COLUMN: Carnivore

It's not often that my life gets easier -- and that's sad when you think about it. I mean, come on, this IS the 21st Century. We should all have jetpacks and flying cars and teleportation and clothes that self-wash and food that comes in pill form. Instead, it just seems like life piles up more and more complicated crud on us with every passing year. Ergo, it's the little things that count.

My life just got easier. My girlfriend is now a carnivore. Huzzah!

Maybe it's because I hang out with a lot of hipsters and artsy types, but we meat-eaters are an endangered species in my clique of friends. Ever since college, I've always had at least one close friend in my life who recoils in horror at the sight of a Quarter Pounder. Whenever you hear of a PETA protest in town or someone throwing fake blood onto a fur coat, there's a pretty good chance I know 'em.

Now, don't get me wrong, vegans and vegetarians. I have nothing against you, your lifestyle, and your digestive tract. I get the whole vegetarian thing, I really do. I consider myself a cute-itarian: I simply refrain from eating any animal that might one day make me go "awwwwwwww" when featured in a Disney cartoon. Deer are cute -- hence they stay off my plate. Chickens? NOT cute. Turkeys? NOT cute AND mean. Cows are only cute when they're babies, so no veal for me, thanks. Cows are beautiful creatures. They're just slightly more beautiful when served medium well with an ample amount of Heinz 57.

When your friends are vegetarians, eating out can be a real chore. When your GIRLFRIEND is a vegetarian, it's an entirely different ballgame.

I can't tell you the number of dates I've been on the past six months where I sit and tear through a steak while my girlfriend contentedly nibbles on an unappetizing assortment of twigs and berries. Some restaurants are really accommodating to the vegeterian way of life, others not so much. I'm too new at this to know which is which. But wherever we end up, she'll invariably go, "Oh, don't worry, I'll find something!" Sometimes she'll end up with something decent. But sometimes it ends up me devouring Chicken Little while she asks the waiter for some ranch sauce for her parsley sprigs and I'll feel like Glutton McMeateater.

All that changed at the NASCAR race in the Iowa Speedway the other day. I thought nothing of it when she said she wanted food. What I didn't expect was to see her come back with a chicken sandwich in her hand.

"Whaaaa?" said Shane.

"It looked good. I wanted some chicken."

"Wait, this isn't going to be the sort of decision you'll regret later and freak out on me, is it? 'Coz we can get you some nice tofu in a bit..."

"Nnnnnope," she said, taking a big ol' bite of the forbidden carnal treasure. She said something after that which was nearly indescipherable, other than it started with "OMIGODITSSOOOOGOOOOOOOD!" I'm pretty sure it was what scientists refer to as a meatgasm.

I thought maybe it was a one-off dance with the devil until the ride home, when she asked, "Umm, can we stop by Arby's? I think I want a Beef 'n' Cheddar." Gulp. And with that, her lengthy experiment with vegetarianism came to a crashing halt. Now I'm completely open and accepting and supportive of anybody's dietary choices, and I would NEVER pressure any twig-eater into plunging headfirst into a meat pile, but can I just say: HOORAH! Goodbye, guilt. Hello, Jim's Rib Haven!

Of course, the timing couldn't have been worse. Mere days after her epic change of heart, I had an experience that made ME second-guess my carnivorous ways.

There exists in the Quad Cities a fast-food restaurant. I won't say which one, because you might not ever want to eat there again. It's a restaurant whose drive-thru lane I frequent frequently. And just inside that drive-thru window, there's a bulletin board. And hanging on that board are any number of employee memos -- which, if they're written large enough, can be read by any customers who are nozy and/or bored enough to bother with.

It was on that very bulletin board the other day that I saw this note, written in huge letters with what appeared to be an angry, exasperated pen:

"ATTENTION ALL EMPLOYEES! THERE WILL BE NO MORE BOXING UP AND SELLING OF EXPIRED CHICKEN!!"

ummm... on behalf of the entire Quad Cities at large, can I just say... good? I suppose I appreciate the sentiment of the notice, and that the restaurant now gives a rat's behind about NOT treating their customers to an extra helping of enterotoxins with their poultry. But no, what I'm concerned about here is one word in that notice:

MORE.

The sign didn't say "there will be no boxing up and selling of expired chicken." No, it said, "there will be no MORE boxing up and selling of expired chicken." One must only assume, prior to this sign's invention, that the boxing up and selling of expired chicken was a frequent pasttime of this establishment, until somebody had to come along and ruin all the fun with a pesky sign.

I suppose it can be forensically argued that ANY chicken who exits a processing plant in the correct manner had better be "expired," but something tells me that wasn't the point of this sign. At a fast-food joint, we're not priviliged to see the sell-by date on our combo meals. I suppose, though, if an e.coli bacterium can survive a ride through a deep-fryer, it's somewhat deserving of a nice intestinal tract to vacation in.

Still, I prefer that intestinal tract to NOT be mine. So, for the time being, chicken from THAT place is off my menu. And maybe chickens as a whole are suddenly much cuter than I once thought. And maybe a diet without red meat might not be the worst decision I could make. And maybe tofu doesn't taste THAT bad. And maybe parsley with ranch sauce sounds kinda appetizing.

ARRRRRGH. Life was supposed to be easier.

COLUMN: NASCAR Weekend

There are two Shanes constantly waging war in my head.

The first is Shane the Artsy Hipster. This Shane doesn't really exist, because the real me is far too nerdy to pull it off. I'm too old, too chubby, and the nearest Urban Outfitters is, like, two hours away.

The second is Small Town Redneck Shane. This Shane doesn't really exist, either -- my natural wussiness prefers the air-conditioned comfort of my apartment over a sunburn any day. Still, like John Cougar Mellencamp so aptly said, I was born in a small town and I can breathe in a small town.

And so the war rages on. Let's say, for instance, there was a one-act play in town that portrayed existential nihilism as a poisoning of the human soul. Shane #1 would think it a winning night out. Shane #2 would rather sit in a La-Z-Boy eating hot dogs and watching reruns of "Cops."

That's the kind of dilemma I found myself in last weekend, as two major events had the indecency to occur simultaneously.

On the Shane #1 hand, it was the 30th Anniversary Birthday Bash at the Rock Island Brewing Company, and attendance was all but mandatory. A full weekend's slate of music featuring the reunion of three of the greatest bands the Quad Cities ever produced: Einstein's Sister, Driver of the Year, and Tripmaster Monkey. Speaking as a card-carrying music nerd: Wow.

But Shane #1 wasn't the only one excited about this past weekend. For six months, Shane #2 had been whispering in my ear about an event coming up -- and it was a whisper that I'm pretty sure had a southern drawl. I had to own up to my secret shame: A very big part of me would NOT be happy gallavanting around the Quad Cities with the knowledge that, less than two hours away, a major NASCAR event was occurring.

There. I said it. I like NASCAR. Sue me. As hip and cool as I yearn to be, there will forever be a part of my brain that thinks cars racing in circles for an entire afternoon is super rad. I watch the races, I listen to NASCAR radio in my car, and I'm currently 2nd in my NASCAR fantasy league and stand to make a pretty penny if the season keeps going my way. And by pretty penny, I clearly mean the value of respect and admiration from my fellow racing enthusiasts and in no way, shape, or form am I inferring that any monetary amounts are being wagered because that would be really, really wrong. Cough.

Two measly hours away from the Quad Cities sits the Iowa Speedway and last weekend's Nationwide U.S. Cellular 250. The decision was too much for me. NASCAR or music -- which would it be? That's when Shane #1 and Shane #2 spoke in unison: "BOTH." Not the brightest move, but I sit here at my keyboard as a monument to human fortitude, because I pulled it off. Here's how it went down:

On Friday night, I went to RIBCO and saw Einstein's Sister reunite to an all-Beatles set that lit my world on fire. But it was a fire I had to quickly douse, because it was off to early bed for me. 8 a.m. was harsh. My bones ached, but I didn't care. NASCAR waits for no one but the rain.

After throwing myself together, my girlfriend -- a wonderful sport in all this, by the way, since I'm pretty sure SHE has two voices in her head and neither one of them were asking for guitars or cars -- and I headed west on I-80. Two hours later we were in Newton and the Iowa Speedway was in sight. Then it disappeared from sight because the traffic cops directed us to a fine spot that I'm pretty sure was in Indiana.

After a lovely hike through the infinite gravel parking lot, we got to the gate -- to discover that our seatback chairs weren't allowed inside. So we had to walk allllll the way back to the car. Well, since I blew my knee out about a third of the way back, it was more hobbling than walking.

Dear NASCAR, have you ever SEEN your fans? We are NOT what you would call toned athletes who enjoy a brisk walk. While normal people spend their Sundays getting out and about, we spend them in BarcaLoungers watching cars go in circles. Normal people worry about their weight. We worry whether we've got enough nachos to make it through the caution laps. There are 43 perfectly good cars capable of shuttling us to and from the parking lot. The least you could do is send out Kevin Harvick to gimme a lift.

Eventually we made it through the gate and headed towards much-needed refreshments. Suddenly the guy in front of me looks at my Augie t-shirt and goes, "Aug-us-taaana? We don't allow no Quad City f------ in NASCAR Nation!" Greeeat. I take my girlfriend to her first NASCAR race and get us killed before the green flag even waves. That's when the guy continued. "Har! Har! Just kiddin', brother! NASCAR ruuules! Whooo-yaa!" Maybe I made up the whoo-yaa. I honestly don't remember. But whoo-yaa was definitely going through MY head.

I hate to admit it, though, but NASCAR really does bring out the best in people. Everybody around us was smiling, friendly, and high-fiving strangers. The race was killer. Kyle Busch, the driver that every NASCAR fan is contractually obligated to hate, started in last place but made his way to the lead in under 70 laps. Then it was a battle between good and evil, as Busch fought -- and eventually lost -- to Brad Keselowski, who we have to like because his car is owned by Dale Earnhardt Jr., who is to NASCAR fans what Jesus is to, well, NASCAR fans.

But we didn't see the win. We were too busy hustling our dirt-covered bodies back to the car for a quick getaway to a much-needed shower, a knee brace, and a hasty arrival at RIBCO exactly ten minutes before Driver and Tripmaster took the stage. It was an awesome topper to an awesome weekend. For once, I had my cake and ate it, too. It just kinda tasted like burned rubber, though.

COLUMN: Summit

Grr. It's been one of those weeks where very little column-worthy's been going on in my life. Jeez, and it had such potential, too.

I mean, this weekend was the dreaded Parental Summit, wherein my girlfriend's parents journeyed to Galesburg to meet MY parents. This would be GREAT, right? And my great I mean AWFUL, naturally. After all, these are MY parents, legendary in the art of telling embarassing and cringe-worthy tales. I was prepping for the entire day to be an unholy exercise in patience, luck, and my deft ability to change the subject in mid-conversation.

But, like all potentially awful events in my life, the upswing is that even the worst of days can become the best of newspaper columns. I drove to Galesburg with trepidation in my heart but a sharpened and eager pencil in my pocket. If I was going to take the fall this day, at least I'd have something epic to write about. As I was driving towards my certain embarassing doom, I kept looking to the skies but not once did I see four horsemen. Good sign for me, bad sign for the column.

The sad and boring truth is that the whole day went swimmingly well. Astoundingly and shockingly well, actually. My parents and her parents got along from the first moment.

My dad wanted to show off his newest handiwork -- he just finished screening in the entire patio, an epic project with plans dating back to my childhood. Her dad asked all the right questions and nodded at all the appropriate points in the guided patio tour. Me, I got lost 30 seconds into it. There was something about expanding wood and aluminum reinforcements and suddenly the word "wolmanized" was in there someplace -- if wolmanized is, in fact, a word, which I'm not quite sure about. I was just amused at how my dad said "wolmanized" and then thought about what a weird word it is to pronounce, so I kept doing it in my head over and over - wol-MAN-ized, WOL-man-ized, wol-man-IZED -- and then pondered whether or not one who wolmanizes is referred to as a "wolmanizer," and how THAT is a business card I would kill to have ("Shane Brown, Wolmanizer") and then suddenly it turned into a Britney Spears song ("Wolmanizer, wolma-wolmanizer, oh, you're a wolmanizer, baby") ...and the next thing I knew, our guests were saying "cool" to my beaming father while once again I remain perhaps the most ignorant and inept son to ever live who couldn't build his way out of a paper bag, let alone screen it in with proper wolmanization. Sorry, Pop.

But the point is that the dreaded summit wasn't too particularly dreadful at all. Happily, she and I are both blessed with relatively cool parents (as cool as parents can be, I suppose) who are free of pretention, snobbery, and hang-ups. They got along like gang-busters.

And I only wanted to kill my mother once, but it really wasn't her fault. She only made the misfortune of saying "yes" when asked the following: "OOH! DO YOU HAVE ANY BABY PICTURES?"

Now, here I need to interrupt the story and talk a little bit about my girlfriend. One of things that initially made me go ga-ga for her was her countless photos up on Myspace and her seemingly inate ability to look cute as a button in every single one of them. "My God," I thought, "she's, like, the most photogenic human being in the world. This girl does NOT take a bad picture."

Now I know better. This is not to say that my girlfriend is anything less than wonderful (calm down, honey.) In fact, I'm quite the lucky feller to be with someone so stinkin' cute. But she, like everyone else on planet Earth whose names don't include the words "Iman" or "Schiffer," is not immune to the occasional bad photo. She simply overcompensates for it by taking approximately 11,000 photos of every major event in her life -- events such as, oh, driving in a car.

The other day, in fact, we were driving in a car when she went, "Ooh! This needs a picture!" Naturally. Because three score from now, we'll want to be sitting in our rocking chairs reminiscing fondly, "Ooh, remember that one time when we went driving in a car? Good times..." But, me being the nice guy and all, was like, "Umm, okay." I then learned that it takes upwards of 12 staged photographs to effectively capture the pure spontaneous bliss of driving in a car. By this time, I'm flash-blind and a danger to pedestrians. But at least if I killed a pedestrian, we could provide the police with our own handy photographic evidence.

This doesn't sit well with me, as I detest having my photo taken once, let alone 12 times. I don't need twelve reminders of what an unphotogenic mess of a human being I am. Cameras point at me and my head instinctively turns to an odd angle, my eyes sink into my head, my second chin grows a third, and my mouth forms what my brain thinks is a smile but my brain is sadly mistaken. This is a girl who can take twenty pictures of a dress, and this is a boy who takes less than twenty pictures per decade.

My mother, on the other hand, shares my girlfriend's fondness for capturing those moments of life best lost to the ages. Next thing I knew, photo albums were coming out like the wind. Chubby baby Shane. Christmas morning Shane. Crying Shane in a forced pose with a fake Santa. Shane dressed up as Uncle Sam for the sesquicentennial parade. Shane in his "Welcome Back Kotter" sweatshirt. Acne-ridden pubescent Shane. "Ooh, remember that one time when you had those grotesque zits? Good times..."

But I survived, despite the assorted ohh-ing and aww-ing of the female summit members and the eyerolls of the male contingency. Pizza was had, jokes were told, and hopefully some new friends made. Too bad it wasn't exciting enough to make for a good newspaper column. Or was it...?

COLUMN: Hat

If you're just joining the party, my last two columns were devoted to my girlfriend's failed attempts at getting me to dress like a proper and upstanding member of society (or, as I like to refer to it, a preppy loser.) When my girlfriend was on her good-natured "let's-improve-the-boy" kick, she brought up one other concern as to my wardrobe -- and it's something very close to my heart. Well, actually it's something very close to my head.

To understand, we need a flashback to the distant land of 1983, where epic decisions awaited a wee junior-high Shane.

It's about this age that I began to transform into the mature, forward-thinking, career-minded professional that you know and love today. After carefully investigating, analyzing, and researching all of the options laid before me by the world, I decided at age 12 that the most prudent vocation to set my sights and training towards was, clearly, that of ROCK STAR DRUMMER.

Here was an occupation that promised all of the perks of gainful employment that I was concerned about, such as a progressive atmosphere of teamwork fostering professional relationships with colleagues such as the smokin' hot girl in the "Rio" video who dances on the sand just like that river twisting through the dusty land.

After having been evaluated for multiple instruments back in middle school, the band teachers decided that my natural aptitude for melody, harmony, notes and scales made me best suited to bang on noisy objects with sticks. Despite my musical shortcomings, by the time I had reached junior high, I was first chair concert/marching snare with dreams of rock & roll greatness. But the four of us in the percussion section knew that junior high band was small potatoes of "boom-tap-tap, boom-tap-tap" until we reached the big show: high school marching band.

Back in Galesburg in the 80's, our high school band was the stuff of legend. They won awards, they did routines, and their drummers were the coolest people we had ever seen. How cool? So cool that, during football games, instead of wearing foot-tall marching band hats like the rest of the band, they got to wear whatever hats they wanted. One of the dudes wore a fedora, another guy got to wear a leather newsboy cap. They were the rebels of the band, the zenith of cool, and the epicenter of everything my 12-year-old heart wanted to be.

At the same time, I was developing my own tastes in contemporary music. Having been brought up in a very pro-music house, my weekly allowance back then was already being efficiently routed safely to the hands of Musicland, and my growing collection of cassette tapes was my pride and joy. I didn't know much at age 12, but boy, did I know music. I was such an expert, in fact, that I looked at all the artists in the pantheon of rock history, and proudly announced to everyone I knew that The Greatest Rock Band To Ever Walk Upon The Face of the Earth was... the JoBoxers.

In retrospect, probably not the brightest thing to say. This was, after all, a band whose ultimate musical legacy left to the world was the two singles "Just Got Lucky" and "She's Got Sex." At least I know where my 12-year-old mind was at the time. But I promise you, for a 1983 heartbeat, the JoBoxers were pretty rad. As I watched them prance about on MTV (and oh, prance they did) in their suspenders and caps, I wanted to be a JoBoxer with all my heart. I wanted to just get lucky, too, whatever that meant. I wanted the suspenders. I wanted the cap.

Wait a tick... the JoBoxers were cool, and so were the high school drummers. And what was the common thread uniting the two? They all wore HATS. Instantly a plan went into motion. I, too, would get a cool-guy cap. Then I would be the cool rock-&-roll rebel who just got lucky. Only one problem.

I am the proud owner of an elephantine skull of enormous magnitude. I've long bragged that it's to hold my enormous brains, but the truth is that I'm just kind of a freak. Let's just say there was a reason I was born via C-section. Even in junior high, they were already having to custom order my size XXXL marching band hat. Just my luck -- I find the ultimate answer to coolness and can't find one to fit my obscenely huge head.

It's twenty-five years later. The JoBoxers went the way of the dodo, and high school band lost its lustre after discovering they held daily practice at 6 a.m. Still, my obsession with ill-fitting hats remains. There's seldom a time that I pass a cap in a store without flipping it over in hopes that it'll happen to be a XXXL wide. In college, I found one that was. I was broke at the time, but lived off ramen noodles for a week to afford it. And I wore it every day until it honestly starting molting. If you don't believe it, check my closet today - I can't bear to toss it.

But thanks to the internet, I've found my home away from home -- Lamood.com: Big Hats for Big Heads. I've been an ardent supporter for years, and now have an arsenal of XXXL caps at the ready: newsboy caps, driving caps, Gatsbys, and my pride and joy: my Greek fisherman's cap. I have two, actually: wool for the winter, cotton for the summer. I wear the heck out of caps.

Naturally, my girlfriend hates them. This time, though, I kinda know why: they're pretty much ugly. I know that my Greek fisherman's cap makes me look less like a JoBoxer and more like a pudgy Captain in desperate search of his Tennille. And it's not like I need them to cover receding hair - that's one thing that genetics has so far blessed me with.

I can't explain why I continue to wear the silly things. They're just my trademark. I like wearing caps, and ptooey on you if you're not onboard. I may look like a giant dork, but somewhere in the back of my brain, there's still that 12-year-old who can finally be the drumming JoBoxer of his dreams.

RIBCO 30th Anniversary Birthday Bash!

Before there was a District of Rock Island, there was RIBCO. Before there was a Gumbo Ya Ya or a Ya Maka My Weekend, there was RIBCO. Before there was fun at all, there was RIBCO.

OK, OK. Perhaps mankind amused themselves before the arrival of downtown Rock Island's premiere live-music venue, but it probably wasn't as fun, and it certainly wasn't as loud.

The Rock Island Brewing Company turns 30 this summer, and they're celebrating the only way they know how -- music, music and more music.

The RIBCO 30th Anniversary Birthday Bash happens this weekend with an indoor showcase on Friday followed by an all-ages outdoor show Saturday. There will be a lineup of past and present RIBCO favorites, including a few names you never thought you'd see onstage again. Putting together the project has been a labor of love for RIBCO talent buyer Jason Parris.

"We wanted to do something special that wasn't only fun but challenging to put together," Mr. Parris said. "We approached bands that helped shape RIBCO's history, including a few that haven't played together in years. To a lot of them, the idea of a no-pressure get-together sounded exciting."

Chief among the bands reforming for the event is Tripmaster Monkey. In its storied career, the band put out three releases in the mid-1990s on Sire/Warner Bros. Records and toured the U.S., all while getting MTV airplay and critical acclaim here and abroad. This weekend will be their first time onstage as a group in more than a decade.

"We were always looking for a reason to reunite," said Tripmaster Monkey guitarist Jamie Toal. "RIBCO's 30th seemed plenty good. Of course, there was also that dream I had with Abe Lincoln, except it was Spaceman Abe Lincoln from outer space. He said, 'Jamie, check this out! I am totally on Mars right now! Anyways, do me a favor -- reform the Monkey at RIBCO in August. The future of space travel and human awesomeness depends on it.' You don't say no to Honest Abe."

Other bands required considerably less extraterrestial persuasion to hop on board.

"RIBCO is the 'A Room' to play in the Quad-Cities, and has been for 30 years," said Bill Douglas, frontman for the defunct, but temporarily resurrected, Einstein's Sister. "RIBCO has hosted so many great bands and shows, and to be able to play that stage along with so many of them this weekend is an honor."

The power-pop of Einstein's Sister kicks off the weekend on the indoor stage Friday night, alongside local stalwarts John Resch & Detroit Blues. Rounding out the Friday lineup are two other recently revived favorites -- Keep Off the Grass and Jim the Mule.

On Saturday, Tripmaster Monkey is joined on the outdoor stage by Dean Wellman, The Warmth and another group reassembling for the first time in three years -- Parris' own Driver of the Year.

"I wouldn't call it a reunion as much as a return from a much-needed pause," Mr. Parris said. "Driver of the Year will never die in our eyes. I'm just excited to play with such a great variety of artists that I've respected for a long time."

After the outdoor celebration stops on Saturday, the party moves inside RIBCO for the grand finale -- the raunchy glam-rock shenanigans of Cheese Pizza, a crowd favorite.

"RIBCO is where it's at in the Quad-Cities as far as live music goes," said John Nelson, aka Cheese drummer Gil Fishman. "It's my favorite room to play because of the professionalism of the place. Great owner, great PA, an incredible sound engineer in Al Dimeo ... What's not to love? Just being included on this bill is an honor."

You can't interview any of these bands without them taking time to praise RIBCO owner Terry Tilka. Under Tilka's reign, RIBCO has risen from a solid local bar to a national touring destination. Known for his fair-handed, tell-it-like-it-is management approach, Tilka and his venue played a large part in the growth of every band on this weekend's lineup.

"Terry is a really smart guy," said Toal. "He's seen some crazy stuff with the Monkey boys, and we probably ticked him off on many occasions -- but he's really done a remarkable job in the Quad-Cities."

"For Terry to add us to that bill along with these other great acts tells me what he thinks of us as a band, and we appreciate that," Nelson said. "Terry loves us. He once cross-dressed and hopped onstage with us to sing 'I Think I Love You.' OK, that's a complete lie, but print it anyway."

Making the decision to reform was easy for some of the weekend's bands, but getting into the swing of things proved a little more challenging.

Toal described his first practice with the reformed Tripmaster Monkey as "the perfect sonic marriage of nails on a chalkboard with a flock of dying geese. These things take a while to get back to where they need to be."

We're promised they'll be in fine form by this weekend. And at the low cover charge of $5, it's a risk well worth taking for one of the best two-day lineups of local music imaginable.

"This is our way of giving back to all that have supported us over the years as a great music venue," Parris said.

RIBCO has been a steady hand in the Quad-Cities music scene for 30 years. Will we one day see a 60th-anniversary bash?

"We're already working on the line-up," Parris said with a grin.

COLUMN: Shirt Wars, The Sequel

Ahh... there's nothing like waking up after voting day, is there? The birds in the sky chirp with the satisfaction and accomplishment that comes from our free and Democratic society. Yes, a utopian world, really, where every voice has its say, every hope can be realized... and every shirt can be worn.

In case you missed last week's column, let's get you up to speed:

Your humble columnist, otherwise known as The Hero Of Our Story, dry cleaned his collection of super-sexy silk shirts for the purposes of summer wearing. This was much to the chagrin of his loving girlfriend (The Evil Villainess,) who felt that he would be much better suited in a spanky collection of argyle polo shirts. The Villainess, normally a lovely and caring princess whom Our Hero wouldn't trade for all the video games in Japan, was clearly under some kind of evil spell, as these argyle polo shirts hailed from the land of Preppy Golf Course Nightmares.

Thus began the epic battle of Shirt Wars - Episode One: The Argyle Menace. Since the Villainess was immune to all of the reasoning and logic that our couch-dwelling Hero could provide, he instead decided to take the battle to the people, in the form of last week's column. Facts were laid out, opinions stated, and photographic evidence of both the pleasing button-down silk ensemble (yay!) AND the argyle atrocity (boo! hiss!) were presented to you, the general public, for your careful consideration and feedback.

After last week's column was turned in, we both promptly laughed about it and left the Quad Cities for a romantic daytrip to Wisconsin, where my choice of shirts was the last thing on our minds. In other words, it was kind of a joke column, folks. Little did I know that, while we were cruising the waters of Lake Geneva with champagne wishes and caviar dreams, the Shirt War was raging on amongst a goodly percentage of our readership.

What neither of us knew was that the column had made its way to the main page of QCOnline.com, drawing many an eye. By the time we got back in town, I had an inbox bulging with e-mails from readers. Online comments were piling up on our website. Even our respective Facebook pages were teeming with mutual friends up in arms... all about my clothing. I will never look a gift shirt in the mouth again.

Through all of the comments, I learned important things. For example, here's what one reader had to say:

"Your silk man-blouse is UGLY! Your girlfriend has the right idea. In the argyle, you look 20 pounds lighter and your hair and eyes look so much cooler."

Here's what another says:

"I hate the argyle polo shirt. It makes you look fat and look like a dork. The silk look is better for you."

So, if there's one thing to be learned from this exercise, it's the satisfying knowledge that I'm clearly a lard-butt no matter WHAT I drape over myself. Personally, I simply suspect that all cameras on Earth hate me with a blinding fury. I'm just big-boned -- especially my stomach bone.

Still, I wanted an answer. I was convinced that the ghost of Chess King wouldn't have led me wrong about silk and rayon shirts all these years. I wanted to dance on the grave of my girlfriend's argyles. I wanted a definitive and exact picture of myself as seen through the eyes of strangers. This is why I just finished sitting here, meticulously counting the votes and opinions that have come in via e-mail, website, and Facebook all weekend.

Ladies and gentlemen -- the winner of Shirt Wars 2009 is...

THE SILKEN SHIRTS OF SHANE BROWN. By a margin of exactly two votes. In yer face, argyle!

I promptly contacted my girlfriend and delivered my victory speech, the text of which I'll gladly reprint here: "Ahem. Nyah Nyah Boo Boo! You suck! I rule! The end."

Needless to say, she demanded a recount.

When the votes were tallied a second time, I'm afraid to say that two entries were called into question. For instance, there was this comment, on my Facebook, from our mutual friend Sarah:

"So much argyle, so little time..."

I had assumed this was a sarcastic comment favoring MY choice of clothing. My girlfriend, however, feels that this is a clear vote for her argyle polo shirts. This was a conundrum. It's times like this when you realize that you can't trust your own predisposed opinion and must look at the situation from a purely non-partisan view. I needed to think like my elders and my civic leaders. We decided to stop, take a deep breath, and ask ourselves, "What would Rock Island Circuit Court Judge Mark VandeWiele do?"

We struggled for three days to ascertain this commenter's intent, knowing that every vote is critical in this fashion war. The length of the struggle in and of itself helped answer the question. By a preponderance of the evidence, this is a vote for ARGYLE. But Shirt War calls for a clearly ascertainable vote and this columnist and his girlfriend cannot in good faith make that finding. Since these commenter's intent is not clearly ascertainable by a totality of the circumstances as required by a good 'n' proper Shirt War, these two comments shall not be counted as a vote for either shirt.

In other words, we've come to a tie. Persuant to the by-laws of my apartment, this means The Great Shirt War of 2009 shall be decided by -- you guessed it -- drawing lots. I'm just not sure what we need to draw lots of. In grade school, I used to draw lots of rocketships, so I'm hoping that's what it'll be.

Until said time that we draw lots of rocketships, I declare myself the winner. I shall continue to wear my ugly silk shirts with pride, and I'll even concede to the occasional public outing of the thoughtfully-purchased argyle polo shirts because I love my girlfriend and maybe one day I'll love her shirts, too. And if the girlfriend has any issues with that, this humble writer reminds her that she's more than welcome to go and get her OWN newspaper column nyah nyah boo boo. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a victory party to attend -- dress code strictly enforced.

COLUMN: Shirt Wars

The best part about forging a new romantic relationship has to be the communication. When your way of life merges with another's, a bond is formed by sharing and discourse. The relationship begins to flourish as each of you gains new insight and understanding of your lives.

For instance, I have gained the insight and understanding that I am apparantly incapable of dressing myself.

I know fully well that I am no fashionista. As a long-term testosterone-fueled bachelor, I've developed a few simple rules when it comes to fashion:

• Never buy clothes that require ironing. The amount of time that one spends sweating away over an ironing board can then be thusly used on far more relevant and worldly tasks, such as Super Mario Kart.

• Always find shirts with sleeves that can be pushed up, thereby giving the wearer the advantage of owning both winter and summerwear with one purchase. The amount of money that one spends on seasonal wardrobery can then be thusly used purchasing far more relevant and worldly items, such as Super Mario Kart 2.

• Clothing should be carefully selected in two colors only: (1) dark, and (2) slightly off-dark. Time is precious and fleeting, and Super Mario Kart waits for no one -- especially you weirdo girls who waste time sorting your laundry into color-coordinated piles. If one simply buys an entire wardrobe of dark and dreary colors, you can just shove 'em all in the washer en masse and turn the machine to "I-don't-really-care-what-temperature-you-wash-these."

These rules have so far proven to be a triumphant success. That is, until the girlfriend walked in the other day.

"Surprise, honey!" she exclaimed, shopping bag aloft. "I got you presents!"

Presents, it should be noted for those of you wishing to buy them for me, should consist of: food, money, toys, or a Rane Serato Scratch DJ System. Despite her best intentions, they should never be a bag of clothes. Clothes are not presents. Clothes are functional necessities at best.

Still, there I was, facing a bag of thoughtfully-purchased polo shirts. I steadied myself as I examined them with my best "ohhh, wow, you shouldn't have" face. And admittedly, it was a really sweet gesture. Two of them were actually quite nice, and shirts I could easily see myself wearing. One was basic black and another was basic blue, both with your standard polo stripes. I can work with these.

The other two? Hrrm. These shirts made liberal usage out of something I have never owned in all my live-long days. Argyle, explains Wikipedia, is a diamonds-&-diagonal-checkerboard pattern derived from the tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in eastern Scotland. It got its name because "argyll" is the retching noise that one makes when forced to wear it.


I kid. Kinda. I suppose they don't look bad. And to hear my girlfriend go, "Awwwwwww, you look SO CUTE" is never a bad thing. But to look at myself in the mirror was another story. They're not just argyle, they're bright and happy. One's white and the other has a big ol' yellow argo-diamond smack across the midsection.


I know in reality that I'm little more than a huge nerd, but in the Me that I like to fancy myself, I live above and beyond the constraints of society. I'm dark and mysterious and esoteric and ironic and funny and, quite possibly, the coolest person that's ever lived. In my new argyle polo shirts, I'm not dark or mysterious. I'm merely late for my squash match with Mitzi and Roland Buffington III. They are, without a doubt, the most anti-me shirts to see the inside of my closet since my much-maligned "ponchos-are-kinda-cool,-right?" phase.

Yet, for the sake of my cooing girlfriend who assures of my argyle-clad attractiveness, I'm giving them a shot and simply feeling uber-weird wherever I go. But it gets worse.

"I got them because you don't seem to have many summer-y shirts," she said with glee.

A-HA! How wrong she was. I explained to her that I simply hadn't taken my summer stash to the dry cleaners. Tucked away in a laundry basket in the far end of my closet lies a pile of shirts that only see the light of day from June through September. Shirts whose greatness breaks all rules. Shirts I adore.

Ever since the glory days of Chess King circa 1987, I have been an ardent fan of button-down silk and/or rayon shirts of the psychedelic and awesome persuasion. If it's in any way silky and looks like Pink Floyd threw up on it, I probably own it. And now they're back in style -- and with the help of a certain Mr. Tommy Bahama, the collection has been growing exponentially.

I took the stash out to proudly show off. To my surprise, it was met with a look of horror. With each shirt I'd pull out, the look intensified, until she finally blurted it out:

"They're old man shirts. Oh, honey, no. You own old man shirts. Omigod, I'm dating an old man."

I figured all it would take is a quick fashion show to prove her wrong.


Now, girls have a certain fashion wisdom that boys will never understand. Girls say things like, "Everyone knows you shouldn't wear white socks with a black watch after Arbor Day." Us guys, meanwhile, merely find like-colored objects that don't induce migraines and piecemeal an outfit together. So I put on some olive cargo pants, a sort-of off-olive undershirt, and an unbuttoned light olive silk shirt to complete the ensemble. I looked like Joe Cool -- or so I thought.

"No, honey," came the reply. "You look like a dingy carpet sample."


So that's where I'm stuck. I have a closet full of silk shirts that I love, and a girlfriend who's silently plotting how to destroy them all in an industrial accident. I think they look great -- she thinks I look like Grandpa Brown. So I'm calling on YOU, my diligent readers, to be the jury. Silk shirts of awesomeness or polo shirts that make me argyle up my lunch? The decision is yours. E-mail your thoughts to sbrown@qconline.com and I'll share them with the missus. A grateful closet awaits your reaction.

COLUMN: Mike

I've received six e-mails and eight Facebook messages this week from readers of this column, all with the same question:

"When are you going to write something about Michael Jackson?"

Well, my initial instinct was to say the Fifth of Never. After all, what can I say that hasn't already been said at this point by, oh I dunno, EVERY JOURNALIST IN THE FREE WORLD?

I'm a pop culture junkie. It's really the only hobby I have. And, just like you, I was stunned by the events of Thursday the 25th. First, Farrah died. And that was sad, even though I was a little too young to appreciate the red swimsuit poster in its heydey. Then around 4 p.m., I received an e-mail from a friend that said, "Are you aware Michael Jackson's likely dead?"

Now there's a surefire way to wake me up from a hazy Thursday. I immediately felt bad for my friend who sent that e-mail, as she's one of the few people whose work day is directly impacted by the deaths of celebrities. She works for a company that manages the obituary sections for a number of newspapers across the country.

Among her job duties is the review and approval of public condolences on their celebrity obituaries. There's always gonna be a handful of internet troublemakers who like to wreak as much havoc as possible in any public forum, and her job is to go through and weed out any tasteless or obscene comments before they're presented to the public.

She'd already had a long day approving Farrah's entries when the word came that Michael was in trouble. You couldn't pay me enough to do her job.

It was an amazing moment when I got home that night and logged onto Facebook. As someone obsessed by pop culture, I'm friends with a LOT of egocentric artsy-fartsy types. Folks who discuss artistic integrity at great length and automatically shun any music played on the radio as commercial drivel -- geeks, goths, snobs and nerds aplenty.

And not ONE of them had a bad thing to say about Michael Jackson that night. He was one guy with the power to cross social, racial, and global barriers with little more than a song and dance. Love him or hate him, you've got to at least respect his power.

When wee Shane first reached the age of allowance earning, one of the first things I did was rush out to Musicland and come home with Michael's "Off the Wall." It was the sound of an artist coming in to his own, and I still argue that it's the musical apex of his career.

The cultural apex, though, had only just begun. With "Thriller," Michael Jackson conquered the globe in a way that I guarantee we'll never see again in our lifetime. I didn't even really dig the music too much, but you still had to give it up for the videos and the moonwalk and the ease by which he charmed the world. I remember timing a slumber party at a friend's house for the sole purpose of being able to watch the world premiere of the "Thriller" video -- and being scared out of my socks by it.

After "Thriller" and "Bad," Michael Jackson the Artist took a slow back seat to Michael Jackson the Circus, but it was just as captivating to watch. For the most part, I forgave him for his eccentricities. I mean, the guy was a kajillionaire. If he wanted to build an amusement park in his front lawn, why not? If I was the biggest artist from here to Zxcvbnmistan, I'd probably want my own chimpanzee, too.

When you live in a celebrity bubble like that, it's probably not as crazy as it seems. The movie director Kevin Smith once told a great story about meeting The Artist Who I Think Is Now Once Again Called Prince and talking privately to one of Prince's assistants. As Smith tells it, the assistant explained that Prince, for the most part, lives in Prince-land, and sometimes can't understand why it's a problem when he wakes up at 3 a.m. with the simple request of having a camel delivered to his house.

To us, it's crazy. But when your entire life is crazy, fancying a camel ride at 3 a.m. might just be a normal Tuesday. Of course, Michael took things to the extreme. When your life becomes a non-stop Fantasyland AND you've got a serious fixation on your lost childhood, it's going to cause problems. But instead of trying to give the guy a break -- and I'm just as guilty of reading the tabloid fodder as everybody else -- we exascerbated the problem until Michael became little more than a pop culture sideshow attraction who probably needed professional help.

The court case pretty much sealed the deal. Do I think Michael Jackson was a pedophile who preyed on innocent boys? I can't say for certain, but I'd certainly be surprised if he was. I think he was an immature soul who wanted to stay young forever and didn't understand the problem with befriending little kids just like Prince didn't understand the problem with procuring a camel.

And now that Michael's gone, we're about to reap the reward for treating the guy like a circus freak all these years. His name will be center stage in tabloids for years to come, as every human being who ever managed to weasel their way into his life will be vying for their fifteen minutes of fame with tell-alls and book deals full of half-truths and speculation.

I wasn't a huge fan of Michael Jackson. But will we ever see an artist make his kind of impact ever again? Probably not, and that makes me sad. I feel bad for the guy, and I mourn his loss with the rest of the world, if for no other reason than we'll never hear the exclamation "SHA'MON!" in contemporary music ever again.

Here's hoping that the next time we're blessed with an artist of his magnitude, we don't force them down the same path.

COLUMN: Date Night

Totally leeched off someone named Illflux's Flickr.

He's got lotsa cool pics - go check it out.

I feel like my columns of late are occasionally descending into stereotype: Hapless bachelor writes for years about meeting nice girl. Hapless bachelor meets nice girl. Hapless bachelor can't shut up about nice girl.

I don't wanna be that guy. And I'm certain that you kind folk don't want to waste your Sundays reading the play-by-plays of our boring dates. Good thing, then, that our dates aren't boring.

The other night we had plans for a no-holds-barred evening o' romance and chivalry. This is not my strong suit, as my usual idea of romance is letting her hold the remote control for an hour or two. But I had a plan.

First a nice dinner and a stop for ice cream. Afterwards, I'd take her to one of my favorite locales: Lock & Dam 14 at Fisherman's Corner out by Hampton. You can stroll right out on the Illinois side until you're pretty much in the smack dab middle of the Mississippi -- just you, your special someone, a few quaint fishing folk, the setting sun, and the gentle call of nesting pelicans. It would be my shining romantic moment.

So after dinner and ice cream in Davenport, I slyly headed north along the river giving myself mental high-fives. Goin' to the dam, gonna be all romantical and supa suave studly maaaaaan.

That was about the time we reached Leclaire and I remembered that the I-80 bridge to Illinois was closed. Not good. I was trying my best to play it off like our night was super spontaneous and magical, and I feared a sudden U-turn would blow it.

I had to find a way to play it cool, so I just kept driving along the river with the hopes of finding an appropriate turn-off to nonchalantly get us home. A few miles later, I realized I didn't know where the heck I was, other than way far north. At this point, if I turned off, I'd have no clue how to get us home. That was when I decided my best option was to keep right on truckin' up to Clinton and just take the bridge there and come back to the dam.

Sure, my night was starting to go badly, but unbeknownst to me at the time, someone was having an even worse night. Someone so distraught over the state of their life that they had chosen that night to end it all.

That someone was a suicidal deer -- and just as I reached a bend in the road at 55 mph, it trotted out in a kamikaze head-on dash for my grill. I didn't even have time for one of my customary expletives. I slammed on the brakes. Bambi of the Damned just galloped straight at me. I swerved to the side. It swerved to the side. I swerved back. It swerved back. This deer clearly wanted to die. I braced for impact, grabbed my girlfriend's hand... and missed the sucker by THAT much.

I could have reached out and pet it as we went by. Well, I could have, were I in control of my extremities. As my girlfriend tells it, I reacted to the close call by throwing my fists in the air and screaming "YES!" as though I'd just scored the winning touchdown. Truth is, I was simply happy that I hadn't wet myself.

Ever been SO pumped by adrenalin and a racing heart that you can't sit still? That was MY state of mind when we reached Clinton. I needed a breather after Venison: The Home Game, so I rolled down my window to get some fresh air.

Ladies and gentlemen, NEVER DO THIS IN CLINTON, IOWA. Dear, sweet Clintonians: I love you all. I really do. And I know it's not your fault. But your town STINKS. Yes, I know, it's a horribly rude thing to say. After all, I'm sure there are occasionally times in life when yours truly smells a little ripe. But even at my funkiest of funks, I can rest safe in the knowledge that I will never be as reeky as Clinton, Iowa. It's a delightful mix of yeast, molasses, rotting entrails, and creepy Jimmy Spencer, the kid from my 5th grade class who never showered. I've now learned that one of the key elements to a romantic night is to plot a route that DOESN'T make your girlfriend retch and dry heave in your car.

But I'm stubborn and I'm not a quitter, so we charged over that bridge and headed back on the Illinois side -- and when I finally saw the turn-off for Lock & Dam 14, I took it with gusto. I wanted my romantic stroll to the middle of the river. I wanted my picturesque fishermen. I wanted the gentle lull of the pelican's call.

None of things, I've come to learn, happen at midnight. In fact, I'm not even sure the dam's open at midnight and perhaps I'm confessing a felony trespass in this column. Either way, lesson learned. There were no quaint fishermen at midnight. There was NO ONE at midnight. Just the two of us, a damp river fog, the darkest walkway ever, and probably a 20-30% chance of being dismembered by an axe-wielding homicidal rapist ghost vampire werewolf.

The gentle Mississippi looked more like the River Styx. Oh, and as for the gentle lull of the pelicans? When you wake them up in the middle of the night, they just start going "HOOOOOOOOONK!" and flapping their wings spastically in alarm. I was hoping to salvage at least one or two sweet nothings in my ear. Instead, what I got was, "OMIGOD SOMETHING'S ON MY SHOE EW EW GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!" It was at that point we made a break for the car and never looked back.

So my grand idea of a romantic evening ended on the couch with a rerun of the Colbert Report. Still, I'm not entirely without chivalry -- once I fell safely asleep, I let her have the remote control.

COLUMN: Mayflies

(Totally snagged off someone named Natalija's Flickr.

She's got some cool pics - you should check it out.

Hope she's cool with me using her mayfly.)

Sometimes it's bad to be curious. Heading to the parking lot on my way home from work just now, I glanced over at our loading dock. What's usually a meticulously tidy area was covered in what looked to be piles and piles of sawdust. That's weird, I thought to myself. Did I miss out on some kind of industrial-arts fun time out back? As the investigative journalist that I am, I went over to check it out. Well, okay, as the man-boy that I am, I went over to kick one of the piles, because that's the kind of juvenile fun you just don't grow out of. Smirking like a schoolkid, I charged at one of the piles and sent sawdust flying into the air and all over my pants.

That's when I noticed that the sawdust was squirming.

That's when I realized I had just kicked a heaping pile of dead and dying mayflies. Umm... eww, to put it mildly.

There are times in life that I'm conscious of trying to look relatively cool. This was NOT one of those times. When your clothes are suddenly writhing with the death throes of a kajillion mayflies, one does not think of looking cool. One DOES, in fact: shudder, nearly vomit, hop up and down like a lunatic, wave one's arms like a madman brushing insect corpses off of one's pantlegs maniacally -- and, as it turns out, one might even do all of the above while making a noise that sounds like "blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

After living in the Quad Cities for over two decades, I've gotten used to a LOT of things about life on the river. Mayflies, however, are not one of them. I'm originally from Galesburg, a town thankfully lacking in aquatic breeding grounds for prehistoric creepy water bugs. Never in my life have I encountered insects that live and die in such mass quantities that they actually show up on doppler radar and begin PILING UP upon their demise. It is, without doubt, the grossest part of living in the Quad Cities:

The North American Ephemeroptera. Otherwise known as the common Mayfly, because they're supposed to be prevalent in the month of May even though it's June and they're so stupid they don't even know what month it is. Otherwise known as the Dayfly, because the Day they come out is the Day we should all stay inside. Otherwise known as the Shadfly, because "shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!" is the noise you make when you're trying to repress vomit after kicking a pile of them.

If you've ever thought that your life sucked, at least you're not a mayfly. Here's their basic life cycle: First off, you hatch in the water with somewhere around 8000 siblings. You're an incredibly ugly infant called a naiad. You spend anywhere from a few months to a few years crawling around the bottom of the river, spending your days dodging predatory fish and eating algae. You stave off boredom by moulting up to 20-30 times and checking out your fancy new exoskeleton. Eventually, one of those exoskeletons comes complete with a spanky new set of wings. You might also be taken aback by the fact that your mouth stops working and becomes vestigial. This is your cue to float up to the water surface, learn to fly, and have some REAL fun.

At this point, you have but ONE thing to do in life: search for some Barry White records, because it's time for some mayfly lovin'. Humans might just see a streetlight, but to the hordes of mayflies flitting around them, it's the Playboy mansion. In fact, mayflies even -- wait, it's a family paper, how can I say this -- umm, boy mayflies have not one but TWO boy parts, and girl mayflies have TWO girl parts, thus the potential for some serious freaky-deaky. The good news is that you don't even have to take her to breakfast the next day, since you no longer have a functioning mouth. The downside, of course, is that you die.

If you've ever thought that your life sucked, at least you're not the guy who created www.shadfly.com, the web's #1 fansite for mayflies. There you can find "fun" videos and pictures of the common shadfly, in case the 10,000 of them stuck to the side of your house aren't enough to satisfy your viewing habits. You can read shadfly poetry (example: "shadfly / clinging to the light / it strives to hold / shadfly / clinging / the spirit blows away.") You can learn to dance The Shadfly Shuffle (grind heel, step, rock recover, bird vine, step forward, 1/2-turn, shuffle in place. C'mon, everybody, join in!) You can even buy a fabulous white gold shadfly pin so you can experience the joy of having an insect carcass clinging to your clothes all year long.

All I know is I hate the dumb little buggers and it wouldn't upset me if they disappeared from our little ecosystem altogether. But once again, science scolds and reminds me that mayflies are an important part of our food chain -- they're a tasty little dish for trout and catfish. But last I checked, there weren't too many hungry catfish in our company's loading dock, so I wish they'd stick to the river. Apparantly, though, a healthy mayfly crop means a healthy river, since they can't reproduce well in polluted waters. And while the shallow, insect-hating part of my brain would encourage all of you to start polluting the Mississippi with extreme malice, the wrath of Chad Pregracke is probably worse than the wrath of mayflies, so I'll keep my yap shut (but mostly for fear of inhaling a cloud of insects.)

Just do me a favor -- the next time you see a horde of mayflies swarming around, remind them that they're a month late to seasonal extinction. I'm sure they'd thank you if they had mouths.

COLUMN: Jaws

Good news. After exhaustive research, countless experiments, and what I can only assume to be gobs and gobs of our money, a team of scientists have finally postulated, theorized, tested, proven, and now, yes, ANSWERED a question that's been plaguing our fragile world for years:

We now know why some people like scary movies.

I know, I know. I heard it on the radio this morning and I still can't believe it. After all these years of wondering, all the hopes and dreams of lost generations, science has prevailed. Unfortunately, I was hard at work all day today and must have missed the ticker-tape parades and victory celebrations that must have assuredly been breaking out across the globe.

It turns out that some people are born with: the scary gene. Well, maybe the gene itself might not be scary -- I honestly have no idea, though experience has taught me that most of the tiny components of our existence are pretty creepy lookin' under a microscope.

But apparantly there really does exist some kind of rogue gene in the fundamental building blocks of certain people that makes them really, really dig "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." I assume that this was discovered by taking a random smattering of people, treating them to a matinee of "Hostel," and then rewarding their terrified state by prodding them with needles (a far scarier proposition than the movie itself, if you ask me.)

As it turns out, the test subjects who enjoyed watching hockey mask-clad psychopaths severing the heads of hapless campers were, in fact, carriers of an extra gene -- or, in layman's terms, "idiots." Those of us who enjoy our movies without the occasional disembowelment (those I like to call "sane folk,") were missing this genetic anomaly.

I am proudly one of the gene-deprived masses. Horror movies are NOT on my agenda, thanks much. I get no kicks from being creeped and/or grossed out. You would have to drag me to Hell to get me to watch "Drag Me To Hell." But that doesn't explain this past Saturday.

As a young(ish) hep and happening couple on the go, my girlfriend and I had ambitious plans for Saturday. A little shopping, a pool party for a friend, an oil change for the Beetle, afternoon church service, a nice dinner. A good plan, indeed. Too bad I decided to channel flip to the start of "Jaws."

124 minutes later, there we sat, still glued to the same positions on the couch, transfixed by a 34-year-old horror movie featuring an animatronic shark and Richard Dreyfuss (I'm not sure which is scarier.) How this happened is beyond me.

Had I seen "Jaws" before? Sure, but I think only the censored network TV version. This was the real deal, in high definition, with gallons of fake blood and severed limbs aplenty. And I was TRANSFIXED. Me, the wussiest man in America, who usually channel flips through horror flicks with eyes closed for fear of seeing an eighth of a second of the bogeyman. And I'm cheering, like, "Yeah, shark! Chomp that leg off!"

What gives? Do I suddenly have a new appreciation for horror flicks? I don't think so. I'm pretty sure that "Jaws" doesn't affect me because I am, how shall we say this, aquatically challenged. Despite my parents paying out the nose for swimming lessons, I never got it. I am, however, quite adept at sinking.

So I have no fear of Jaws. I can watch that shark dismember a legion of movie extras and not be affected. Why? Because I'm up here on dry land. Despite what classic SNL skits might teach you, Jaws will NOT be ringing your doorbell. If you wanna go trapsing out in the ocean, be my guest -- but don't be surprised if you return sans leg. Sharks can have their ocean. You wanna scare me? Pick a land-based fear.

Which is, of course, what happened to me the very next day. We decided to close out the weekend with a relaxing drive through the country, which landed us outside of Maquoketa at a place called the Hurstville Interpretive Center. Now, a normal writer would tell you what a wonderful and educational place it is, and how you can learn all about the colorful history of the Hurstville lime kilns while soaking up some native Iowa animal life.

Instead I will tell you that the Hurstville Interpretive Center is evil. Pure evil. They sucker you in with this wonderful educational experience and then you turn a corner to... a beehive. A live, active indoor beehive filled with tens of thousands of bees.

Okay, sure, they're behind glass and they claim it's an educational display for children, but WHAT KIND OF SICK PUPPY DESIGNS SUCH A CONTRAPTION? Everyone knows that bees are the scariest creatures on Earth. Well, okay, maybe I just think that. But looking at that hive was like making me watch every horror movie on Earth ever all at once. If you don't believe me, my girlfriend was kind enough to snap a photo at the exact second I saw the thing, and I look just like Hapless Camper #2 before Jason attacks them with a hatchet.

The display talked about what an important job bees have in nature blabbity blah blah. All I know is that I held my ear up to the glass and I'm pretty sure I heard 10,000 bees chanting, "STING THE FATTY! STING THE FATTY!" The only education I wanted from this is learning precisely how much Raid is required to commit bee genocide.

If there's a gene out there for dealing with bees rationally, I was tragically born without. Hurstville can have its history and its lime kilns and its (actually quite delightful) Interpretive Center. Just don't mind me as I appreciate it like I appreciate the ocean -- from afar.

COLUMN: Grilling

As I type this, it's the joyous celebration of My Girlfriend's Birthday Eve. I think it was our first date when she proclaimed to me, "Oh, there's one thing you need to be aware of: my birthday's kind of a big deal." Part of her was kidding. The other part? Not so much.

Now don't get me wrong. By typing this, I'm not suggesting that my girlfriend is high maintenance, because she's not (well, not ALL the time, at least.) In fact, she's the most giving, caring person I've ever met. I just walked into my apartment moments ago to find it meticulously clean and a freshly-cooked pot roast on the stove. I'm not one to get all mushy, because I hate you mushy people with a sincere and deep passion, but I'm still in sticker shock from finding such an amazing person who seems to strangely dig me.

That said, the birthday thing has been causing me night terrors. How big of a deal is her birthday? Well, LAST year she had a shindig with an inflatable BOUNCY CASTLE -- and let's face it, bouncy castles are pretty much the bee's knees. But where does that leave me? In the unenviable position of trying to top that.

My girlfriend knows and/or is close personal friends with roughly 80% of the Quad City metro area. There's a 1-in-10 chance that she's your child's teacher and/or babysitter. Everywhere we go, someone comes bounding up for a power hug. And in the event of a hug-free outing, no worries -- her phone screams "NEW MESSAGE!" three times an hour to make up for it. Once upon a time, I thought I had a lot of friends. Compared to her, I'm a social leper.

The drawback to being acquainted with a majority of the phone book is that it takes otherworldly acts to get these folks to converge en masse for birthday shenanigans. That's why we've arranged for this year to be a series of nightly gatherings to accommodate the varying schedules of her legions of well-wishers.

Saturday was dance party night at the club (a blinding success if I do say so myself -- I've got some pull with the DJ.) Sunday was a fire pit at her house - we'll get to that later. Tonight is (shudder) karaoke night, which I'm far too busy writing this column to attend (aw, drat the luck. Cough.) Tomorrow is birthday proper, and that's MY day to shine. But let's go back to Sunday for a minute.

The weather was decent, and it looked like a nice night to chill out in her backyard, have some friends over, and end the weekend on the sort of mellow note that fits my life perfectly. Then I said it:

"Why don't we get some burgers and stuff?"

Or, in layman's terms:

"Why don't we drop everything we're doing, bolt to Hy-Vee, fill my car to the brim with a cubic ton of groceries, and then have me try to impress everyone by offering to man the grill?"

On the surface, what's not to like about grilling out, right? You get to feel manly, provide meat for your tribe, AND play with fire. But the thing is: meat doesn't exactly come with instruction manuals, and I could count my past grilling experience on one hand, and that hand could even have a couple of severed fingers. Still, as we headed to her house, I felt optimistic.

That's when I pulled into the driveway and gulped. Two guests had arrived early to the party -- her parents. Yikes. Now I REALLY had to bring my A-game. I'M fully aware that I'm pretty much worthless at most things in life, but I like to keep that secret to myself -- and ESPECIALLY from a set of loving parents who surely wanted to see if the weirdo her daughter dates was capable of being The Manly Provider. Gulp.

If there's ONE thing in the kitchen I'm good at, it's creating some decent burgers -- especially when I've got the help of my pal Emeril. At the grocery store, I slyly picked up a shaker of Emeril's BAM! Burger Seasoning. Throw in a little Worchestershire sauce and some garlic pepper sprinkles and it's burger magic.

Too bad the grill didn't magically light itself. I can spice up meat fine and dandy, but I've never ignited a charcoal briquet in my life. As I carried over the bag with brute machismo, hopefully no-one caught me desperately reading the instructions on the back. ("WARNING: FIRE HAZARD.") Happily, my girlfriend's aunt (who had just arrived) volunteered for charcoal duty, which is good because (a) I'm an idiot and (b) I value my arm hair.

It turned out okay. Well, the grill was a little TOO warm at first, as I managed to flash-char the first burger -- but otherwise, I think I proved my worth a tad. I only got scared when the veggie patties came out, as those icky little things are entirely alien and inedible before AND after the grill. But even with me at the helm, the food came out tasty and -- thus far -- none of her family or friends have fallen prey to e.Coli, so yay me.

As for the next couple days? We do things the Shane way. If all goes to plan, tomorrow morning she'll be awakened by the gentle strains of my favorite local band, The Premium Sellouts, who I've arranged to serenade her from her front lawn. Then I'm taking her out for MY kind of meal, where you sit down, get pampered, and let someone ELSE worry about the food. It's no bouncy castle, but I think I'm gonna be just fine.

COLUMN: Camping

I like parties. I mean, who doesn't, right? I am, after all, a nightclub DJ on the side, so I like to think that I know my way around a good time or two. So when my girlfriend told me that an entire group of our more fun and hipster-ish friends were meeting this past weekend to celebrate one of their birthdays, I was more than eager to sign us up for attendance.

But where would such a suaree be held? Someplace called Eden Valley, I was told. Oooer, I thought to myself, what on Earth is that? A hip and trendy nightspot I was shamefully unaware of? A concert venue where cooler-than-thou bands play post-modern experimental art rock? Some sort of elitist and potentially illegal underground gathering spot?

Err, no. As it turns out, Eden Valley is a campground facility in the middle of a dark and creepy woods handily located in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. Just head for Maquoketa, look for the most isolated and backwoods stretch of highway you can find, and hang a left.

Now, I know that there are some people out there who refer to themselves as "camping enthusiasts." I prefer the term "crazy in the head." As far as I'm concerned, at the precise moment that primitive man discovered that he could put a door on his cave, an electric light in his ceiling, and ten different channels of HBO on his wall, camping immediately and forthwith should have lost its lustre.

There are a kajillion ways to have fun in this world -- watching TV, playing video games, reclining on a sofa, surfing the web, etc. Or MY approach: watching TV from the sofa while playing video games on the web. Camping is just like that, except that it's pretty much the exact opposite of that.

I recall camping once as a kid (keyword: once.) It was a weekend trip as part of my junior high's photography club. My dad, excited about the fact that his only son wanted to experience nature WITHOUT a protective pane of glass in the way, volunteered to be a chaperone. Biiig mistake. After getting out there and realizing right away that tents don't just automatically assemble themselves, I immediately abandoned my father amidst a pile of canvas and stakes to search out the kid with enough smarts to bring his ColecoVision Head-To-Head Football and an ample supply of 9-volt batteries.

Happily, my girlfriend shares my opinion on the overall fun-ness of camping, so we decided to raincheck the event. Still, we felt kinda guilty blowing off our friend's birthday, so we decided to drive up in the late afternoon and put in a cameo appearance at Eden Valley on the way to my DJ gig.

Step One, of course, was finding said valley. I didn't have the directions or a map handy, but how hard could it be, right? We set off towards Maquoketa. I assessed the situation and let my vast knowledge of navigation and tracking skill take over.

"Look for a buncha trees," I said.

Well, I can now safely confirm that there's more than one set of woods in Iowa -- and I'm pretty sure we just visited every single one of them. The paintings of Grant Woods have taught us all that the Iowa countryside is full of round little hills with the occasional round little tree, right? Well, Grant Woods lies. The Iowa countryside is full of crummy, low-maintenance, pothole-laden gravel roads, 70% of which dead-end at creepy abandoned farmhouses that inexplicably lean 20 degrees off their foundation while saying, "Please, step right in and get murdered in me."

After winding around these roads for an hour -- at one time having to stop to allow a GOAT to saunter across the road -- my keen ability to drive, shift, and use the GPS function on my iPhone led us to Eden Valley.

Finding our FRIENDS, however, was another matter altogether. Dear Verizon Wireless and/or AT&T, can you hear me now? Well, if you're in Eden Valley, the answer is a clear NO. Our phones were both dead to the world.

So, rather than call our woodland friends, we instead had to drive through the campgrounds reeeeally slowly, staring intently at every passing campsite in a desperate attempt to identify any human forms. Which, based on some of the looks we got, probably came across more like we were shopping for children to abduct. After casing the joint as best we could, we were seconds from giving up when we spied our friends' cars all in a row - at the entrance to a foreboding nature trail.

Based on a handy nearby map, the trail stretched from the parking lot to, oh, I think somewhere in Peru. And there on the map, at the very end of the trail, was a little icon of a teepee -- which either represented the campsite our friends were at or the ancient cliff civilization of Machu Picchu.

We sauntered down the trail for about a half a click (whatever a click is - I just think it sounds cool to say) before discovering that the "nature" part of the "nature trail" was, in fact, hordes of mosquitos -- and I'm pretty sure I could see the West Nile Virus in their tiny little eyes. Add to that the fact that we were now effectively hiking in dress shoes and nightclub-wear while holding our iPhones skyward in desperation for a signal -- let's just say we were NOT the poster children for Gander Mountain.

After looking at each other and realizing how ridiculous we were, we quickly gave up, placed an apologetic note on our friend's car, and made our way back to air-conditioned civilization while congratulating each other on a fine day of camping.

Our friend, meanwhile, just got back in town and updated her Facebook page with a status update of how "incredible" the weekend was, especially the "rafting mud party and getting shocked by the electric fence." Gee, drat my luck for missing out. Happy birthday regardless, Abby. What say we do the next one INSIDE? I know JUST the dance club...

COLUMN: Bandits

I was getting a little scared about this week's column. A whole week had just passed without anything particularly interesting, amusing, and/or column-worthy going down in Shaneland. Inspiration was at an all-time low. Good thing, then, that this weekend I came under attack from bandits.

I spent my Saturday night the same way I have for the past 7 years: moonlighting in the District of Rock Island behind the turntables and CD players of 2nd Ave. That was where I found myself last Saturday, standing in the booth at 2 a.m. before a sea of writhing bodies. It was so packed, I had to have my own security guy up in the booth with me. I'd like you to think that he's there to fend off my groupies and/or prevent attacks from lesser-talented, bitter and jealous rival DJ's -- but really he's mostly just there to make sure caps are on straight and free-range groping is kept to a tasteful minimum.

That's when the bandit struck.

Now, this is a family newspaper, so bear with, because I have to choose my words here verrrry carefully. Hmm, how to best put it politely...? Okay, so, we can agree that human beings are mammals, right? And when our mammalian biology dictates that the byproducts of our consumption creates a mixture of gases in our digestive tract, it creates a scientific, all-natural, and family-friendly need to release those gases in a manoever we can best describe as a "tooter." Science goes on to tell us that the aforementioned necessity for tooting is oft exascerbated by dietary choices, such as, say, beans.

Let us now imagine a human being who has been raised for 21+ years on nothing but beans his or her entire lifetime. Beans for breakfast. Beans for lunch. Beans for dinner. Oh, and perhaps an in-between snack of lentils, onions, rotting cabbage, and the occasional roadside animal carcass. This person, whoever he or she was, was clearly in attendance at the Ave. on Saturday night.

It hit me like a sneak attack. I stand before you now to tell you that, in all honesty, I have never smelled anything worse in my life, not ever. Words cannot describe the pungency, if pungency is even a word. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm not here to gross you all out, but I'm pretty sure I could TASTE it. And just when my olfactory nerve regained its composure, it hit AGAIN. And again and again, with disturbing regularity. Trapped in my DJ booth, all I could do was hunt for my assailant.

Suspect #1 was my friendly security guard. He was clearly within nose-shot and didn't seem to be reacting to this terrorist attack in any way. But what was I to do? Recommend a good gastro-enterologist to this guy? This was a burly dude who could clearly kill me without breaking a sweat, and I was in no hurry to call him out as a closet tooter. After all, there exists a school of thought that says he who smelt it dealt it, and were I the dealer in this scenario, I would not be DJing - I would be SEEKING IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION.

Eventually, I couldn't take it any longer. I leaned over to my co-worker and, with tact and grace, politely inquired as to whether or not a large animal may or may not have been decomposing in his large intestine.

"Dude," he replied, "It's not me. I'd gladly own up to it if it was." Mmm hmm.

That leaves Suspect #2: any one of the fifty folks shaking their groove thangs in the vicinity of the DJ booth. Now, I'm no expert when it comes to dating, but I'm pretty sure that one of the key rules is, when trying to woo a member of the opposite sex, one should make a valiant effort to keep one's flatulence to oneself.

No one looked suspicious, and my comrade-in-arms was pleading his innocence non-stop. Apart from breathing through my mouth, there was nothing I could do but suffer and continue bringin' da noise while the stinky bandit kept bringin' da funk. I went home and spent the remainder of the morning resuscitating my sinuses.

The next day, my girlfriend stopped by in the morning with a basket of cookies on her way to church (umm, cough) and was about to leave when she suddenly stormed back into my apartment. "SOMEONE HIT MY CAR!"

Upon inspection, no one hit her car. Someone did, however, attempt to burgle it. Both exterior door handles had been pried off with -- I dunno, some kind of door-handle-prying-off implement. The cops showed up and dusted the car for prints while I reveled in my front row view of CSI: Rock Island.

"No prints," the officer eventually said, "But what IS this stuff all over the windows?"

I hadn't noticed - a Hardy Boy I am not - but on both side windows, almost where you could imagine the perpetrator leaning to gain door-handle-prying-off leverage, were some gross smears.

"It's greasy," the cop said after inspecting it. "Kinda like Vaseline."

"It's greasy," I said after inspecting it. "Eww."

Happily, our newly-found and apparantly overly-lubricated friend didn't get into the car. The bad news is that they got away. Clearly, I must have a new arch-nemesis hell-bent on new and exciting ways to totally gross me out. I beg of you, Quad Cities, if you're perchance at the grocery store and happen upon a comparison shopper in the bean aisle who may or may not be coated in Vaseline, do the right thing and unmask the Stinky Greasy Bandit once and for all. A grateful nation will thank you.

COLUMN: Word Vomit

"I dunno what to say -- YOU'RE the wordsmith around here."

That came out of the mouth of one of my best friends the other day. I don't remember what it was in regards to at all. Maybe I was ordering food or writing in somebody's birthday card. Maybe we were plotting world domination. The scenario was entirely forgettable, but that sentence wasn't. One of my friends thinks that I have a way with words. Translation: One of my friends doesn't know me very well at all.

I suppose it's true that I can coherently string sentences together in this column every Sunday, but I've also had 230-some-odd blessed weeks of practice -- and frankly, that has a lot more to do with luck than skill.

Truth be told, I can be a complete idiot when it comes to expressing myself. For a guy with a degree on his wall that says Speech Communication, you sure wouldn't know it by talking to me. I open my mouth with full intent on the creation of a grand and verbose illumination on life -- but what comes out instead can only be called word vomit.

And I've rapidly discovered the perfect recipe for word vomit: just add a dash of girlfriend.

Case in point: A couple of weeks ago, I'm out on the town with the new girl I'm smitten with. This is the phase of the relationship known as Trying To Make A Good Impression. You're constantly trying to find the happy medium that says, "I might just be the coolest human being you know." The goal here is to be attentive and caring yet confident and at-ease in the moment. I was, as the kids say, bringing my A-game.

At some point in the night, we meet up with one of her friends who needs a ride home.

"Sure," she says, turning to me, "We can give her a lift, right?"

Absolutely. I was about to make the same offer. Then I thought about it.

Barring the occasional blip in the space-time continuum, I've been single for just about... well, ever. And there's one universal truth you need to know about single guys: When we have no-one to impress, we are messy, messy people. And that especially goes for my car.

"Don't worry," my girlfriend tells me, "I'll just sit in the back."

Worrysome. The back seat of my Beetle is, for all purposes of explanation, a level 3 biohazard. I collect stuff. And that includes stuff that's prone to decay. This stuff will then mate with other stuff in my car and bear forth entirely new species of stuff, until finally evolution provides the stuff with legs that it uses to then saunter off to my back seat and a long and prosperous life in a new, exciting, and quite possibly toxic ecosystem of my creation. And now my girlfriend wants to sit on it. Worrysome.

The way I see it, there are countless things I could have said in this moment that would have been appropriate:

"Gee, honey, my car is quite messy. Please allow me to go clean it out real quick."
"Certainly. Carpooling is but one of the ways I care about the environment. Have you seen my composting efforts in the back seat?"
"You know what would be fun? Taking a taxi! Allow me to order one!"

But no. Not Shane, the master of word vomit. I took stock of the situation, analyzed my options, and determined that the best course of action to make a grrrreat impression would be to look at my girlfriend and say the following:

"Umm... are you sure you can FIT in my back seat?"

Word. Vomit. It was the first time I'd actually seen someone's mouth fall open like a cartoon -- and not just HER, but her friend, too. I am soooooo smooth.

And it doesn't stop there. My girlfriend is deeply involved in her church. One of the things her church provides is as-needed counseling with a sort of peer mentor, who helps not just with the spiritual side of things, but with any woes that come along in life (such as dating a guy who vomits words, I'd imagine.)

The other day, she takes me to her church for the first time -- a big deal for her, right? -- when she goes, "Oh, look! That's my counselor!" Now, I had expected to see some rigid, grey-haired woman of great wisdom. Instead, I was surprised to see a girl who was young, fresh-faced, and bubbly.

Again, a million things that could have been said here. But here are the words that I chose to roll out of my mouth:

"Jeez, you're old enough to be her mom!"

Best of intentions, worst of executions. It's a good thing we were in church because otherwise, I might just have gotten punched.

Yet, as the ultimate testament to her awesomeness, she continues inexplicably to date me. In fact, this past weekend was the nerve-wracking Meet-The-Extended-Family Day. Gulp. We all got together over Frank's Pizza, which would have been great -- were it not at 1 in the afternoon and had I not been up until sunrise the night before unwinding from a rather lengthy DJ gig.

Normally it takes me multiple hours and an infusion of caffeine to put me in social mode. This day, I had to make do with 30 minutes and a cold shower before being thrown to the wolves. Happily, though, her family weren't wolves at all. In fact, they were super fun people who put me at ease right away. Hiding in her family were musicians, audiophiles, cat lovers, and closet NASCAR fans -- topics I can dwell on any day of the week sans word vomit. Fingers crossed, I hope I made a good impression, 'cause I like her clan -- even if I DID catch a group of them perusing an entirely incorrect choice of Sunday newspaper. Don't worry, this wordsmith will set 'em straight.

COLUMN: DMV Redux

Irresponsibility, thy name is Shane.

You know that one person in your clique of friends? The one who's usually good for a laugh but little else? The one who's your friend but NEVER your best man because you wouldn't trust him to keep hold of your ring for even the minute-and-a-half walk down the aisle? I'm starting to think that's me.

Case in point: Food Days. If there's one thing to be said about the journalism industry, we don't go hungry. If there's an excuse on Earth to eat, our gang will find it. It's your birthday? FOOD DAY! The anniversary of your hiring date? FOOD DAY! It's Cinco De Mayo? TACO BAR! True story. I'm writing this column on, err, Quatro De Mayo, and we're taco-ing it up tomorrow. Too bad it's gonna slip my mind between now and then.

In my office, we are in a near-constant state of Food Day. And I, concidentally, am in a near-constant state of Forgetting About Food Day. Tomorrow I'm expected to bring in taco-tastic ingredients to share with my journalistic brethren, and I'm the clod who'll once again forget, walk in empty-handed, slap my head, say "d'oh," and then spend the rest of the workday sheepishly apologizing while eating my body weight in free food.

I'm fed up with being the forgetful, irresponsible one. But I have NO idea how to fix it. Actually, I've figured out part of it: be lucky enough to score a responsible girlfriend. She just showed up at my apartment bearing chopped tomatoes and black beans. (Isn't she awesome? Everybody say "aww" on three - ready? 1, 2, 3... aww!) Perhaps I'll be lucid enough in the morning to remember to bring it to the food day.

Someday I want people to look at me and go, "Wow. There goes Shane, the most responsible guy I know." Oh, and I forgot, "plus he's got a super sweet booty." Hey, it's MY dream.

Anyways, I'm on a mission to become more responsible, and it started with one simple task. Every May, my license plate sticker renewal comes up. And I usually remember it mid-July or so -- occasionally with the help of a friendly police officer. THIS year, though, Responsible Shane remembered. I even put a note in my calendar. On May 1, I would strut into the DMV a changed man. A responsible man.

I was beaming with pride. No more would I be the poster child of immaturity and irresponsibility. I was turning a new leaf, and May 1st was the day that leaf would flip. Good timing, then, that on April 30th, I just happened to glance at my driver's license and realize in terror that it had expired on my birthday -- all the way back in January.

For the past 4 months, I've been cruising about the QCA with an expired license. Awesome. It's official -- I would forget my brain if it wasn't attached to my spine. Suddenly, my journey to the DMV became a tad more critical.

Our local DMV is a grand and glorious place -- a one-stop for all of your transportation licensing needs. In fact, I can say with certainty that whenever I'm in the mood to spend $78 on a colored sticker, the first place I head to is the DMV -- conveniently located for your shopping pleasure in: the absolute middle of nowhere (I believe the locals call it 'Silvis.')

As I made the drive, I got to thinking. Since I was an idiot and let my license expire, would I have to re-take the tests? The written test was pretty cake as I remembered it, but to do so without first perusing the Rules of the Road might be risky. After all, if I come to a 4-way stop at the same time as another car, I have no idea who to yield to. Usually I yield to the driver with the grumpiest face, and somehow I doubt that'll be one of the multiple choices.

Same goes for parallel parking. If I parallel park on an uphill slope, I'm supposed to turn my wheels (a) towards the curb or (b) away from the curb? As a general rule, I choose (c) go park someplace flat.

After navigating my way into the labyrinthian parking lot (which I still say should count as the driving portion of your licensing exam,) I wandered through the doors into the epicenter of the H1N1 flu virus. At least, you would have thought so from the jumbo jugs of hand sanitizer beside every employee. It even looked as though the employees were quabbling over their ethyl alcohol stockpile -- the gallon bottle in front of me was rudely scrawled with a marker: "CAROL'S!!!!!" Suddenly I began to realize why DMV employees aren't exactly known for their cheeriness.

For what it's worth, it was a relatively painless experience. While no-one there was particularly personable, everyone was efficient and dutiful. And thankfully no testing needed. I just had to stand there while some lady pelted me with bizarre questions: "Are you prone to seizures?" "Do you have any mental health issues?" "Do you occasionally heed the verbal instruction of your cats and/or houseplants?" Etc., etc.

Once officially certified sane, it was just the matter of taking a quick pic. "Look at the smiley face sticker and smile if you want to," which was my cue to tilt my head 15 degrees, make the world's most awkwardly forced half-smile, and realize the fashion complications of wearing a blue jacket over a black shirt. CLICK. Ah yes, a moment I'll be happy to be reminded of every time I reach into my wallet for the next four years.

So once again, I am fully licensed to drive and basking in the glow of at least marginal responsibility in life. I'd dwell on it more, but right now I've got to focus. Don't forget the black beans... don't forget the black beans... wish me luck.