: which of these fashion atrocities is the LEAST terrifying?

This explains the Rug o' Infinite Tackiness, a staple of my apartment for a decade and a constant conversation piece to many of my friends. Words can't do it justice. It's as if I somehow single-handedly freed Tibet, and it expressed its gratitude by vomiting all over my living room floor. I'm sure whoever designed it was thinking words like "ornate" and "exotic," but the end result looked like a set piece from a Bollywood version of "Goldfinger." At least it was better than the leopard-print option I left behind at the store.

For years, the Rug o' Infinite Tackiness served me well, but like all good things, it eventually reached its final sunset. I looked at it the other day and it appeared to be woven of 80% cat hair. In fact, my cats had clawed and frayed the edges so bad that in the past years, two vacuum motors lost their lives wrapped up in its tacky tendrils. It was time to bid the grand dame adieu.

I checked the big box stores to discover tacky area rugs had evolved to a new and exciting level. Suffice to say that apparantly these days, shag is "in." I chose "out," and instead walked into my favorite Moline furniture store -- a place where I walk in and immediately yearn for 80% of the store's inventory. A place that caters to furnishings that makes hipsters salivate. There's only one problem: hipsters are usually too busy being hip to bother making money, and this store might just be the most over-priced joint in the Quad Cities.

I found at least ten area rugs there that would look swell in any abode, but the cheapest sale price I could find was $600. Frankly, I'd rather stare at stains from the crooked angle of sitting on a wallet overburdened with $600 in it. I was whining about my dilemma to a friend, who stared me down and said, "Why don't you just go to Ikea?"

Of course! Ikea! Swedish functionality and affordability could be mine for only a 3 hour drive to the suburbs! On my very next day off, I leapt into the Beetle and journeyed up to Bolingbrook. I strutted through the doors of Ikea to the smell of cinnamon rolls and lingonberries. It was the smell of hope. Within minutes, I found a perfectly delightful striped area rug that somehow managed to match my sofa AND walls simultaneously. Oh, and some nice little plastic glasses. And ooh, a lint roller. And look at that desk lamp for only $9.99! Aww, lookit this cat bed! Hey, A mirror!

That's when it hit me. Ikea, for all its European pomp and circumstance, is nothing more than a big box store. It's the same mass-produced, low-priced consumer-quality junk you can find at any other megamart -- just infinitely less tacky. Thanks, Sweden.

My new rug is now down and enjoying its new role in life as a stain remover. I just can't get used to it. It changes the whole feel of my place. I can't watch TV without a small part of my brain going, "Something's weird! Something's weird! And stripe-y!" Hopefully this feeling will pass and I'll get used to the new rug sitting below all my furniture. If not, I can just go back to Ikea and get all new furniture -- and maybe some lingonberries.

COLUMN: Gay Marriage

Why can I not stop myself from soaking in the idiocy of others? I'm a smart person, right? I went to college. Okay, sure, I skipped my share of classes, but I've got a diploma in my closet certifying that at least a portion of my intellect is broadened and intact. I should know better. I should have self-control.

But noooo. Every time a controversy starts brewing in the news, my fingers leap to the internet and I surf at warp speed directly to the comments section of our newspaper's website.

Some people clearly live to hang out on our website and leave incendiery comments all the live-long day. Some have valid points in their rhetoric, while others craft comments that are a stone's throw from all-out racism, bigotry, and stupidity. It is a non-stop showcase of the best and worst of extreme left-minded and right-minded opinion. And invariably, I get suckered in.

Here's how it usually works. We'll post a news story. The topic doesn't matter - it could be about a hotbed issue or it could be a story about a cat getting stuck in a tree. Either way, someone will come along and find a way to be incensed and outraged about it.

"I hate cats! We need to kill all of them with our guns that President Obama is trying to take away from us," the right will say.

"I love cats! We should harvest their stem cells for our socialized health care program," the left will say.

Within five posts, someone will quote the Bible. Within ten posts, someone will reprint a speech by Ron Paul. Within fifteen posts, all-out melee ensues. I, meanwhile, gaze upon it with raised blood pressure, aghast with the shock and awe and knowledge that what I'm seeing are only the comments fit for print in a family publication.

And that's a cat in a tree. Imagine the fun when we post a news story that REALLY ruffles feathers and polarizes the masses. So when the news broke last week that the Iowa Supreme Court put the legal okay on gay marriage, I did what any good fan of entertainment would: I made some microwaved popcorn and logged on to our website.

In the wide pantheon of hotbed topics, gay marriage might just be the ultimate controversy. Is there anything these days that stirs up people more? And, as per usual, I don't get the big deal.

I'm not a political guy, nor am I a political writer. We pay people good money to touch those stories without the aide of a ten-foot pole. I'm best left to poking fun at the follies of life. But when it comes to the issue of gay marriage, I'm absolutely fascinated by the folks who get red-faced and outraged. Let me hop on my soapbox for JUST a quick second, I swear it won't be too painful. Here goes.

When I was in high school, my best friend was gay. I didn't care in the slightest. He was fun to hang out with and a fellow music nerd. But being his friend, I saw the teasing and the bullying first-hand. Between my friendship with him and my ineptitude for sports, a good chunk of my school assumed I was gay, too. In fact, at my 20 year reunion last summer, one of my classmates told my then-girlfriend in the bathroom that it was "so nice of her to come support me as a friend."

I once dated a girl who I thought might be THE one. It turns out I wasn't even THE gender. She came out of the closet shortly after we broke up. She now devotes her life to helping Iowans in need and she's doing great things with her life. Minutes after the Court's ruling, she announced that she and her girlfriend were officially engaged. I couldn't be happier and I hope I get to DJ the reception. She doesn't like dudes. I don't like onions. It happens -- to each their own.

Enough soapbox. I'm not here to condone the gay lifestyle. I know that some of you have really strong opinions and beliefs, and that's fine. That's the cool thing about America -- we're all welcome to our opinions.

But what I reeeeally don't understand is why the idea of two same-sex people getting hitched is worth spewing hate and intolerance the likes I've never seen before. To those of you who are actively trying to protest the Court's decision, I've just gotta ask: WHY?

I'm not trying to be condescending, either. I'm trying to understand your mindset. I truly don't get why this is such an upsetting big deal. How in the slightest does this ruling affect you? Does it make your heterosexual marriage any less valid? Nope. Does the piece of paper acknowledging their marriage impact your life in any way? Nope.

Isn't it just common sense? If you don't condone being gay, then, umm, don't be gay. If you get invited to a gay wedding and it's not your thing, don't go. If your religion frowns upon homosexuality, same-sex couples will not be knocking on your chapel door. Have your belief, that's the American way. But why waste energy and bandwidth and legal resources to force that belief on someone else? That's not what our country's all about.

I hate Bon Jovi. I hate their stupid smug smirks and their stupid smug songs. As far as I'm concerned, they could ride out of town on steel horses in a blaze of glory while both livin' on a prayer AND giving love a bad name. That said, I'm not going to step into your living room and demand that you stop listening to Bon Jovi. I don't care what you listen to, just as long as I don't have to hear it.

My views on marriage are the same. Just because gay couples can be legally wed doesn't mean that your Iowan way of life is changing in any way, does it? If anything, it might be a boon to the local economy -- weddings aren't cheap these days.

I'm not asking you to change your beliefs, whatever they may be. Stick with your opinions and feel free to rant them in the online comments for this very column. I honestly don't care. But that's my whole point here: neither should you.

My Computer Caught the Swine Flu... Twice.

Howdy all.

I know it's been about a month since my last update... urgh :/

But this time there's an excuse far better than my laziness. Little did I know it was International Technology Failure Month, and boy, have I been celebrating in style.

First, my computer at work crapped out on me. For the first time EVER, I caught a virus, and it crippled my computer like little else I'd ever seen. Our IT guys had to get me a complete Windows reinstall and a happy little lecture on why it's probably NOT a good thing to click on the "Enlarge My Penis? Sure!" ads and I was good to go...

For exactly two days. That's when my computer at HOME died. This wasn't a virus, but a hard drive breathing its last. So I got a little preoccupied with saving the precious data therein (500 GB of music with NO backup. YES, I am an idiot.)

The GOOD news is that, thanks to my awesome friends in the Dispatch IT Dept., they're in the process of saving most of the stuff on it and I hope to have it back in 24 hours.

The BAD news is that, while I was computer-less at home, somehow a SECOND virus reared its ugly head on my work computer, crushing it ALL. OVER. AGAIN.

Now here's the thing. I tend to pride myself on my computer abilities. I don't know the first thing about hard drives or how to diagnose/fix any problems that arise... but I DO know my way around the internet better than most.

I've had a PC at home since 1994. And I pretty much LIVE on the internet, including some not so happy places on the net. As a semi-professional club DJ, I'm always on the make for the newest and greatest music -- and over the years, that's involved everything from Napster to Limewire to seedy back-alley Russian websites and such.

And I have NEVER had anti-virus software on my home computer. And I have NEVER gotten so much as a hiccup of a virus on my home computer...

Yet I'm supposed to believe that I picked up TWO devastating computer viruses within 14 days of one another at work? I call party foul.

My theory is that someone (i.e. perhaps our cleaning staff, perhaps an off-the-clock employee) is sneaking upstairs to our neck of Cubicle-World and going willy-nilly on our computers. A few weeks ago, I logged on in the morning to find a rich and exciting web history of checking out dudes on Match.Com. No offense, but that's not really my style (or sexual preference.)

So now we're installing security cameras and putting "VERBOTEN!" signs on all our puters and seeing what happens.

The point is, my columns are saved on my home computer... and backed up on my work computer. And both have been fritzed out for the better part of two weeks now.

So as SOON as I'm back online with my column archive, I'll update the blog. That might even be tomorrow or later today, so keep yr fingers crossed!

In the meantime, how 'bout that Lost season finale, eh?

Wowza.

Thanks, River Cities Reader, um, readers. Looks like TCC came in #2 for Best Local Blog in the 2009 annual reader's poll.

Guess that means I should get in the habit of updating more regularly, eh?

Alrighto, then. That's my slightly delayed New Year's Resolution -- to blog it up.

Most recent columns coming soon (I'd upload them now, but they're at work, which is clearly not a place I'd like to be until Monday.)

In the meantime, it's looking like Iowa City for me tomorrow, as DiscoTech (my fave remixers in the world) are spinning at Summit. If you're stuck in the Quad Cities this weekend, I highly recommend the Jason Isbell gig at RIBCO Saturday night...

...and don't forget, Saturday is international RECORD STORE DAY. Remember, that was the place you USED to go to before iTunes. Mp3's are dandy, but will they ever replace the warm satisfaction of removing the cellophane from a new CD? As a former employee and a devout fan & customer of independent record stores, I suggest you swing by one of the two area Co-Op Records on Saturday and show some love. You might enjoy some of the ltd. ed. surprises that await to celebrate the holiday.

COLUMN: Flat Feet

I think I'm pretty good at the art of the unspoken conversation.

You know, that moment when you're wandering down the sidewalk and encounter a total stranger. For a split second, your eyes meet. Words might not be exchanged, but clearly thoughts are expressed. Sometimes it's a bit tricky to make out what Jim or Jane Passerby is thinking, but sometimes it's totally transparent. That happens to me a lot.

And the transparent thought I often read on the faces of others is:

"Aww, lookit the poor little awkward guy so intimidated and unsure of himself. I'd say hello but he's so self-conscious he can barely make eye contact. I feel awful for him. I bet he's even so pathetic that he assumes everyone he meets on the street is passing some kind of short-sighted and cruel judgment upon him. I bet he'd make a good newspaper columnist."

Okay, so maybe I'm prone to the occasional bouts of doubt and neurotic self-loathing. But if you're a regular reader of this nook of newsprint, you know that my total lack of self-confidence did not come about without merit or experience. Just last week, I touched on two recent embarassing moments that sent my self-esteem reeling.

One of those was the time I wandered around in public for an entire morning without realizing I had a big ring of dried toothpaste around my mouth. Ahh, good times. As a result of that day, I can't step foot out of the bathroom now without double-checking my face for lingering trace elements of oral hygiene. And even after such a meticulous inspection, I still find myself licking the corners of my mouth every day on the walk from the parking lot -- you know, just in case I was unknowingly attacked by Colgate Fairies on the drive to work. Truth be told, it's probably a better fate to be Frothy the Rabid Man-Boy than "the weird kid who can't control his tongue."

The other was my recent break-through that I apparantly say the word "cookie" oddly -- based on the fact that every time I ask for cookies at the Hardee's drive-thru, I'm asked to repeat my order. When my co-workers read last week's column, they were quick to put my mind at ease. Kinda.

"You say the word 'cookie' like a normal person," said Chris, my colleague of so many years that she now calls me her 'work husband.' "You have no problems with 'cookie.' It's the word 'October' that you can't ever say right."

Greeeat. So my fear is ungrounded -- unless said cookie transaction happens in October. Apparantly, as I'm told, I say it like "Ack-tober." Which I sure hope isn't the truth, because it seems like it'd be hard to say "Ack-tober" without coating the faces of friends and family in spittle.

But these neuroses have taken a backseat to the newest self-confidence buster in my life -- one that comes courtesy of my dear sweet mother.

Let's get one thing clear: my mother really IS dear and sweet, and I love her to pieces. I especially say this because she reads this column weekly. (And all this time, you thought I didn't write about strippers, beer, and porn because I'm a moral guy and this is a family paper? Yeah, right.)

But I do love my mom like nothing else, and she's been having a rough go of things lately. She's super active, but between osteo-arthritis, bone spurs, and something that sounds like Plant-Yer-Face-In-Ice-is, she's not been the most comfortable of late. So when I found out she'd made a trip to to visit one of those orthopedic shoe-makers, I was happy for her.

The good news was that she got shoes and socks that alleviate a lot of the pain she's been having. The bad news was her choice of words.

"They did some testing and told me that I'm really flat-footed," she explained. "Apparantly it runs in your genes. SO THAT EXPLAINS WHY YOU'VE ALWAYS WALKED SO FLAT-FOOTED AND WEIRD."

Oh, that's niiii -- wait, WHAT? I WALK WEIRD? FLAT-FOOTED? Great news, mom. Perhaps this was a fact best NOT shared with your already self-conscious progeny. This was great, just great. Do I walk like a total spaz? Well, at least I no longer have to worry about dressing up for Halloween -- apparantly I'm already stomping around like a freakshow foaming at the mouth and coating everyone in toothpaste-coated spittle when I say, "Happy Aaacktober, everyone!"

I guess I always knew that my stride wasn't particularly graceful and sort of oaf-ishly clompy -- twinkletoes I certainly ain't, as anyone who's ever seen me in a rare appearance on the dancefloor can attest to. But I had always chalked it up to your standard male clumsiness rather than UNSIGHTLY GENETIC ABNORMALITY.

Laugh all you want, but I set up a mirror in my apartment and paraded down the hallway and back. I haven't noticed anything particularly unsightly, but I'm still obsessing on it every time I stand up. "Okay, Shane, focus. Heel...toe. Heel...toe. Heel...toe."

But I did some research to quell my nerves on the internet. This is NOT recommended for a neurotic hypochondriac like me, as you quickly learn about arthritic flat-footed conditions with treatments like "ankle fusion" and "ultrasound guided needle fasciotomies" and I'd rather not learn those definitions. On the bonus side, I learned that an estimated 30% of the world's population is flat-footed, so take THAT, Mom. I guess it's like I always say, the world IS a mighty weird place.

COLUMN: Toothpaste Cookies

It's no real secret that I'm one of the most awkwardly insecure and self-conscious weirdos in the Quad Cities.

A trained professional would likely equate this to a lingering immaturity, lack of self-confidence, and a horribly shallow need for society's approval and acceptance. To this school of thought, I'd like to say --

-- yep. Pretty much nailed it head on. That's me in a nutshell. But my trepidations in life are not without good reason or precedence.

Let's take the other week for instance. When the alarm clock goes off in the mornings, I am in a near-total state of semi-consciousness. I wake up, I tread into the shower, I throw on some clothes, and -- if I'm lucky -- I eventually wake up without personal injury or property damage behind the wheel somewhere near the Moline/Rock Island border. My co-workers know to not even speak to me until the caffeine kicks in an hour or so after getting to work -- and even then, I usually only answer in mono-syllabic grunts until after lunch.

But the other day, I strangely woke up in a nearly coherent, nearly good mood. Maybe it was because I got to sleep at a decent hour. Maybe it was the blessed arrival of jacket weather. Whatever the reason, I was not my usual self. I caught myself singing in the shower, playing with the cats, and starting the day without the autopilot engaged. I even had enough time to roll through a drive-thru and enjoy some breakfast.

I got to work almost chipper and settled into a productive morning. "Maybe this is it," I thought to myself. "I've turned over a new leaf and become a mature and responsible adult. Finally, this is MY time to shine."

The good mood carried on to the lunch hour. I walked out of the building whistling a happy tune. I found my car, plopped down in the seat and turned the key, put it in reverse, took a glance in the rear-view mirror --

And discovered that I had spent the entire morning running around with a giant unsightly circle of toothpaste residue all over my mouth. Yes, four hours interacting with fast food workers, colleagues, and peers while looking like Crazy Shane the Rabid Boy. I would've expected one of my co-workers to go, "Umm, dude. Toothpaste-zilla," but no. No one said a THING. Maybe they were too embarassed. Maybe they thought it was a good look. Maybe they thought I really WAS rabid.

Either way, it was a new low for me. Apparantly the one thing I didn't think to do in my newfound maturity was to give my oldfound self a quick once-over in the mirror. And if no one has the guts to say something when it looks like I've eaten Casper the Friendly Ghost for breakfast, then who knows HOW many times I've paraded amuck uninformed with my nether regions unzipped or a giant bogey making a prison break from my nose.

So THAT'S why I tend to be a self-conscious loon -- because I know how highly capable and well-trained I am at doing extraordinarily embarassing things.

My newest fear is one that's only recently cropped up: I'm now convinced that I apparantly say the word "cookie" like an idiot. Hear me out. When I say the word "cookie," in my brain it sounds exactly like how the word "cookie" should sound. Yet, whenever I'm in the drive-thru at Hardee's and order one of their delightful Big Cookies, the clerk invariably goes, "Wait, you want a WHAT?!?" as though I've just insulted their grandmother in an obscure dialect of Martian.

The way I see it, it's quite possible. I once knew a girl who would individually pronounce both letters in any word containing double T's. Instead of saying "button," she'd say "but-ton." Instead of "kitten," she'd say "kit-ten." And as you'd suspect, it sounded perfectly goofy. Yet she carried on doing it as though it were as natural as a bale full of cot-ton. And did we, her close friends, ever call her on it and say, "Hey, do you realize that sounds waaaay weird?" Nope.

Ergo, I think that there's a strong possibility that my mind hears "cookie" while my mouth might be saying "kwöquêiÿ" for all I know.

The other night, it took no fewer than FOUR tries at the 3 a.m. drive-thru window for me to successful convey my deepest desire to purchase a Big Cookie. And trust me, if you're already a self-conscious, insecure ninny, see what your mental status is like after having to roll down your window and yell "COOKIE! COOKIE! COOKIE! COOKIE!" into a faceless plastic speaker at neighbor-waking volumes.

But none of those things holds a candle to my newest of new insecurities, and this one comes from none other than my dear sweet mother. Sadly, though, it's going to take more column space than this to delve into, so let's hold that thought until next week, where you'll learn about my latest and greatest neurosis.

Until then, just remember this: If you're out there just minding your own business and some horrifying dude comes at you foaming at the mouth and spouting gibberish, just give him a cookie and he'll probably go away.

COLUMN: Stoplight

You can't see me, but I'm doing the happy dance all around the workplace today.

As I type, crews from MidAmerican Energy and the city of Moline appear to be hard at work a couple blocks away from the office, and (fingers crossed) in a short amount of time, perhaps even before this column makes it to print, the intersection of 19th St. and 6th Ave. will have its stoplight back -- and maybe, just maybe, my biggest whine of 2009 will come to an end.

It was a story that could have been way worse. About a month ago, an automobile and a semi truck decided to have an illicit relationship in the middle of that intersection. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured in the resulting collision -- no one, of course, except an innocent stop light who shall remain nameless. Its sudden departure has turned our downtown paradise into pure, unadulterated vehicular anarchy.

Why it's taken WEEKS to get the repairs done is beyond me -- perhaps there's a backorder at Stoplights R Us, I dunno -- but in the interim, the city put up bright, obvious, and easy-to-read 4-way stop signs. Too bad, then, that society appears totally stumped and perplexed when confronted with red octagonal signs that say "STOP."

On two occasions in the past month, I've left work on my lunch hour, pulled up to the Intersection o' Doom, waited patiently for my turn, and then pulled out only to have some nimrod sail right on through at full barrel and come within inches of testing my Volkswagen's much-touted collision safety rating. I understand that the sudden absence of a dear friend like a stoplight could temporarily create brain confusion, especially if you're like me and drive to work every morning in a sort of groggy autopilot haze. But it's not like the road crews went out of their way to hide the temporary stop sign. It's right there in the center of the intersection, as if to say, perhaps, oh, I dunno, STOP.

But perhaps even more aggravating than the bonebrains who've been ignoring the stop sign altogether are the ones who don't quite know what they're doing at a 4-way stop. It turns out I'm one of them. I get the basic concept, I really do: the first car who stops is the first car to go, right? But the intersection of 19th and 6th is a busy one, especially around lunch. And more often than not, I'm pulling up to the stop at the EXACT same time as someone else in a different direction.

Honestly, I don't know what to do when this happens. I have fuzzy memories of grumpy Mr. Bunch telling our Driver's Ed class that you yield to the driver on your left. Is that right? Or is it your right, right? Wrong? Clearly my confusion is shared by EVERY VEHICLE ON THE ROAD, for at least once a day I'll get caught in the should-I-or-shouldn't-I dance. To go or NOT to go, THAT is the question. Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake. If executed correctly, this manoevre can carry on until both vehicles have timidly crept their way into the middle of the intersection before one makes an overly dramatic acceleration and peels out, pedestrians and opposing cars be darned.

Just today, I was coming back from lunch and pulled to the 4-way stop at the exact same time as a girl in a Toyota. Our eyes locked. The non-verbal dialogue began. There were no words, but I'm pretty sure it went like this:

"Hi, I'm in a car."
"Me, too."
"We pulled up at the same time."
"Yep, we sure did."
"So who goes first? Should I? I am, after all, kinda cute."
"Indeed you are. But I'm late returning to work from lunch."
"Really. Sorry to hear that. Where'd you go?"
"Arby's."
"Ahh. Did you try the new Roastburger?"
"No, those look kinda weird."
"Agreed. Okay, so look, I'm think I'm gonna go."
"No, I think I'M gonna go."
"I'll inch out a bit."
"Me, too. I enjoy being difficult. It's part of my quirky charm."
"AAOOOOOOOOOOOGGGGAH!"

That last comment was actually from the horn of the irate driver behind me, who had the nerve to interrupt our delightful unspoken conversation and send the Toyota nervously scuttling past me.

And, of course, after spending the afternoon internally fuming about idiot drivers, I proceeded to BECOME one that very night. While leaving the newspaper parking lot, I totally misjudged a passing vehicle and totally pulled out right in front of some dude, causing him to screech on the brakes.

Well, I say "him," but truth be told, when I looked in the rearview, all I could see was tires as tall as my car -- for only I would choose to cut off some jacked-up, gun-racked, testosterone-fueled, built-Ram-tough uber-truck with my wee VW Beetle. And, as expected, the guy spent the whole drive to Rock Island road-raging on my bumper, revving his engine maniacally, shining his brights into my the back of my skull, and presumably wanting my head on a stick.

Eventually, he gave up and I managed to live, thrive, and survive at least long enough to scribe this column. Dude, if you're reading this -- if you CAN read -- I'm terribly sorry for cutting you and your machismo off. If I wasn't so distracted thinking about people driving like idiots, I wouldn't be driving like an idiot. All I know is I want my stoplight back.

COLUMN: Depressed

Well, this'll teach me and my big mouth.

So, a few weeks ago I wrote about Shane's Exciting Valentine's Day Extravaganza. It was a fairly amusing evening, as my attempt to woo the latest lucky bachelorette with an at-home dinner ended with a broken-down car, a near fire in my apartment, a brisk winter jog, second-degree burns on my arm, and a tube of Super Glue exploding in my hands. Yes, it was the stuff of romantic legend.

Sadly, though, what the column DIDN'T mention is that by the time the paper went to press, my fledgling relationship had already gone kaput and I was once again flying solo through life. I would've been impressed with myself -- after all, a two week failure is a pretty legendary achievement -- if it wasn't for the fact that I really quite liked this girl and was fairly distraught at her sudden and abrupt departure from my life.

But don't cry for me, Quad Cities -- after a week apart, we're trying to start things over, move ahead slowly and cautiously, and see where the day takes us. I'm just happy in the moment, and that's good enough for now.

The only problem is that I've just spent the last week mired in a funk of despair, self-loathing, and pathos. This, it turns out, is NOT the ideal mindframe to live in when you're the guy in the newspaper who tries to bring the funny every week. Instead of trying to find the laughable foibles in life, I've been the sole attendee of a raging round-the-clock pity party, population: Shane.

But while it wasn't exactly the most entertaining of weeks, I DID learn a few things in the process:

• The problem with being depressed, I've discovered, is that quite often it can be a bit depressing. Yes, I know that there are brave people out there battling clinical depression on a daily basis who probably want my head on a stick for whining over a week-long broken heart, but hey - you weren't on the pity party guest list, and I'm QUITE good at whining.

In a weird way, I was kind of looking forward to the isolation and solitude of a spendidly foul mood. I thought it might be a cathartic growing experience -- you know, maybe the catalyst for me to isolate myself, write the Great American Novel, and someday cry on Oprah. No dice. Instead, I spent most the week staring at an off-white wall bored silly.

Just because you're in a funk shouldn't mean that you can't be entertained. There should be ways of at least amusingly biding your time through misery. For instance, you could watch "The Notebook" and "Sleepless in Seattle" whilst hurling Nerf balls at your TV and keeping score of how many times you smack perfect love upside its miserable head. You could turn an evening of listening to the morbid sounds of The Cure into a drinking game - just do a shot every time Robert Smith sings about how dark (or, in morose UK goth-rock, "daaahk") his life is. Hrrm. Then again, perhaps providing alcohol and projectile weapons to the distraught is a poor choice. Let's move on.

• Being so forlorn that your exceptional musical integrity becomes compromised is entirely unacceptable. A good portion of my life is governed and dictated by the contents of my iTunes folder, and I'm proudly elitist and holier-than-thou when it comes to my pop culture. (The general rule of thumb: If you've ever heard it on the radio, it probably sucks. If it's a challenging and even perhaps atonal sonic maelstrom while someone in the background sings in a language that's quite possibly Icelandic, I probably love it.)

But those well-manicured tastes go right out the window when you're mopey, I've discovered. Last week, I was futzing around with the mp3 player in my car when the radio kicked on for a second -- to "One" by Three Dog Night. Now, this is a song that I would, under normal circumstances, abhor. But in THAT mindset, suddenly I was caught up. "Y'know, man," said the pathetic voice in my head, "these dudes are right on. One IS the loneliest number that I've ever heard." Mere minutes later, I was channel-flipping and almost brought to tears by New Kids on the Block wailing "Please Don't Go Girrrrrl." Again, unacceptable.

• If one wants an audience for one's pity party, all one has to do is add high drama to one's Facebook status. "Shane gives up." "Shane wonders if anything will ever go his way." "Shane is epic fail." "Shane feels dead inside." And to think, I never followed through with that minor in Theatre. My friends all called and e-mailed with worry, but I'm pretty sure they were rolling their eyes, too. I sure would've.

• All it takes is one bad mood to suddenly make you notice how evil the world really is. Last week, I darted into a gas station for provisions and received a few cents back in change. I thought I'd be a Good Samaritan, so I threw my $.02 into the "take-a-penny-leave-a-penny" tray and walked to the door -- only to catch the clerk sweep up the pennies and put them in the cash register. Normally I'd sigh in complacent defeat, but not in this mood. That guy stole my two cents, and then I gave him my two cents. I think I might be banned from there now.

So, yeah, the best part of last week is clearly that it was LAST week. Or maybe it was yelling at a greedy putz at a gas station, 'coz that was pretty sweet. Either way, here's to new beginnings.

COLUMN: Breitbach's Revisited

With the economy down the toilet, winter never ending, and women of the world back to their usual routine of not giving me the time of day, I needed some good news. This week, I got it. It's official: the smell of ham steaks will soon again be wafting down from the bluffs of Balltown. The phoenix is once again rising from the ashes -- Breitbach's is coming back.

For the uninitiated, Breitbach's Country Dining is an unassuming eatery just upriver from Dubuque on a road that only recently discovered pavement. It also just happens to be Iowa's Oldest Bar & Restaurant, as the proud tagline of its sign proclaims.

The road to Balltown is half the fun of visiting the place. Sure, you could take U.S. 61 and zip up to Dubuque in no time flat -- but you'd be doing a disservice to your eyes The far superior ride is to follow the Great River Road north. Just aim for the smell of homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, and you'll soon be climbing the jaw-droppingly gorgeous river bluffs towards Balltown.

Dating back to the 1850's and under control of the Breitbach clan for six generations, it's not just the scenic views and storied history that make the restaurant such a popular attraction -- it's the FOOD. Featuring a menu of down-home Midwest cuisine rivalled only by your grandmother's kitchen, one visit to Breitbach's legendary buffet and you'll understand why some of their clientele drive for HOURS to walk through those doors.

That's why many Iowans had a less-than-merry Christmas back in 2007. In the wee hours of that fateful Christmas Eve, the tiny community of Balltown was rocked by an explosion from the basement of their cherished restaurant. By the time the sun rose, Breitbach's was little more than a smouldering pile of rubble. So extreme was the damage that investigators couldn't put their finger on an exact cause.

Faced with the difficult decision of rebuilding, current owners Mike & Cindy Breitbach leaned towards closure - until the community rallied together. Volunteers poured in from around the state. Amish carpenters built the framework. Fans of the restaurant from states away packed trucks and drove out to lend a hand.

After just 69 days of construction, the new Breitbach's opened to much fanfare last June. The new building was modernized and upscale while classic and gothic. It just wasn't fireproof.

Like a bad joke, Mike's phone started ringing at 3 a.m. on October 24th. He arrived to the scene just in time to see the roof collapse in flames. Once again, a mysterious fire had claimed Breitbach's. An investigation is still pending.

If the FIRST decision was a tough one to make, you might think that the second would have been even harder. But you don't know Balltown.

"This wasn't a family decision," explains Breitbach. "It was a community decision. We had to re-open."

The sentiment is echoed by Balltown resident and construction volunteer Ron Schmidt. "When the second fire hit, it wasn't just disbelief, it was anger. And the best way to work off that anger is to rebuild."

The family hopes to break ground on the new restaurant in mid-March. "With the good Lord willing," Breitbach says, "Cindy's pies will be baking by mid-June."

In the interim, a makeshift tent office on the construction site dubbed The Gathering Place fills every morning with Balltown residents eager for a cup of joe and a piece of the progress planning. A local architect has offered his services pro bono. More than 40 volunteers have already signed up.

"Breitbach's is at the center of Balltown," explains Schmidt. "You can't hear one without the other. Our town would be dead without it."

"America's lost its sense of community and its touch," says Breitbach. "But I'm here to tell you that we haven't lost the touch. Not here in Balltown, Iowa, population: 49."

The world notices the touch. The restaurant may be temporarily M.I.A., but that didn't stop Breitbach's from winning the prestigious 2009 America's Classic award from the James Beard Foundation. This May, Mike and Cindy will take their first ever plane ride to accept the award in the confines of New York's Lincoln Center.

Here's hoping they hurry home. There's ham steaks a-wastin'.

COLUMN: Tien

Sometimes happy endings can be a let-down.

A couple of weeks ago, something really bad was set to happen to one of the nicest people in the Quad Cities, and I was primed to rally to his aide. I was good and miffed and ready for action. Of course, given the fact the fact that I'm pretty much useless and lazy, my only action was going to be a newspaper column. But it was gonna be a GOOD column. Vitriolic words of rage and empowerment were bracing themselves to come flying from my keyboard. I might have even written a sentence or two in ALL CAPS (my angry font.)

But then it all worked itself out, dang my luck. Righteousness and a happy ending prevailed without me getting to bust out even a single inflammatory adjective. What a drag. Still, though, it's a story worth mentioning, even though I don't get to rage against any machines.

I first met Tien Chang at the club I DJ at on the weekends. Now, if you're a patron of the District, you know that there's sort of a standardized model of behavior to follow, right? Girls flock to the dancefloor to shake their assets, and guys try their best not to look like total nimrods while disguising their total and complete lack of rhythm. It's sort of like watching a nature show on Animal Planet, just with fewer caribou deaths.

One day I was up in the booth doing my best to provide a soundtrack to the human mating season when in walked an altogether different herd. A group of people who weren't there to show off, who weren't there to be fashionistas, who weren't there for any real reason at all. A group of gangly guys and girls who didn't care what people thought of them and didn't care how they looked on the dancefloor. A group of people clearly in the club to have a good time, listen to some fun music, and shake their booties in whatever haphazard manner they wanted. A group clearly after the heart of this card-carrying nerd.

And at the center of them all? A short, unassuming Asian kid who bounced up to the booth and insisted in broken English that I play some Michael Jackson in a hurry. And when I put that record on, he took to the floor and danced just like Michael -- were Michael suffering from some sort of tragic neuro-muscular seizure. Make fun of his dancing all you want, but Tien Chang's good heart and happy-go-lucky attitude made him an overnight institution in the District. Even on my worst night of DJ'ing, if I saw Tien and his gang walk through my door, I knew I'd be entertained.

Over the past few years, I became friends with Tien and his buddies -- so that's why I was stopped cold the other day when I saw an e-mail that Tien was being forced out of the country and back to his native Taiwan.

It turns out that Tien's student visa had come to an end. Having come to America at age 16 on what he calls "sheer impulse and a desire to learn," Tien's American dream landed him in Fort Dodge, IA. It was there at Iowa Central Community College that he discovered his passion for art.

When his mom came to visit, they took a roadtrip to Chicago, which brought him through the Quad Cities. Tien explains, "I just thought to myself, 'This place looks nice. Why not move here?' So I did." Coming from Joe Schmo, an impulsive decision like that seems reckless. Tien makes it all seem strangely normal.

After stints at Black Hawk and Scott Community Colleges, Tien ignored his father's advice to become a chiropractor ("NOT my scene,") and instead took a transfer student scholarship to St. Ambrose University. That led to an art scholarship and a degree this past December.

In the meantime, he became infused with the arts and culture scene of the Quad Cities. Tien's work has hung at the Leger Fine Arts Gallery and can currently be seen in several local exhibits. An avid rollerblader, his work with the Iowa Connection has helped unite blading enthusiasts across the state. On the weekends, you can find him working the door and keeping the peace at Icons in the District. And, of course, he's still a wicked force on any dance floor.



But before Tien could get his diploma and certification to apply to grad schools, his student visa expired and he found himself on the verge of being kicked out of the country. Too late to achieve a work visa, Tien posted plans for a moving sale to his shocked friends.

Overnight, a "Save Tien Chang" group was started on Facebook. Letter-writing campaigns by his friends went to every politician with an open ear (and merited a warm response and optimistic reply from Sen. Mike Jacobs.) But before any real action got underway, an advisor at St. Ambrose realized that Tien qualified for a temporary work visa. She rushed a request in and his visa arrived mere days before the plane for Taiwan lifted off. I'm happy to say he wasn't on it. He now has one year to sort out graduate school and wade through the red tape for a proper work visa.

"My dream is to become a naturalized citizen," Tien told me tonight over a pint at Bent River. "My life is here now. The art world in Taiwan is very commercialized. They don't appreciate the importance of showing personality through artistic expression."

Often we hear stories of lucky immigrants afforded the right to start over in the great American melting pot. In this case, though, it's WE who are the lucky ones, because the Quad Cities would be a shade or two dimmer without Tien around to shake things up. He's not a special case, he doesn't have a tragic human interest story that'll make you cry. He's just one of the good guys, and to his friends, he's as much a part of the Quad Cities as John Deere or Harris Pizza.

Here's hoping you can stick around for a long time to come, friend. Tien Chang: Talented artist, good friend, awful dancer -- Quad Citian.

COLUMN: Valentine's Day

Once upon a time, there was a boy. An optimistic boy with plans in his head and dreams in his heart. Nothing ever went wrong for this boy. Everything he did went according to plan. Then the boy woke up and realized in a flash that (a) everyone sucks, and (b) the world conspires against him on an almost daily basis.

Let's just leap straight into it: I'm dating someone. I'd use the word "girlfriend," but that's a scary word that brings to mind couple-dom, commitment, and the dreaded public Changing of the Facebook Relationship Status. I don't wanna scare her off quite yet, so I'll refrain from dropping terminology like that willy-nilly. Suffice to say, though, she is a girl, she is my friend, and she makes my insides go gooey. Make of that what you will.

Which brings us to Valentine's Day. This is a scary 24 hours for a fledgling relationship, and it needs to be approached with some care. You want the day to be special, but not in an I'm-picking-out-china-patterns-and-have-already-named-our-firstborn kinda way. Romantic but not obsessive, smitten but not smothering, right?

One of the things that makes us compatible is that we're both horribly busy. She works all the time, I work all the time, and we try to squeeze in the occasional rendezvous when schedules allow. It was five days before-hand when we realized we both had Valentine's evening free. Huzzah!

Or maybe non-huzzah. Ever tried booking Valentine's reservations on 5 days notice? Not happening. One place even laughed at me when I called. Reality check - I had no choice. Unless I wanted us to have a romantic liaison over a pair of Big Macs, I was going to have to (gulp) MAKE dinner.

Just one problem: my culinary skills pretty much start and stop with adding Helper to hamburger. Worse yet, I was dealing with a vegetarian. The only thing I'm good at doing with vegetables is covering them with enough ranch dip to mask the taste.

So I turned to one of Rock Island's greatest gems: D'allesandro Pasta To Go. With one visit, they hooked me right up. Creamed asparagus lasagne, a loaf of garlic bread, and a brick of the most decadent tiramisu imaginable. Just pop it in the oven and you're good to go.

On Saturday, I woke up a lean, mean Valentine machine. Except for the nasty head cold that arrived unannounced. Phlegm or no phlegm, though, I was unstoppable. I got my hair cut, bought some nice flowers, tidied up the apartment, and picked out some mood music. As I slid the lasagne into the oven, I congratulated myself on a job well done and went to the fridge to open a cold-- nothing. Crud! I forgot to buy ANYTHING to drink!

Since the lush grey hues of Rock Island tap water don't exactly spell romance, I threw on my coat and drove down to a gas station for beverages. All was good until I got back to the car -- to find it completely dead. My starter was completely fried and I was 30 minutes away from a roaring lasagne fire in my oven. I grabbed my phone to call anyone nearby for a lift... or I WOULD have, had I not left my phone on the charger at home.

"My car just broke down in your lot," I raced in to tell the clerk. "I need to use your phone."

"Is it local?" she shot back with an eyeroll of hatred. Curses! She saw through my plan. Yes, my car just died, I'm trapped in your gas station, my apartment's minutes away from becoming cat flambe, and clearly I was going to use your phone to call 1-900-HOT-DATE at $2.99 a minute.

Begrudgingly she handed me the phone. I dialed a couple of friends and got their machines. I had no other choice. I took a deep breath, readied myself -- and took off running. Bounding through one of the worst neighborhoods in Rock Island like a tubby Forrest Gump, and in dress shoes no less. Twenty minutes later, I was an aching, sweaty, snotty mess, but I was home - and with ten minutes to spare.

I had just managed to clean myself up and stop wheezing when she showed up. "Voila!" I said, opening the open door and pulling out lasagne goodness. Oh, well, yes, and also raking my arm across the top of the oven and screaming like a banshee. Now, my nose was plugged solid, but even I could smell my own charred flesh. Smooooth, Shane. Nothing says masculine romantic hero quite like shrieking and running into the bathroom for the Bactine.

Spontaneous jogging and third-degree burns aside, though, dinner went well. While I was too sniffly and cold-ridden to actually taste any of the food, I'm pretty sure it was exceptional. And afterwards, I treated her to the most romantic of all evening activities: sitting around a gas station for three hours waiting for a delinquent tow truck to arrive.

Oh, and then leaving her at the gas station to wait on my behalf because I had to get to my weekend DJ gig. And then begging her to run to my apartment and get me some cold medicine I'd left behind. Oh, and then getting to the DJ gig and promptly breaking my incredibly expensive headphones, which led her to run out and get me some superglue. And yes, as you'd expect, the headphones remain broken but I somehow managed to superglue my fingers together in no time at all. And yes, she ran and got nail polish remover to help me get it off.

So Don Juan I am not. Amazingly, though, she's still hanging around. I may have very well mucked up the storyline good and plenty, but happily the ending's still up for grabs. Cross your fingers for me.

COLUMN: Economy Zombies

It's not the best time in the world to be a humor columnist.

I just started getting the hang of how this whole Sunday newspaper thing works, too. I mean, obviously my column's the most important thing that runs all week. Duh - why else would you have bought this issue, I know, right? And after my column gets laid out, then there's a whole bunch of advertisers who need the awesome promotional surge that comes with marketing their product in the same issue as my column. All this makes sense to me so far.

But then after they lay out my column and all the ads, there's some extra space left over that I guess we just fill up with whatever gobbledygook's around. Apparantly we call this gobbledygook "news." Personally, I can't stand the stuff.

Sometimes, though, it's hard picking up a Sunday paper and turning to my column without being distracted by all those other words. The other day I actually read some. And you know what I found out? This may come as a shock to you all, but apparantly our economy isn't doing so well. In fact, it's kinda, well, sucky. And apparantly "recession" does NOT mean extra time for all of us to play on the monkey bars.

Really, though, how much more depressing can our media be right now? We're doing our job and reporting the news. But the news these days is so bleak that reporting on it might just be compounding the problem. You can't stop into a gas station for a morning coffee without seeing headlines blaring layoffs and closures. That does NOT make me want to invest in an Egg McMuffin. That makes me want to bury my McMuffin McMoney in a tin can in my back yard.

And our new President -- the guy I voted for on a platform of "hope not fear" -- sure seems intent on scaring the bejeepers out of all of us. I was really bad at economics in high school, so I'm no stimulus plan expert. I don't quite follow how using my tax dollars to hire pothole workers on the interstate is supposed to trickle down into MY job security, but I plead ignorance on this one and leave it in the hands of the money-crunchers.

In the meantime, all we can do is wade through the bad news and keep looking for the silver lining. That's where I come in. People, I am proud to announce that, by using my highly-tuned investigative reporting skills, I have found an upside to the recession.

Every year, our papers publish a big three-part supplement in February, one of which should be in your paper today. It's a look at the people, places, and events that have helped shape our lives over the past twelve months. This year's theme is "QC Spirit: Growth During Challenging Times." It's a great read about area folks and businesses making strides in culture, environment, and growth even when the economy's down the tubes.

One of my jobs here at the paper is to call around to area businesses and make sure their advertising needs are met. And one of the opportunities we're offering in this year's supplement is something called the "QC Honor Roll." It's a chance for businesses to show off the number of years they've been around -- and in THIS economy, survival alone merits a boast or two.

Well, among the businesses I was tasked with calling this year were a number of area funeral homes. I've been blessed to not have to suffer through much death in my life, but that means I've never quite gotten the hang of dealing with the polite-and-friendly-yet-somber-and-respectful tone of most funeral directors. I approached these calls with some trepidation.

It turns out I had little to worry about. Most of them were really nice folk and quite a few were eager to participate on the Honor Roll. However, I was surprised to hear the same negative response from a few funeral homes: "We'd love to, but with this economy, business has slowed down."

There you have it. Concrete proof of the upside of today's fiscal crisis. Clearly, in times of recession, it appears that fewer people are dying.

The only logical assumption to make is that the Grim Reaper himself has been laid off, or at least had his hours seriously cut by upper death management. So that's good news for the ill and infirm, I reckon. Plus it opens the doors for scab laborers to pick up some of Death's wages -- and if the income from pothole repair is supposed to trickle my way, surely then so must the paychecks of death's minions.

Or maybe the struggling pocketbooks of America means fewer people paying for greasy fast food every day. My grandmother used to shun cholesterol in favor of salads that I'm pretty sure were composed exclusively of random weeds plucked from her yard. Say what you will about her culinary skills, but she ended up saving serious money AND she lived into her triple digits.

Sadly, though, I haven't really noticed a drop in our paper's obituary section. Hmm, yet the funeral homes say they're struggling for business? My deductive reporter's background tells me this can only mean one thing:

ZOMBIES. Armies of the undead. And we all know nothing spoils a good recession quite like a plague of zombies. The military would have to spend on weapons, science would have to spend on a cure, townsfolk would have to spend on garlic cloves -- or is that vampires? Still, if it all trickles down, I figure all we need is one good Dawn o' the Dead for our economy to fully recover.

And now that THAT'S settled, you'll have to excuse me. I'm headed out back to dig up some McMuffin McMoney.

COLUMN: Hi-Def Shopping

What is the true measure of a man?

According to MLK, it's "where he stands at times of challenge and controversy." Plato once said that "the measure of a man is what he does with power." Ann Landers wrote that "the true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good." And Clay Aiken asks, "Would he stand before you when it's down to the wire? Would he give his life up to be all he can? Is that, is that, ooooh, oooooooh, is that ooh-woh how you measure a man?"

Well, I'm here to tell you they're all wrong.

Clearly, the true measure of a man is whether or not that man has a better collection of toys than his parents. It's a challenge I'm always up for.

Let's look back to a few Christmases ago. My folks -- who are the most awesome parents in the world and who continue to spoil me rotten despite the calendar insisting that I'm an adult -- surprised me with a new computer for Christmas. And it was, as the kids say, totally pimped out.

Me being a part time club DJ, I needed a sound card decent enough to process music files at lightning speed. Instead, I opted for overkill. The card I picked out could process umpteen files at once, record a live band, compose a sonata, and quite possibly make me dinner and tuck me into bed. At the time, you simply couldn't buy a better sound card for a home PC.

A few months later, I was in my hometown visiting my folks. Mom had mentioned that they'd upgraded their computer as well, so I wandered into their computer room -- once known as my bedroom -- to check it out. There sat their new PC -- complete with the identical sound card as mine. My mouth hung open as I looked around the room to see a monster subwoofer and surround sound speakers lining the walls.

This might make sense -- if my mom used her computer for anything other than e-mail, solitaire, and Mahjong. To my knowledge, solitaire is soundless, e-mail occasionally goes "ding," and her Mahjong game plays a looped MIDI tune that surely is the soundtrack to a carnival worker's third layer of hell. But because my parents dig technology, she can now listen to that evil circus diddy in quadrophonic Dolby sensurround. I looked at the subwoofer. It was sad. It said, "Please, Shane, I yearn to play hip-hop. She has me turned all the way down." I'll bet money right now that my parents have yet to play any music with a bassline low enough to even trigger the power to the sub.

Last year, I finally made the move to a hi-def TV. It's a beast about 10" way too big for my tiny apartment. The kind of TV that says, "I am someone." The kind of TV that, if you sit close enough, might just make you sterile. Someday my tombstone will read, "Here lies Shane Brown. Man, he had a big TV." It is my pride and joy.

So I took it in stride when my folks told me that they'd upgraded to hi-def. Surely it could not be more impressive than my glaucoma-inducing monster. And when I went home this Christmas, I was right. I mean, it's a nice TV, don't get me wrong. But its about 14" smaller than mine. I win. Nyah nyah.

Then I turned it on. My folks have a satellite dish, and with their system, they get somewhere around 100 hi-definition channels. I have local Quad Cities cable. I get 12 hi-definition channels. Curses!

I'm talking to YOU, Mediacom. I love you guys and you're my lifeline to the internet and the world, but you're seriously lacking in the hi-def channel line-up dept. This is unacceptable. Don't let my parents win the technology war. Not my father, who I've personally seen sit through a romantic comedy only because he was to proud to admit he didn't know how to change the channel to a war movie.

So you can imagine my excitement the other day when I started channel-flipping and realized that the Mediacom line-up was different. Omigosh, I realized, they've added some more hi-def channels. What could it be, I wondered as I nervously scrolled through the menu. Comedy Central? MTV? National Geographic? I'm pretty sure I was drooling just a little.

That's when I saw it. Yes, thank you, Mediacom, for your latest much-needed hi-definition addition to your line-up: Home Shopping.

Seriously. I now have QVC home-shopping in brilliant hi-definition. I can now see their crummy little studio and crummy little trinkets with brilliant depth and clarity. Yes, nothing brings out the magical lustre of Cubic Zirconium and Diamondique quite like the glory of hi-definition. Folks, it's as if the hand models are right there in my living room.

The way I see it, my desire to enjoy home shopping in hi-def is somewhere between my desires for C-Span in hi-def and my desires to be impaled by rusty spikes. Worst of all, it means my folks are still winning the technology war. Wait, or ARE they? After all, I DID just get an iPhone. Hrrrrm. It's your move, parents.

COLUMN: Texting

I can't believe I'm about to start a column with these words. It's an urge I've resisted for a couple years now, but I don't know how much longer I -- oh, jeez. Hang on just a second. I'll be right back --

DUDE! SRY CNT TLK NOW. SRSLY. WRTNG NZPPR COLUM. CN I TXT U BACK IN SEC? OK GTG. TTYL.

-- Sorry, where was I? Oh, yeah. Now that I'm the ripe old age of (gulp) 38, I can officially say it. They may revoke my Immaturity Club membership badge for this, but, seriously,

WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH YOUNG PEOPLE TODAY?

I've always been fairly equal opportunity when it comes to the age of my friends. I hang out with friends in their 40's, their 30's, their 20's, and -- mostly thanks to my unhealthy obsession with Guitar Hero and Rock Band -- I even hang out with teenagers now and again.

It's never really phased me. I mean, clearly I'm not the most mature looking or acting guy on the planet. When I tell people my real age, jaws often hit floors. Right now, I like to think of it as a gift -- but I know one day it'll just be pathetic. Let's face it, no one wants to see a white-haired dude hobble into a dance club and get jiggy with it. Conversely, though, a white-haired dude who can step into a DJ booth and break off a Lil' Wayne remix on the fly is a guy with the serious potential to ride that novelty train right into cash cow territory (DJ Grandpa is my retirement plan.)

But since I'm the most immature human being I know, I've yet to reach that phase where I feel awkward or out-of-place hanging out with a table of 20-somethings. Well, I never USED to, at least. The other day, though, I was doing just that -- chilling with a group of 20-somethings, and know what? After about 15 minutes, my blood pressure was through the ceiling and I wanted to sit 'em down and give 'em an epic lecture. You know, the kind of lecture that starts with phrases like, "Why, back in MY day" and hopefully involves a story about walking somewhere through a mile of snow.

So what got me all riled up? CELL PHONES. This next generation is officially too phone-happy for my liking.

The entire time that I sat at the 20-something table, there wasn't a single phone-free moment. At any given second, someone was either talking, dialing, or texting someone somewhere. At one point, I'm pretty sure one of them was carrying on four separate conversations AND checking their Facebook account all at once.

Now, this is not to say that I'm immune from hi-tech gadgetry by any means. I recently accomplished my New Year's Resolution and upgraded myself to an iPhone. I won't pretend it's not fun. I can make calls, play games, take photos, and listen to music with just one sweep of a finger. If I wanted to, I could even write and submit this entire column from my iPhone.

But I won't. Why not? Because telephones are for talking, NOT typing. I've never understood the appeal of text messaging. It's silly, it takes five times as long as talking, and anyone over the fetal stage is clearly too large to operate the microscopic keyboards that come on today's phones. Why, back in MY day, if you wanted to send a text message, you wrote it on a piece of paper, folded it down the middle, then folded the top half at an angle, then folded the bottom up, then again, then again, then tucked in the flap and then handed it to Jenny to hand to Tim to hand to Alicia to hand to Jill. Presto, text message sent. And guess what? It was EASIER.

My generation has the fortune to know HOW to text message and the good sense NOT to unless it's important. One look at my cell phone history and you can almost tell the ages of the senders. My older friends text things like addresses, times, and reminders. My younger friends send texts that usually start, "DUDE. IM SO BORED. WHAZZUP WIT U?"

Nothing weirds me out like hanging out with someone who's a habitual texter. Like, when you're in the middle of a conversation and suddenly a phone gets pulled out, what's the correct etiquette? Should party #1 stop talking until party #2 is through typing?

Worse yet is a friend of mine who has their text message alert set to the first four notes of Beethoven's 5th. So whenever he gets a new text? Duh-duh-duh-DUH. At least every five minutes. Duh-duh-duh-DUH. So help me gosh, it's only a matter of time before I duh-duh-duh-destroy his phone to a pulp.

Perhaps the ADD-experienced younger generation have evolved to the point where they can text, talk, watch a movie, and calculate their taxes all at once. As for me, I tried to answer a text the other day while driving to work and darn near collected a utility pole in the process. ("DUDE! GUESS WHT? IM N THE HSPTL! SRY CANT TXT COZ IM IN A COMA! GTG! TTYL!")

Recently there was an article on the news about a teen girl who racked up 14,528 text messages in one month. Insane, right? When I bought my iPhone, the sales guy put me on a plan for 1200 text messages per month and I thought it was ridiculous. Turns out last month I sent out 891 of those bad boys. That makes me 16.31% insane, 74.25% ridiculous, and 100% hypocritical. It seems maturity evades me yet again. Ah well, got to go. Err, I mean, GTG.

COLUMN: Scarf

Two weeks ago I wrote a column whining about winter. Paragraph after paragraph wasted on how snow and freezing rain and cold weather was bringing me down. Little did I know that Mother Nature must be a regular reader. "You think THAT was bad?" she cackled. "I'll show you some serious winter, dude."

Yes, the weather we'd had up 'til then was just an appetizer. Mere days after that column ran, we were all graced with The Second Coldest Day In Recorded History or whatever it ended up being. I just call it "________ cold" (you can insert your own adjective, but I prefer an obscenity.)

Don't worry, though -- I won't dare whine about it this time. If I DO, by this time NEXT week, we'll officially enter a new ice age. Instead, I'm choosing to look back at the week in a pleasant, nostalgic, hey-remember-when-the-outdoors-was-27- degrees-colder-than-my-refrigerator-freezer kinda way. Let's just say I will never again watch "Ice Road Truckers" with a hint of jealousy. But somehow I survived the nightmare that clipped on down from Alberta -- with a few lessons learned in the process:

(1) SCARVES ARE NOT JUST FOR WUSSIES. I am a habitual weather under-dresser. I have a cheap coat from Old Navy -- one of those things that just looks like a pair of cargo pants slightly reshaped into coat form -- and that's usually the extent of my winterwear. Gloves and stocking caps have never been in my vocabulary. One of the advantages of being a winter weather weenie is that I hardly go outside in it. Ergo, I don't really need head-to-toe thermal protection when my exposure to the elements is seldom more than hustling from my car to a building, right?

But even the most stubborn of under-dressers takes note when the news tells us that "frostbite can occur in seven minutes." It seemed that my coat needed some backup reinforcements, so on Weatherpocalypse Eve, I spent the lunch hour in search of warm winter fashionwear.

Primarily, I was on the lookout for a new pair of gloves, which I found in no time at all. I settled on a fancy leather pair with cashmere lining. Wikipedia defines cashmere as "a fiber obtained from the Cashmere goat," of which, based on the price tag, there must be only ONE -- and he apparantly doesn't work cheap. Still, they're pretty awesome gloves, and toasty, too. They look like the stereotypical "Uh-oh-watch-out-coz-I'm-totally-gonna-kill-you" murderer gloves from any bad 70's detective show. I feel devious just wearing them.

But next to the gloves in the store was a polite little display of scarves. I hadn't even considered buying a scarf, but as I glanced at them, I heard my mom's voice screaming in my head: "KEEP YOUR NECK WARM!" I'm not sure why my mom used to say that, but she did. Never in my life have I complained of a cold neck. Still, the voice in my head sounded urgent, so I bought a scarf and took it home with pride and confidence. Winter could suck it, for I now had protection.

Then I got home, unfolded the scarf, and promptly went, "Ummm, now what?" This was pretty much my first time with a scarf since I learned to dress myself. What the heck do you DO with it? Does it just hang there? Do you wrap it around your neck over and over again until you choke yourself out? I vaguely recall those kids in the Harry Potter movies running about Hogwarts with stylishly-tied scarves. I shook the scarf violently, but alas, no owner's manual fell out.

Thankfully, in times of crises, we have the internet. All it took was ONE Google search to discover that there are, apparantly, no less than 46 known and acceptable ways to tie a scarf. I am now a scarf-tying expert. Need a European Waistsash? Make sure to keep the bow soft. Having problems perfecting your Rosetta Turban? Make sure you begin with a triangle fold.

(2) IT MUST NOT GET COLD IN GERMANY. I say this because when I tried to start my Volkswagen in -26 temps, the Wonder Beetle promptly said, "I don't think so." But in German, so "ich denke nicht." After exhausting all get-to-work possibilities (including a 3 hour ETA from a less-than-lucky cab company,) I had to suck it up and be a man. I had to take control of the situation in a manly way: I had to call my boss to come jumpstart my car. My female boss. Yes, nothing says macho-macho-man quite like standing around useless while your female boss asks you to step aside because you're impeding her roadside assistance. Next day? Same dead battery, same boss, same brute machismo leaving my body never to return again.

(3) Most importantly, I learned that, regardless of the outdoor temperature, we can all take comfort in the knowledge that PEOPLE STILL SUCK. Friday night, mere hours before the end of the cold snap, I somehow managed to get my barely-functioning car down to the District for my weekend DJ gig. I stepped out of the car, shut the door, and turned around -- to a strange drunken girl punching me in the arm as hard as she could.

"SLUG BUG! SLUG BUG! HA HA HA HA!" she yelled as she skipped away. I stood there for a moment, hoping against hope that she'd slip on the ice and do an asphalt faceplant, but alas, no such luck.

So then, lessons learned? Cashmere goats must always be uncomfortably warm. Scarves can be tied in a plethora of exciting ways. Next time I'm buying a car with a battery bigger than a D cell and, while I'm at it, one that doesn't encourage random street violence. And unless I have a face-to-face with the Snow Miser himself, I'm never again writing a column about how much I hate winter. At least not 'til next winter.

COLUMN: Ashley Madison

I am a firm supporter of the First Amendment.

By saying this, I'm trying to make you think that I am a freedom crusader -- a Champion of Human Rights, Defender of Liberty, and a Guy You Might Seriously Want To Date. In honesty, though, I say it simply to justify how much I like crass, off-color entertainment.

Not to say that I'm some kind of sleaze aficionado or anything, but hey. Were it not for the First Amendment, I wouldn't be able to laugh myself silly watching South Park every week. I wouldn't be able to entertain the masses via DJ sets of amusingly vulgar dance music. And I certainly wouldn't be able to enjoy Carol Alt's centerfold spread in last month's Playboy, which I clearly bought just for the articles.

The point is, it's kinda cool that we live in a country where we can, within reason, pretty much say anything we feel like.

For instance, let's say that I was of the opinion that someone out there was a total doodiehead. Let's pick a name at random -- oh, I dunno, how about, umm, Tom Cruise. I could, within the confines of this newspaper column, state with bold authority that I am of the opinion that Tom Cruise is a big ol' doodiehead.

Granted, I have to state it as my OPINION. Were I to state it as fact, it could be construed as libel, thus opening the doors for Tom "Doodiehead" Cruise to sue me blind. Hmm, but then we'd then have to enter a protracted legal battle wherein I can only assume that a team of high-priced lawyers would have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt in a public forum that Tom Cruise's head is NOT, in fact, made of doodie -- a scene which COULD be worth losing my job and a few million dollars over.

Of course, there's a down side to everything, even the First Amendment. The fact that I support the rights of the Sopranos to swear like sailors on my TV also means that I have to support the free speech rights of idiots like that hate-spewing Fred Phelps and his crazy redneck relatives when they protest funerals. That I have to put up with supporters of California's inane Proposition 8. That I have to take a deep breath and realize that some people actually enjoy listening to Dr. Laura. Ah well - I can rest high on my laurels and hope that perhaps one day we'll all be judged by a power higher than the FCC. Personally, I prefer to believe that if there IS a supreme being, he/she's got a wicked sense of humor -- how else to explain the platypus?

But recently, I've found another entity worthy of wishing selective freedom on, and it all started on my drive in to work the other day. On the morning commute, my satellite radio is usually turned to Howard Stern. Sure, his show can be juvenile, puerile, and downright tacky, but at 8:45 a.m., my brain's not even up to 33-1/3rd rpm, and that's about the right speed for Stern's mix of flatulence jokes and lowbrow comedy.

But a new sponsor has been advertising on his show. It's a website -- and it's entire essence is so seedy, lecherous, and immoral that even someone like me with a high tolerance of tacky has a hard time stomaching.

I didn't even want to name it for fear of giving the sleazy empire free advertising, but for the sake of the First Amendment, I'll do it - just promise me you won't go there or give them a dime. It's the innocently-named AshleyMadison.com.

Here's the basic business premise: You're married but you're a slimeball who wants to cheat on your spouse. Just fill out a profile and Ashley Madison will help you find like-minded scumbags in your area. Presto, instant adultery. The site's proud motto? "Life is short. Have an affair." In fact, if you sign up and DON'T have a successful affair within 90 days, they'll refund your $249 membership fee.

In a word? Eww. In several words? For perhaps the first time in my life, I think I might be morally outraged. I mean, come on. This makes the "Girls Gone Wild" dude seem like an upstanding citizen. I wanted to invoke my First Amendment rights by just printing the names of every loser in our area with a profile, but (a) I didn't have $249 handy, and (b) thankfully, there are 0 profiles in the Quad Cities.

Worse still was the realization that I was sitting at work the other day absent-mindedly humming the site's catchy jingle. "Ashley Madison, find your lovers heere, Ashley Madison, find your lovers heeeere." Sure, I'd heard the ad on the radio a couple times, but there was something about the tune that struck a chord. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd heard it before someplace. What WAS it?

That's when it dawned on me. Not only is this the creepiest website EVER, but its jingle has the unmitigated gall to rip the tune 100% off of... "Lolly Lolly Lolly, Get Your Adverbs Here," the old Saturday morning "Schoolhouse Rock" anthem. The melody that taught my entire generation how to modify a verb now teaches us how to modify our moral compass. Adverbs now seem dirty. I'm not just repulsed -- I'm now rapidly, efficiently, and effectively repulsed here, there, and everywhere.

Most disturbing is the realization that apparantly your neighborhood left-wing liberal hipster newspaper columnist has the occasional conservative tendency (shudder.) Or maybe I've just got common sense. Either way, I hope the old hippie dude who wrote those "Schoolhouse Rock" songs figures it out and sues Ashley Madison's pants off. Just because we have the blessed freedom of speech doesn't mean we should use it to become a country of degenerates.

COLUMN: Cabin Fever

I finally figured it out.

For the past couple of months, I've had a doozy of a time coming up with ideas for columns. Usually I just go about my week and wait for something funny, embarassing, and/or disastrous to happen in my life, events which happily I never seem to run short of. The up side is that even my WORST days now serve SOME semblance of purpose.

I could get hit face-on by a truck today and, should I remain conscious, I'm pretty sure my first thought would be, "Well, at least I've got something to write about this week." Well, okay, the first thought would probably be "Ow." Or, if you believe my mother, "Gee, I hope my underwear doesn't have any holes in it." But the column would run a close second, I'm pretty sure.

But why, then, have I been recently suffering from a total and complete drought of ideas? I was worrying that perhaps my creativity had run its course -- until I recognized the problem: For the past two months, I've been hibernating.

This winter has officially sucked all the life out of me, and it's not even halfway done. Every day we're treated to a menu of rain or freezing rain or frozen rain, not to mention wind chills that officially make the outdoors colder than the interior of my freezer.

My strategy for survival has been to plop down on my couch, ignore the sub-zero nightmare of the outside world, and tick off the days 'til April. My entire life has turned into: Wake up in warm apartment, race to work as fast as I can, sit down at warm desk, race home as fast as I can, rinse, lather, and repeat.

This is simply no way for an aspiring humor columnist to survive. As it turns out, very little happens on my couch. Let's look at this weekend for example. I'm sitting here now at the tail end of a long and well-deserved New Year's / birthday respite. How did I spend it? Well, let's see. I played the video game Fable 2 for, oh, let's have a look-see: 27.2 hours this weekend. (Dear Video Game Designers: PLEASE don't track statistics like this in the future - nerds don't need visual reminders of their sad and pathetic lives.)

TWENTY SEVEN HOURS of my life withered away in front of an X-Box. What do I have to show for it? Well, the townsfolk of Bloodstone seem quite appreciative that I've slayed their Banshee, but otherwise, apart from a blister on my trigger finger, not a whole lot. Happy 38th birthday to me, you immature lifeless piece of couch Jell-o.

The only things keeping me mildly entertained during my long winter slumber are my two cats. Normally, my feline companions seem relatively unconcerned as to my existence. Our symbiotic relationship is simple: they are the landlords and I am the tenant. I pay rent in the form of food, water, and litter, and in return, they let me reside here without a great deal of harassment or permanent claw scars on my face.

But with me home and lounging all winter, they've taken on a slightly new attitude. when I walk in, the look on their faces is quite clear: "You? Again? Really? Okay, fine. If you need us, we'll be in the bedroom, destroying one of your cherished possessions." As I sit here, both of them are perched on my couch, staring at me in a way that distinctly brings to mind "The Shining," and I'm pretty sure the thought process is either (a) "I wonder if he's writing about us," or (b) "I wonder if he's edible."

Oh, and one of my cats has gone insane.

Perhaps it's yet another exciting benefit of the aging process, but this winter, it appears that my body, much like the frozen tundra, is suffering from erosion. Between my flaking skin and parched throat, mornings have been a real joy lately at Castle Shane. To combat this dry-air fun, I went out and bought a humidifier. Or, as one of my cats appears to believe, a Magical Water Dispensing God.

From the second I plugged it in and it started spritzing out its ineffective little mist, one of my cats has established right off the bat that the humidifier is clearly the single most fascinating object in the universe. Day after day, she sits -- often for hours -- directly in front of the mist, mouth hanging open, eyes squinting through the moisture, staring. Well, and occasionally licking. But most of the time, just staring at the thing. Every once in a while, she'll make a noise like "pfeh," as if to say, "This is thoroughly unpleasant." Yet she won't move.

If you've ever thought that cats were furry little cuddle buddies, try having one nuzzle you at 3 a.m. with a gross, cold, sopping head. Yes, she'll sit there until her whole head is drenched with water. I don't think she'll give up until she gets kitty-pneumonia. And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.

If I move the humidifier up high, she risks life, limb, and my property trying to climb up to it. If I unplug it, she makes little pathetic whiny noises and stares at my longingly. The other day, I woke up in the middle of the night to a soggy cat on my chest going, "Mrow? Mrow?"

"Mm-hmm," I said, groggy but knowingly. "It's out of water, isn't it?"

"Meow."

Meanwhile, my other cat -- the sane one -- just hangs out on the couch disapprovingly, like, "Don't ask me. I don't get it either."

One of my co-workers suggested that perhaps my cat is merely attempting to get a pleasing facial and spa treatment, a notion that would be funny if it wasn't so horrifying girly -- and hey, I'm already risking what's left of my machismo writing about my little kitties in the first place. All I know is that my skin's still dry while the only thing getting moisturized around here is a small and apparantly sub-standard cat brain. So perhaps my new year's resolution is to give up on this winter hermitage, step outside, and write the humidifier off as the priciest cat toy of all time. This sounds real good, and as soon as I defeat Lord Lucien's undead army in the dread Tattered Spire, I'll get right on it.