COLUMN: U2 3D

Someone asked me the other day why I would want a column every week in the newspaper. I suppose there's two schools of thought:

(A): Some people need therapy to overcome the awkward and embarassing parts of their lives. I need YOU guys. I prefer to vent my frustrations through humor and a well-worn keyboard. I'm blessed to have such a wonderful outlet as the Dispatch/Argus to do so every week. It's humbling and magical to think that people like you take time out of YOUR life to read about mine. I'm the luckiest guy in the world.

Or (B): Owning a page in the newspaper that reaches over 100,000 readers is what I like to call Step One in my eventual bid for world domination. There's no problem big enough that can't be solved by a horde of evil minions to do one's evil bidding, and I'm kinda counting on you folks to step up in the evil minion dept.

But if sinister plan (B) stands a chance, I simply cannot be stymied by area businesses in their feeble attempts to wrench fame from my hands.

I'm talking to you, Putnam Museum and IMAX Theatre.

This month, the IMAX is airing "U2 3D," a concert film of the Irish rockers that proved so popular during its first stop that it's back for a second engagement. And, as a novel way to promote the film, the folks from the Putnam IMAX put together a viral video that's making its way around the local Youtube circuit. In this video, they've assembled a rather impressive collection of A-list Quad Citians to lip-sync along to U2's hit single "Vertigo."

Anyone and everyone's on there. Dwyer & Michaels. Jill Green. The guy from Brenny's. Mayor Bill Gluba. Stephanie and Jan from Ross' Restaurant. Matt Hammill. It's a cool idea that works and looks great.

There's just one small problem: I'm not in it. I wasn't asked to be in it. I've watched the video and there's not even one cameo from yours truly.

What gives, Putnam IMAX? I am a Great Local Writer of Local Greatness, a beloved and cherished Quad Cities institution, but I've been left out like yesterday's news. Don't cry for me, Quad Cities. The truth is I never left you. I was right here, waiting for the phone call -- that never came.

There's Ellis Kell. My colleague Jonathan Turner. Bill Wundram and my arch-nemesis (and in reality close friend) David Burke from that (cough) OTHER paper. Yet no Shane. No offense to Mayor Bill Gluba, but surely I'm a more adept lip-syncer. I am, after all, the #13 vocalist in the world on the video game Rock Band. Who else on this list has THOSE kind of qualifications? Dwyer? Michaels? Paula stinkin' Sands? Well, okay, even I can't compete with The Paula. The Paula is a diva goddess and clearly the only human being in the Quad Cities more powerful than myself. Don't knock The Paula.

But it's okay, Putnam IMAX. I'm sure it was a tragic oversight on someone's part, right? Someone whom I trust has been given their well-deserved pink slip by now, no? Or maybe the awesome power of my awesomeness was just TOO MUCH for the Putnam IMAX to handle. My brute machismo IS somewhat intimidating.

Don't worry, Putnam IMAX. I forgive you. And I've come up with a way for you to make it up to me.

First thing's first, though -- can we lose U2? Because they kinda, umm, suck nowadays.

Once upon a time, U2 were a good band. Existing on the sheer fury of Bono's power mullet, early U2 was a wicked force. Remember the iconic scenes of Bono climbing the scaffolding and waving the flag? Or at Live Aid when he jumped into the crowd to dance with the shell-shocked girl. And I'm convinced that the only reason Band-Aid managed to help feed the world with sales of "Do They Know Is Christmas" was entirely due to Bono's spine-tingling "welltonightthankgoditstheminstEEEEAAAAADDDDDDOOOOOOOOOFYOOUUUUUUU!" When you heard early U2, you knew it was a band that stood for something. You weren't exactly sure what that something WAS, but it was entirely impressive nonetheless.

Then Bono cut his power mullet, found those ridiculous glasses, and the whole band went to heck. I have no desire to see them in concert, on film, or coming at me from a 27' screen in three dimensions. I like that Bono still tries to heal the world, but that's because it makes him occasionally stop singing.

Still, I'll put my loathe of contemporary U2 aside for the sake of fame. Just send a camera crew over and we'll shoot a quick 3-D introduction to the film. Here, I've even written the script:

A lightning strike at dawn. As the sun begins to rise, the camera swings to reveal the rooftop of the Putnam IMAX. Atop it stands a long figure next to his trusty motorcycle, which has made it to the roof on the power of sheer awesomeness alone. Like many fine Cinemax movies from times of yore, our leather-clad hero is a renegade biker on a lone search for justice. It is... The Shane.

As the sun strikes his muscular frame, he casts his eyes towards the heaven and yells. "Hoooooooooooo!" Windows throughout the Quad Cities shatter at the sound. A menacing team of ninjas appears. The Shane sighs. It is time. He flies into the air in slow motion like The Matrix. Every time he touches a ninja, they are immediately decapitated and their heads fly in 3D towards the audience. When it is done, The Shane stands triumphant atop a pile of severed ninja heads.

From somewhere down below, action star Chuck Norris yells up, "Thanks, buddy. I couldn't have done that myself."

"No problem, Chuck Norris," says The Shane. "All in a day's work when you're as awesome as me."

The wind whips up, taking with it The Shane's shirt. From all around the Quad Cities, women squeal with delight until the windows throughout the Quad Cities, all of which were replaced during the ninja fight, shatter again. Townsfolk appear with gifts. One of them is an elderly lady who doesn't see the oncoming semi truck...

Lasers shoot out of The Shane's eyes, destroying the semi truck and magically turning it into... a box of newborn kittens. The crowd goes "Awww!" as the camera slowly ascends into the sky, further and further until...

We are in outer space. As the globe spins, we see the continent of South America, where giant mile-long letters have been set ablaze in the Amazonian rainforest. The message: "SHANE IS KING." The end.

Oh, wait. Then I step into the frame and go, "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.... U2... will not be seen tonight on account of they suck. Instead, enjoy me in three dimensions while I play Rock Band, eat a ham sandwich, and compose newspaper columns in my head for two hours."

Perfection.

Or, if you go back up to the top and take it from the (A) school of thought, I can breathe a sigh of relief that the Putnam IMAX crew didn't come a-callin'. I'm so self-conscious that I probably would've died of stage fright. Plus Paula Sands really DOES kinda scare me a little. I'll stick with THIS gig, thanks. I really AM the luckiest guy alive.

COLUMN: Stoplight

I remember painfully little of the grade school years (a fact which I blame on the college years.) But for no particular reason, one homework assignment has always stuck out in my head.

My 3rd grade teacher, a wonderful little hippie lady named Mrs. Harlan-Marks, asked us to write a paper on who our "hero" was. Oh, and it couldn't be someone in your own family - you had to think outside the box. And thinking outside the box threw me for a loop.

My hero? Outside of my parents, I didn't really have any. I thought about it forever and ever, but no magic light bulbs went off above my head. That's when I committed my first memorable act of bull-pooing: I decided to announce to the world (or at least to Mrs. Harlen-Marks) that my hero was... Dan Tanna.

Dan Tanna was the character Robert Urich played on the short-lived 70's TV series "Vega$." I'd never even seen an episode of the show before that night, but it was on TV in the background while I was working on the paper and I was desperate. I don't remember if Dan was a cop or a detective or a mercenary or a gambler or what, but for one brief shining moment in 1970-something, he was my hero.

Twenty plus years have passed since that assignment, and nowadays it's easier to come up a list of heroes. My parents (still.) My girlfriend (always.) Dispatch/Argus Publisher Jerry Taylor (because it never hurts to suck up to your boss.) 2nd Avenue/RIBCO owner Terry Tilka (or your other boss.) Eddie Izzard. Chuck Klosterman. Dave Barry. Whitney Matheson. Musicians like Johnny Marr, drummer Loz Colbert, and the greatest songwriter of our generation, Martin Carr (look him up.) The list goes on and on, but this column involves some other heroes of mine.

Recently I got the ability to stream Netflix purchases over to my TV, and I discovered that Netflix has every episode of one of my favorite shows: Mythbusters. These two guys, Jamie and Adam, set out in every episode to dispell popular myths via elaborate experiments and, if at all possible, large explosions. It's funny, it's science, and exploding things are cool. The Mythbusters rule.

Another set of heroes? Journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein -- two guys who four-handedly brought down a corrupt American presidency through sheer determination, willpower, and by being really really annoying. There isn't a newspaper writer alive who doesn't want THAT kind of a story to fall into their laps.

And I think I've got mine. That's right, it's time for this columnist to move to the big leagues. I will now -- by the cunning use of Mythbuster experimentation and the doggedness of Woodward and Bernstein, bring down a corrupt Rock Island stoplight.

Flashback: June 2009. A horrible car accident occurs at the intersection of 24th St. & 4th Ave. in Rock Island. A semi truck and an SUV meet in a most unfortunate of ways. People are sent to the hospital, but thankfully no-one dies. Our paper runs a story with the following quote:

"After the accident, several people said the sensors, which trigger the stoplights, haven't been working properly for several months."

What the article doesn't mention is that one of those "several people" was yours truly. Every weekend, I head home from my DJ gig at around 4 a.m. Usually, that puts me southbound on 24th St. at the 4th Ave. intersection. And every night for a month before that accident, that stoplight sensor hadn't been working. I would pull up on a red light, and it would stay red - indefinitely. Since 4th Ave. is a one-way street with a turn lane I'm never in, my only choice is to become a rebel without a cause and roll cautiously through the red light.

So when that accident happened, I naturally assumed that the broken light was to blame and promptly told our reporter as much. But when the reporter questioned the police about the sensor, Lieutenant So-and-So responded (again I quote from our June article,) "sensors on the stoplight at the intersection appear to have been working properly."

Properly, my journalistic fanny. But who am I to correct a cop? Instead, I shut my yap, ignored my journalistic duty, and started taking a different way home, assuming that the light malfunction would eventually be rectified. But this past Saturday, I absent-mindedly took the old route home, found myself southbound on 24th St., and once again ended up waiting indefinitely at the 4th Ave. stoplight. It still isn't fixed.

So I can't let Woodward & Bernstein down. I need to expose this light for the broken hunk o' junk it is. I need documentation and experimentation. I need to bust the myth that this light is working properly. It's now 9:40 p.m. on Monday, February 8th. My investigative team (me and my girlfriend) are heading out to the intersection to see if we can conclusively prove that the light is failing. We know that my New Beetle will NOT set off the sensors, so we'll be in Amy's Toyota Avalon instead. We'll approach the intersection from a variety of scenarios. Wish me luck...

Okay. It's now 10:21 p.m. We have just proven beyond a shadow of a doubt... that the Acapulco Cafe on the corner of 4th and 24th has pretty good chips and salsa. Other that that, I've got nothing. It looks like the sensors don't come on until the wee hours. Right now, it's just on a timed loop, changing lights regularly regardless of traffic flow. I bet it doesn't change to sensor activation until after midnight.

Woodward and Bernstein would go back out and interview everyone who went through the intersection. The Mythbusters team would go back out after midnight and run a variety of simulations and experiments. But the Mythbusters are in California, where 5-8" inches aren't on tonight's forecast. And Woodward & Bernstein didn't have to meet Deep Throat in the middle of a snowfall. As for me? I'm home, I'm comfy, and now I've got chips and salsa.

I firmly believe that the stoplight sensor is broken, at least when it comes to 2712 lb. Volkswagen Beetles at 4 a.m. And now I've gotten that in print. I leave it to someone else to bust the myth that this stoplight works hunky-dory. I recommend Dan Tanna.

COLUMN: End of Days

Well, it's finally happened. I've received my first threatening letter from a deranged fan.

I knew it was just a matter of time. I am, after all, a Super Important Writer of Much Importance. And when you have such a massive legion of fans built up, there's bound to be a crackpot or two in the mix. I just opened my mail and there's a letter here threatening my physical safety in the days to come. Better hand it over to the authorities, I guess. Let's just see who the crackpot is that's making some threats... oh, I see. It's some guy named "God."

When I opened it up, I expected the usual "Dear Shane, you are so super awesome" yada yada "want to have your babies" yada yada "handsome, sexy hunk of" yada. Instead I get this:

"THE END OF THE WORLD IS ALMOST HERE! HOLY GOD WILL BRING JUDGMENT DAY ON MAY 21, 2011!"

Well, then. I guess that's that. At least God was nice enough to wait until AFTER the finale of "Lost."

The rest of the letter, which appears to be photocopied and is likely being sent to a goodly portion of the world, explains the "infallible proof" that the world as we know it is coming to an end.

It turns out that there's a California-based ministry called Family Stations that's led by an 88-year-old retired civil engineer named Harold Camping. He's the guy who, through careful Biblical analysis, has determined the exact date of the End of Days. How he figured it out is beyond me - I'm no good at math. But apparantly you can backtrack through all the Biblical begat-s to determine that the great Noachian flood happened in 4990 BC. 2 Peter states that "one day is with the Lord as a thousand years." God tells Noah that he's sending the flood in 7 days. 7 days = 7000 years. 4990 BC + 7000 years = 2011 A.D. Noah's flood lifted on his 600th year, second month, and seventeenth day. Allowing for calendar changes between Biblical times and the modern era, the 17th day of the 2nd month of the 7000th year is May 21st, 2011.

It's just that easy, logical, and completely bat-guano. Plus, it's a Saturday, so at least our work week won't be disrupted by a pesky plague of locusts.

Mr. Camping spreads his prophecies o' doom via his Family Radio Network (and what a great name, too, because nothing says family fun quite like seas turning to blood, eh?) He published a rather comprehensive book some years ago detailing his prophecy for Armageddon. Just one problem -- in THAT book, his Doomsday was September 6, 1994. On that date, Camping and his followers gathered to bear witness to... a rather routine Tuesday, with nary a flying horseman in sight. That's when Camping sheepishly admitted a "math error," declared an Apocalypse mulligan, and announced May 21st 2011 for the do-over.

This would be bad news to the Mayan empire, who -- as we've been seeing on countless cable channel specials designed to scare the bejeebies out of us -- long ago predicted what some think is the end of the world. The Mayans were pretty good at predictions, except when it came to predicting the premature and unexplained collapse of their own society. What they left behind, though, was a primitive calendar system that makes just about as much sense at Harold Camping.

In the calendar we know, 30 days (roughly) = one month. In the Mayan long count calendar, 20 days make a uinal, 18 uinals make a tun, 20 tuns make a k'atun, and 20 k'atuns make up a b'ak'tun, as commemorated by Neil Simon in his lesser-known play "Same Time Next B'ak'tun." But instead of a Happy New B'ak'tun being a big party in Times Square, there's Mayan lore that at the end of the 13th B'ak'tun, something, err, signifigant would happen. Something signifigant enough that most of the ancient calendars don't have a 14th B'ak'tun. It just sorta stops at 13.

The last day of the 13th B'ak'tun works out to be December 23, 2012. Actually, we've already seen what's gonna happen then. L.A. will slide into the ocean, Yellowstone will erupt, an aircraft carrier will take out the White House, and our future lies entirely in the hands of John Cusack. Just so long as its not Tom Cruise, I'm kinda okay with it.

So who's right? Is it Harold Camping and we're hosed in just over a year? Is it the Mayans and we've got a couple years to prep for Armageddon? Or is it this pesky God fellow, whose Bible says that we "do not know on what day your Lord will come...so you must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect Him."

As the professional consumate journalist that I am, I wanted to do my own investigating, and I've discovered yet ANOTHER potential End of Days, this one foretold from another ancient source of wisdom ahead of its time. I speak, of course, of the Modern Woodmen of America.

I received a Christmas card at the office this year from the Modern Woodmen home office, and inside of it is a shiny new desk calendar that's come in quite handy this year (moral of the story: I like free stuff.) But as I stared at this calendar pondering the Apocalypse, I flipped past February into March... April... and kept going. You will not believe what I discovered.

My courtesy Modern Woodmen of America calendar STOPS... on December 31st, 2010. It just ends, with nary a hint of January 2011's existence. So I went to a bookstore that night where hundreds of calendars were on sale. ALL OF THEM stopped on the same day. December 31st, 2010. In fact, they went as far as to call themselves "2010 Calendars," as though 2011 simply will not happen. Clearly, the world has caught on to Modern Woodmen's predictions. Fraternal life insurance society and banking institution... or mystic seers predicting the end of humanity? I could only do one thing.

I sent an emergency e-mail to my friend Tina who works at Woodmen's home office.

"What gives?" I wrote. "Mayan calendar ends on 12/23/12 and end of world is predicted. My Woodmen calendar ends on 12/31/10. Are you Woodpeople harboring the secret knowledge of Armageddon?"

"Look again," she replied. "At the top right-hand corner of the December 2010 page." Sure enough, there, in tiny print, was a handy one-month extension covering January 2011. "So I think as far as we Woodpeople go," she wrote, "you're safe."

Whew. Three Apocalypses is enough for this guy to worry about without a fourth getting in the way. I guess it's just a coincidence that 2010 calendars expire at the end of 2010. We're gonna have at least a year and a half to worry about the end of time. John Cusack's gonna have himself one boring year.

COLUMN: Pickers

(pic courtesy The History Channel)

I get excited whenever the Quad Cities gets national attention. I'm not exactly sure WHY, though.

But I've got a theory. We should all be in agreement by now that the world revolves entirely around ME, right? After all, I'm pretty cool and all-powerful in certain circles -- or at least the entirely credible and horribly important circle of locally-based humor columnists. Ergo, all of the nation's media should be pointed squarely at me and my innate coolness. Oh, and I'm humble, too -- I don't mind if the rest of you locals cash in on my fame from time to time, so I like it whenever camera crews roll through town.

Seriously, though, who wasn't excited when Charlie Gibson was on ABC eating a Magic Mountain at Ross'? Who doesn't get mildly thrilled by all the secret service detours whenever presidential candidates come a-stumping through town? And I, for one, stood up and clapped when the poor shoppers of the Village of East Davenport melted into the ground in the locally-filmed and entirely-awful disaster flick, "Megafault." It's cool to see ourselves and our humble homestead on the boob tube.

That's why I got excited when I found out that the History Channel had picked up a 10-episode run of a locally-filmed documentary series, "American Pickers." I was especially excited when I found out that "Pickers" stars one of my absolute favorite Quad Citizens, Danielle Cushman. I've known Danielle and her husband Chad for ages, and they've always had their hands in some of the coolest hipster activities in town. From roller derbies to burlesque shows, DJ gigs to farmer's markets, Chad and Dannie are familiar faces to the local arts scene.

Too bad, then, that I'm not a huge fan of "American Pickers." And it's NOTHING against the show itself. It's actually pretty entertaining and you guys should all watch it. It's just not MY thing.

Here's the deal with "American Pickers." It features a couple of guys who run an antique business out of Leclaire (my friend Dannie works in their office and runs the joint when they're gone.) In each episode, the guys cruise around the Midwest in a van, looking for crusty old farmhouses with equally crusty old owners. Their goal is to find folks who have collected mountains of old junk in barns and closets and backyards. They invite themselves in, "pick" through the junk for antique treasures, make offers to the owners, and then take their prizes home to determine their resale worth.

In a way, it's a fascinating show. The two guys are pretty funny, and they meet some pretty colorful characters on their adventures, many of whom are more than eager to share the tales behind their treasures. In the premiere episode, they meet an old guy who proudly tells the story of how he came to possess the Japanese samurai sword that the pickers found rusting away in his barn -- he got it while part of the occupying force following the bombing of Hiroshima. That kinda stuff is pretty cool to hear, and the show's full of similar stories. It's a good marriage for The History Channel, that's for sure.

My problem is this: I can't help but feel a little bad for the old folks these guys are dealing with. On every episode, the guys pick through these folks' worldly possessions, pull out some junk, and then start haggling prices. If they come to an agreement, they head home with their stuff, where they have it appraised and learn its real value. A little graphic pops up on the screen like, "Paid: $150. Value: $400. Profit: $250" while the guys high-five each other and smile.

It's neat for the two pickers, but I can't help but wonder what Farmer Joe's gonna feel like when he watches the show and realizes he could have made an extra $250. The arrival of this TV crew might just be The Most Exciting Thing That's Happened To Farmer Joe In Nigh On A Decade, so I would expect nothing less than a grand Farmer Joe Family Potluck to celebrate the show's airing. Imagine a room full of family and friends, all there to support a guy's Hollywood minute, only to find out that Hollywood used that minute to stiff Farmer Joe out of a couple hundred bucks.

But I guess the buying and selling and profiteering is the whole fun purpose of collecting and owning antiques in the first place -- it's a world I don't appreciate, it's a world I don't understand. The true miracle of this show is that there's people out there willing to pay $150 for these gross, rusted-out tetanus traps in the first place. One crusty motorcycle they bought required knocking out live, active beehives before they put it in their van. I don't know about you, but once bees set up home in something, it's theirs until winter comes.

I don't get antiques. I just don't. There's only two good places for old junk of this caliber: (a) a dumpster, or (b) free of bees, cleaned meticulously, and hung from the walls of a TGI Friday's. What these guys call "treasure troves of antiques" I call "oughta-be-condemned."

We live in a world of progress. The neat part of the industrial revolution is that new stuff constantly comes out that's better than the old stuff. Throw the old stuff away, buy the new stuff. Don't hold on to the old stuff and revere it and dream of a simpler day. I prefer my stuff to be shiny, new, and with any luck, remote-controlled. You antique weirdos can keep your hardwood floors and oak craftsmanship. I want my whole house to be, I dunno, chrome. Like a cross between "Barbarella" and "The Jetsons." And if there's a robot maid in the mix, all the better.

To each their own, I guess. While some people collect antiques, I collect music. And there will probably come a day, sooner than later, when CD's will be a thing of the past (likely replaced by some new technology where music is directly implanted into your brain stem by an Apple product called an iLobotomy.) And maybe someday I'll be an old, crusty dude who gets accosted by a pair of cocky pickers. And when that day comes, I'll do the only thing I can:

"Don't you know who I am?! The world revolves around me! You wanna buy this music? $1000 apiece or I release the hounds!" (I'll have hounds when I'm old, I'm sure of it.)

COLUMN: OCMND

Oh, umm, hi. You people again? So soon? Okay, umm...

How 'bout this craaaazy weather, huh? And those football teams with their football games, there's somethin' to talk about, eh? And how 'bout that Conan O'Brien? He's a... umm... wacky...

Okay, is it THAT obvious that I have no clue what to write about this week? Truth be told, I have nothing to write about because I've ceased to have a life. Well, I have a life, but for the past 3 weeks, it's been developing eyestrain, sitting in my living room, plugged into a Mac Book Pro. I'm pretty certain that I might just be going insane.

Or I might just be going a little OCD. Now, I know that Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a real thing that afflicts tons of people. And I'm not going to make light of it, lest I get a flurry of angry letters that real OCD sufferers will send just as soon as they're done washing their hands for the 34th time this hour. I couldn't imagine a life ruled by ritual behaviors and paranoia and anxiety, and I sure as heck hope that none of you fine folks are afflicted by it.

But what I'm pretty sure I DO have is OCPD: Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. I've never been officially diagnosed as such, but a quick trip to Wikipedia pretty much nails it. According to Wiki, the primary symptoms of OCPD are "a preoccupation with details, rules, lists, order, organization, and schedules; being very rigid and inflexible in one's beliefs; showing perfectionism that interferes with completing a task; excessive focus on being productive with one's time; hoarding items that may no longer have value; and a reluctance to trust a project to someone else for fear that one's standards will not be met."

Now, some of you (namely: my girlfriend, parents, friends, co-workers, and everyone who's ever met me ever) may be laughing right now, because I'm pretty much THE dictionary opposite of organized and detail-oriented. And the only time I'm rigid and inflexible is when I've laid on the couch so long that my muscles have atrophied.

But when it comes to ONE particular aspect of my life, the above description is pretty much me in a nutshell. That's why, at great expense of time and manpower, I've come up with my own malady. I fear, ladies and gents, that your humble columnist suffers from OCMND: Obsessive-Compulsive Music Nerd Disorder. And right now, it's about thiiiis close to wrecking my life. Let me explain in the least nerdy way I can muster.

You guys know that I DJ on the weekends at a club down in the District, right? Well, recently I made the decision to change my DJ system to an all-digital format. Out with records and CD's, in with mp3's and laptop computers.

For me, it was a decision of logistics. On any given night, I lug books and books down to the club full of roughly 2500 CD's. And when you've got a cubic ton of CD's scattered around you, the whole DJ booth starts to feel like a game of Musical Mah-Jong. In order for me to play a song, I have to remember what book it's in, which CD it's on, and what track number it is. With a digital system, all you have to carry is a hard drive capable of storing a quarter million songs. There's just one teensy tiny problem.

The hard drive capable of storing a quarter million songs starts out EMPTY. I first must go through my entire music library and rip the songs I need down to the mp3 format. In my delusional head, I thought I could get it done in a couple of days. I've been at it non-stop since Christmas and I've only just reached the "N"'s.

At least I'm learning new and exciting things along the way. For instance, I've learned that when your girlfriend wants to come hang out, she does NOT want to sit on the couch in silence as you huddle over your laptop for hours on end. I've also learned that when you sit Buddha-style in front of a laptop for hours on end, eventually your legs want to fall off. I've also learned that your friends and family don't like it when you get too "on a roll" to answer your phone, leave your apartment, or - in my worst moment - fail to shower for 48 hours straight.

But they don't understand my OCMND. It needs to get done, and soon, and the right way.

Let's go back to the symptoms:

1. A preoccupation with details, rules, lists, order, organization and schedules.

I'd like to pretend that I didn't spend an hour trying to decide whether to alphabetize "The Dave Matthews Band" under D or under M. Guilty.

2. Being very rigid and unflexible in one's belief.

I believe that it should alphabetized under M. Rigidly. And don't get me started on what to do with A Flock of Seagulls or The The. These kinda things keep me up at night. Guilty.

3. Showing perfectionism that interferes with completing a task.

Which might explain why I'm only through the N's after weeks of working. Guilty.

4. Hoarding items that may no longer have value.

I own three Dexy's Midnight Runners CD's, and only one of them contains "Come On Eileen." Guilty.

5. Excessive focus on being productive with one's time.

It's kinda killing me a little bit to sit here and type this column while the O-Z CD's are unripped. They're staring at me longingly from their place on the wall right now. I'm pretty sure one of them keeps muttering "loser" at me. I suspect it's a Beck CD.

6. A reluctance to trust a project to someone else for fear that one's standards might not be met.

Bless her heart, my girlfriend offered to help, she really has. I politely refused. She thinks it's because I'm such a caring dude that I wouldn't want to subject her to such a boring time-waster. Truth be told, I didn't think she could pull off the correct spelling of bands like Einsturzende Neubaten.

Enough chitter-chatter. I've got an overdue appointment with an Oingo Boingo CD. Don't blame me; blame my OCMND.

COLUMN: By Amy

[The following column might just raise the bar for acceptable levels of cuteness in professional journalism. As a total surprise, my girlfriend Amy's birthday present to me was to try her hand at column-writing and give me a week off. WARNING: It's full of the sort of warm, fuzzy, "aww"-inducing touchy-feely romantic mumbo-jumbo that may very well hit the gag reflex of our more testosterone-laden audience. And it's also one of the nicest things anybody's ever done for me.]

Dear Shane, you've said before that it would be fun if I helped write your column sometime. Well, I needed a good idea for a birthday present for you -- so here goes!

I first got the idea to write this as a response to people saying, "Let's hear more about this boyfriend of yours!" So I began thinking about how we met and the first time we really got together - which happened to be on your birthday, exactly one year ago...

You used to be some guy who worked at a dance club where my friends and I went to dance.

[Actually, I was the borderline creepy leering guy who couldn't stop staring at the cute girl on the dancefloor.]

Then you were a Myspace friend while I lived in Cairo, Egypt for two years.

[yep, I was THAT guy... Mr. Internet Stalker.]

Then we became fast Facebook friends, of course.

[I was THAT guy, too. See, it was just my luck to notice a super cute girl in my club, happen upon her profile on Myspace, get up the nerve to send her a message, and THEN find out that she had just left for two years in Egypt. Le sigh. But she was worth waiting for, and we really DID become fast friends via the keyboard.]

I began to notice that your posts always made me smile. We spent a lot of time instant messaging, and you constantly made me laugh. Once I got back to the States, you eventually invited me to hang out "in real life." It took several times, over a period of months, before I finally accepted the offer. It was your birthday, and we watched a movie. If you know me, you know I love birthdays, so there was no way I was showing up to your place without some sort of gift! Hmmm... what to get for Shane? Well, I considered some sort of music -- but then I remembered you saying that you owned about a billion CDs. I decided to stop by Old Town Bakery for a fancy cupcake. Everyone likes cupcakes, right? The celebratory cupcake was a hit, although it ended up flipping upside down in the box on the way to your place.

[Truth be told, I'm not really a fan of cupcakes -- but when a cute girl hands you one, you eat the heck out of it, even if it looked like the thing had exploded all over the box.]

You tried to prepare me for the extent of your love for music, but I was still shocked when I walked in to find one wall in the living room covered entirely with shelves full of CD's. (I later found out about the mountains of records you have stashed in closets and under the bed.) That night, you entertained me with several stories of how you acquired the many autographs on your wall of the musicians you had met.

[That's right. I'm not above name-dropping. 'Check it out, this celebrity totally gave up .5 seconds of his or her time to sign this piece of paper... because I'M SO COOL!']

Then it became a little more personal when you gave me a sampling on a CD that you had titled, "Amy's Favorite Mix CD Ever". I started to listen (with strict instructions to not read the tracklist until I had listened to the entire CD without peeking.) It was while hearing lyrics such as "You've got terrible vision if you can't see that I'm in love with you," (Rhett Miller) and "I want to tell you..." (The Beatles), that I began to realize this Shane guy kinda likes me -- like, the more-than-just-friends kind of likes me!

[Not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty doggone good at making mixtapes -- and that one I made Amy was, like, a harmonic convergence of aural and lyrical perfection, if I do say so myself. Bachelors, a well-made mixtape can be the greatest weapon in your love arsenal -- e-mail me for advice anytime.]

Since your birthday last year, we've talked or spent time together every day. I'll never forget when you asked me to dinner for Valentine's Day -- and what a hilarious night we had! (Still my favorite column you've written so far.)

[Nothing says romance like second-degree burns, a broken-down car, and a two mile jog through the snow.]

You've taught me so much this past year. For example, I've learned more than I ever cared to know about British rock music. I know the best techniques for getting points in a Rock Band tournament. (You really could be a professional Rock Band coach, you know.)

You've shown me that cats aren't too scary and that I can even pet them! (Somewhere along the way in life, I developed an irrational fear of cats. No, not lions and tigers and the really scary big cats -- I was terrified of your average housecat. I mean, scared to touch them or even have them near me. Once in high school, when I was babysitting, I called my mom crying because a cat was "looking at me!" Scary, right??? But Shane insisted that his cats were nice... and I slowly began to see that he was right!

I have learned that snuggling on the couch with you, even while you teach me the many strategies of Nascar drivers, is the best place to be. You've shown me that long drives to nowhere can lead to the most wonderful places.

I've learned many more things about you this year, like how much you hate onions, peppers, mushrooms -- and GERMS! I learned that you play trivia like a professional. I found out that your eyes are the best shade of green God ever made. I found out that when you hold my hand, I can feel it in my heart.

You are such a caring, loving, and kind man. You have been there to encourage me when I was sad. You didn't give up on me, even when I was tempted to give up on myself. You have laughed with me and cried with me. You make me want to be better and do great things. You make me feel like dancing!

[Any girl who can drop Leo Sayer lyrics on the fly is the one for me.]

I hope you have a wonderful birthday, honey! I'm so very thankful for you! You have blessed my life, and I pray that I will be a blessing in yours. For all the gifts you've given me, here's one for you. Happy Birthday! Love, Amy.

[Awww... I'd mention how this column almost made me cry, if I wasn't such a burly and macho piece of man-meat.]

COLUMN: Holiday Roundup

Ho, ho, ho! Season's Greetings to one and all! Deck the halls with...

Wait, what? The holidays are OVER? ALREADY? But my tree's still up! There's still an animatronic dog on my coffee table that barks "Jingle Bells"! I'm still in the mood for more presents!!

The fun thing is that, at least for me, the holidays are NOT over. Because I lead the world in efficiency and time management, I like to bang out every major holiday in one big, wintery thrust. First, it's Christmas. Then BAM! it's New Year. Then five days later, it's my birthday. As I write this, I remain a young and spry 38-year-old. By the time you read this, I will be old and haggard and 39 and likely mired in a deep well of despondency. For now, though, I'm still surfing on a wave of holiday bliss.

And, as you'd expect, I've been having a holly jolly season full of the kind of awkward and uncomfortable situations that make my life little more than a 3-D comedic nightmare. On the up side, we've got LOTS to write about.

For instance, on Christmas Eve my girlfriend and I went to one of those candle-lit church services, because those are super pretty and festive and full of warm fuzzies, no? Well, I wouldn't know, because we got to the church to discover that a recent incident involving no less than a flaming wreath had put a moratorium on the candle-lighting tradition. Instead, they provided these weird little plastic faux candles that flickered with glowing LEDs like little holiday lightsabers.

Weirder still was the cute little nativity scene set up at the front of the church. This would have been warm & fuzzy, had I not noticed a striking similarity between the nativity's Baby Jesus and something altogether different.

"Umm," I whispered to Amy, "Don't look now, but did Mary just give birth to a King #11 Hobo Combo?"

She may have responded with the don't-crack-jokes-in-church evil glare, but there was no denying it: that baby looked a lot less Savior and a lot more like a sub sandwich from Hungry Hobo. And when the minister began gently cradling it during his sermon, I couldn't help but feel hungry. And then, I'm afraid my earlier comment caused my goody-two-shoes girlfriend to ALMOST laugh out loud in church when the minister unwrapped the baby Jesus to reveal... a loaf of communion bread.

And later, when the Three Wise Men showed up in a reenactment asking, "Where is the King? Where is He?" and Amy whispered to me, "I'm pretty sure we just ate him," I knew I'd officially corrupted my true love and could cross off "accidentally descrate religious ceremony" from my to-do list.

Another tradition that runs deep at the holidays is spending time with family. MY family members have all had the good sense by now to die off or move to distant lands, so holidays with the Browns are usually low-key affairs with me, my mom & dad, and gobs of presents. This is how I enjoy Christmas.

Amy, on the other hand, has a family tree the size of a deciduous forest, and they all live and thrive within five miles of the Quad Cities. And if there's any excuse for all kajillion of them to congregate at someone's house and eat mountains of food, they're doing it. Don't get me wrong, I like her family a LOT -- but for someone with as much social anxiety as myself, it can be a little daunting.

This brings us to New Year's Eve, and a drop-in to a Clan Amy shindig at her aunt's house. We're welcomed warmly at the door and ushered to the main room, where we're told a board game is afoot and we "have to play!" Okay, fine, I like board games, I'm in.

That's when I discovered the game they were playing was "Things." If you've never played it before, umm, don't. Here's how it works. Somebody draws a card. On that card is an incomplete phrase, like, "Things you should _________." All of the players then fill in the blanks secretly on little slips of paper and give them to the guesser, who reads the answers and then must accurately guess which player wrote which answer.

Sounds fun, right? It's not. Imagine my turn as guesser, and the card I draw is: "Things you should never swallow: ___________." As I read the little slips of paper, the answers began tame but - as you could imagine - grew more and more perverse. Like, the category may as well have been "Things you can never reprint in a family newspaper: ___________."

So it was then my task to determine who wrote which marginally obscene answer. Let's see... was it my Christian schoolteacher girlfriend? Or perhaps her Christian schoolteacher mother? Or her dad, whose approval and respect may or may not hinge on when I accuse of him of writing, umm, That-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named? Maybe it was this Random Family Member who I've never met before tonight? Or good ol' Uncle What's-His-Name?

Instead, I chose the easy way out by turning red and giggling like an 8-year-old who just said "doodie" for the first time. The good news is that I escaped playing Who's-The-Pervert-In-Amy's-Family. The bad news is they now probably think I'm a meth-head.

We capped off the week with a wonderful pre-birthday romantic dinner at my favorite fancy restaurant, which may or may not rhyme with "Konnie's Italian Steakhouse." Well, it would have been wonderful and romantic, had they not sat us within earshot of The Tragic Family. I know nothing about The Tragic Family, and there's a chance they may not even BE a family, but they were seated 8-deep at a party table, spoke about 20 db over the legal sound limit, and featured some of the greatest dinner conversation of all time. Among that which we inadvertently heard:

"...can never have another child again, what with the ripping and tearing and bleeding..."
"...tumor the size of a cantaloupe..."
"...six months later, there was still an oozing hole in her gut..."
"...couldn't stitch up the open wound from all the infection..."

I kid you not. And all this while I'm attempting to enjoy a delightful bleu cheese-encrusted filet oozing with goodness. Or possibly oozing with infectious pus. Happy Birthday to Me. Sigh.

But on the whole, it WAS a happy birthday, just as it was a happy new year and a happy Christmas -- all because I got to spend it with the people and places I care about. I hope your holidays were equally as awesome and as free of open wounds as possible. Now then, I'll talk to you people later - I've got to go become old.

COLUMN: Best of 2009

You might ask yourself, should you be the sort of person who asks yourself questions about what you read in the paper, why the Dispatch/ Argus humor columnist is writing about the best records of the year. The truth is, I don't exactly have an acceptable answer.

Here's what I can give you, though: I've been a semi-professional music nerd my whole life. When I was in the womb, my mom would put headphones around her belly so that I could have something to do besides grow fingers and toes. (This also may explain my love of Neil Diamond.) I've been writing about, talking about, and collecting music my whole life. I started here as an entertainment correspondent, and doggone it, right now I wanna correspond about entertainment.

Still, I know my annual music wrap-up column is a bit unlike everything else I write about, so I was contemplating skipping it this year. Then I went to see Sondre Lerche perform at a Daytrotter show last month at Huckleberry's Pizza. That's when a guy recognized me and came up to say hi.

"I especially like that column you do every year with your music picks," he said, and THAT was all the validation this music nerd ever needed. So here you go, Random Pizza-Eating Dude. This one's for you. Behold the ten albums of 2009 that your record collection is hopelessly naked without:

10 - Seven Worlds Collide, "The Sun Came Out."



When the former frontman of Split Enz and Crowded House got it in his head this year to record a charity album, he invited a few friends down to his native New Zealand for Christmas 2008. Especially fortunate for Finn, since his friends just happen to be Wilco, Radiohead, KT Tunstall, Lisa Germano & legendary Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr. For fun, they all holed up in a studio for 3 weeks writing, collaborating, and recording. The result is the double-album "Sun Came Out," a record so spontaneous you can hear the excitement oozing off the grooves.

9 - Pearl Jam, "Backspacer."



Wow. The Shane of 1994 wants to slap me right now, as I spent most of last decade cringing at the grunge fad, and no band was more self-important and easy to hate as Pearl Jam. Why the change of heart? To put it simply, they got good. I never would have known about the genius of "Backspacer" were it not for my pathetic need to master EVERY song released for the video game Rock Band. I shuddered at the prospect of being forced to listen to their new album -- until the game forced me to listen to it. Somewhere along the way, Eddie Vedder & Co. lost the cockiness and learned how to write decent tunes.

8 - JBM, "Not Even in July."



I've sat through waaay too many opening "bands" consisting of a token beardy guy with a worn acoustic guitar and quote unquote "earnest" songs. Those are the shows where other people in the crowd may be in rapt attention while I'm usually wondering where the bathrooms are and what I'm missing on TV at that moment. Singer-songwriters just bore me. But not every singer-songwriter is Canadian-born Jesse B. Merchant, better known simply by his initials: JBM. Taking the Americana cues of roots rock and blending them seamlessly into Nick Drake-style classic acoustic folk, "Not Even in July" is simply the prettiest record I've heard all year.

7 - The Trashcan Sinatras, "In the Music."



I think it's in my contract somewhere that if the Trashcan Sinatras release a record, it's bound to end up in my Top Ten. Once upon a time, I was in a record store and made a purchase based solely on the coolness of its cover art. That record was "Cake," the debut from the Trashcan Sinatras, and the music inside was 20 times cooler than the cover. Twenty years later, they're still churning out the same gorgeous melodies and clever wordplay.

6 - The Big Pink, "A Brief History of Love."



Being a rock band with electronic drums is a scary proposition. No matter how cool it may sound when you make it, technology will ensure that an even cooler electronic sound will await the decades to come. That's why bands like Jesus Jones and Depeche Mode, who were cutting edge in the 90's, sound dated today. The Big Pink may have very well escaped that fate by eschewing techno beats in favor of bone-rattling primal synths, hazy guitars, and epic runaway vocals that don't come with a "sell-by" date attached.

5 - Alphabeat, "The Spell."



Okay, you're gonna have to trust me on this one, seeing as how "The Spell" is currently only available in, umm, Denmark. But it's WORTH finding, I swear. Imagine a garage band whose primary influences are less Ramones and more Britney Spears. You don't often hear of pop bands starting from scratch, but that's what makes Alphabeat so special. No outside songwriters or svengalis in sight - just a little pop band from Denmark trying to be the next megastars. And with the dual vocals of spunky spitfire Stine Bramsen and gangly goofball Anders SG at the helm, Alphabeat are a non-stop charmer that can't NOT put a smile on your face.

4 - Animal Collective, "Merriweather Post Pavillion."



This is a tough one for me. If there's one thing I hate, it's a band being weird for the sake of being weird -- and it don't come weirder than Maryland's Animal Collective. Creating records that are less songs than reconstructed sound loops and mind-bending harmonies, I long dismissed them as annoying art-wank. Then they had to ruin it and put out "Merriweather Post Pavillion," a record that, indeed, is still full of crazy sound loops and even crazier layered harmony -- but this time, it somehow WORKS and turns into a beautiful mess than outshines its own weirdness.

3 - Camera Obscura, "My Maudlin Career."



It's rare when pop music sounds sincere these days, but Camera Obscura have been making a career of it since 2001. Forever sounding like a cross between Petula Clark and the Ronettes, the band's timeless orchestral wall-of-sound pop has never sounded more confident, with Tracyanne Campbell's fragile voice gliding over tales of woe and love lost catchy enough to usurp their lyrical heartbreak.

2 - Girls, "Album."



A record whose brilliance is almost overshadowed by its backstory. Girls frontman Christopher Owens was born to active members of the Children of God cult, and spent his entire childhood in a nomadic communal existence. At night, he would sneak out of the house and busk on street corners for pocket change. By age 16, he'd saved enough for a plane ticket and escaped the cult, only to end up broke and homeless in Texas, before forming Girls. Their debut record sounds like what you'd expect from someone banned from secular music most of his life: non-conventional, non-conformist, and gloriously rule-breaking -- all bound by Owens' world-weary, Elvis-Costello-on-a-drunken-bender croon.

1 - The Raveonettes, "In and Out of Control."



If the world were fair, Sune Rose Wagner & Sharin Foo would be the most famous hipster duo on Earth - at least more so than the over-appreciated and lesser-talented White Stripes. For almost a decade, the Danish duo have been spitting out some of the most venemous and catchy noise-pop ever recorded. Timeless rock and roll that's half grime and half precision, and all from a band gutsy enough to record a sing-along anthem called "Boys Who Rape (Should All Be Destroyed.)" Nothing better came out this year.

COLUMN: Fu-Bar

...in which our heroic columnist, on his ne'er-ending search for the magic of Christmas, makes a few realizations:

Christmas Realization #1: Nativity scenes just keep getting weirder and weirder.

Is it just me, or are light-up Nativity scenes taking over our holiday lawns this year in record legions like some kind of undead plastic army? I'm okay with your simple traditional Nativity displays. But this year, I keep seeing what can only be described as Nativity Improv, and I'm not a fan. The other day, I spotted one that featured our infant Savior just a-chillin' in a hammock. But it gets weirder.

I kid you not, I have now seen THREE light-up Nativities this year featuring... a giraffe. No, not a camel. Not even an oddly shaped wise man. A giraffe. And sure enough, if you hit Google, you'll find websites selling "Nativity giraffes." Umm...?

Perhaps it's from the fabled fourth verse, lost in the sands of time:

"By the way, a giraffe was there, too, pa rum pum pum pum,
Why it was there I haven't a clue, pa rum pum pum pum,
In truth it wouldn't be able, pa rum pum pum pum,
To even fit in a stable, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum."

Which brings me to Christmas Realization #2: Maybe bashing a drum in front of a newborn infant isn't a great idea after all.

The Little Drummer Boy may have had the world's best intentions, but it certainly doesn't seem like a smart move. Your average marching snare drum rocks out at 115 decibels. The permissable exposure time for an infant to 115 decibels of noise before permanent hearing loss ensues is .46875 minutes (~30 seconds.) That means one of two things. Either (a) the little drummer boy played one HECK of a short song, or (b) Jesus may have had long-lasting tinnitus -- which, admittedly, could explain a lot. "I said the water was FINE, Jesus, not turn it into WINE, but thanks!"

Christmas Realization #3: Roasted Chestnuts Taste Like Sour Turkey.

My girlfriend and I went to the Geneseo Christmas Walk last weekend, and it was a GREAT night out. In all the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, nothing beats a small town Christmas celebration. Geneseo did NOT disappoint. Block after block of carolers, inviting shops, and perhaps the best cup of 50 cent cocoa I've ever had in my life. And there in the street was something I'd yearned to try all my life: Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Well, more like roasting on a closed Weber grill, but I'll take what I can get.

I didn't know that chestnuts were as big as hockey pucks. I held out my hand expecting some kind of peanut-sized thing and was kind of aghast when this mammoth blackened nut was unceremoniously plopped into it. I studied the thing for a second and didn't even know how one opened it, or even what part of said thing was edible.

Mister Chestnut Roaster Guy saw our puzzled expressions and immediately explained the chestnut opening-and-eating procedure, which to us on a chilly night of epic distractions made about as much sense as solving a Rubik's Cube. It was something about applying pressure along the seam, but I didn't see a seam. Well, I saw a big "X," which I later learned on the internet is what you have to carve into the beast in order to change the lyrics from "Chestnuts EXPLODING AT HIGH VELOCITY on an open fire."

So I applied pressure to the X, the thing finally cracked... and our hands were delighted to encounter an unexpected treat: sappy sticky chestnut ooze, which I quickly learned does NOT make friends well with a wool scarf. Still, I was feeling accomplished and presented Amy with my very first chestnut. She eagerly took a bite, made a horrified face, and then invented her own avant-garde jazz improv Christmas song, "Spitting Chestnuts Over An Open Sewer Grate."

"Ewww!" she said. "It tastes like sour turkey dinner!"

How turkey dinners go sour is beyond me, but her analysis was enough to expire my curiosity. I didn't even try my half. Chestnuts can roast away all they want, just not in my mouth, thanks.

We left the Victorian walk in just enough time to get some late-night shopping in, which brings us to Realization #4: Christmas Can Occasionally Be Fu-Bar.

My father remains the hardest person to shop for. Every year, all the man wants are tools and pieces of hardware so specific that his Christmas list is often augmented by corresponding catalog numbers. I don't speak hardware, so I thought nothing of it when he told me his #1 Christmas wish list item for 2009: a "Fu-Bar."

So Amy and I tromped into Lowe's, asking bewildered sales clerks to point us to their Fu-Bar section. After a few confused looks, a call home, and a consult with a few different employees, we finally were pointed towards what we needed: A Stanley FatMax Extreme Fu-Bar.

If you're like me and wondering what a Fu-Bar is, you'll have to keep wondering -- even though I'm now the temporary proud owner of one, I couldn't tell you what on Earth it does. It looks to be part wrench, part crowbar, part pickaxe, part nail remover, part finger remover, and a fully capable, multi-use murder weapon. It can basically serve as every item, up to and including the candlestick, from Clue.

"I'm not even sure what kind of work this thing is good for," said the hapless sales clerk.

"I'll tell you exactly what it's good for," I replied. "Colonel Mustard, in the Conservatory, with the Fu-Bar."

Hopefully it'll make my mild-mannered dad happy -- and hopefully my dad doesn't derive his happiness from bludgeoning the innocent, because if I saw someone coming at me carrying one of those things, I'd be dashing through the snow o'er the fields
screaming all the way.

With that, I close the book on this Christmas season. Tidings of comfort, joy, and figgy pudding to one and all -- hold the chestnuts.

COLUMN: Clutch

My friend Linn is a Christmas fun-hater.

Friday afternoon found us as every Friday afternoon does: under the I-74 bridge, in the back booth at Ross' Restaurant, sharing our relatively mundane tales o' the week. This week's primary topic: the holiday season.

I confess to a great child-like love of the magic of Christmas. I want to see my breath through falling snow while hearing jingle bells and smelling chestnuts. I want the smiles on children's faces as they see the tree atop Kone Tower. I want twinkling lights on houses, cold air upon my face, and to feel -- if only for a moment -- that everything is undeniably right in the world.

Linn's not having any of it.

"Look," she said, "don't get me wrong. I like giving presents and I like getting presents. But 'Christmas magic' stops when you turn twelve and you can't ever get it back." And with that, all the Whos down in Whoville could pretty much bite it.

But I wasn't one to give up. Not optimistic Shane. My girlfriend Amy and I are on a quest this year to rediscover the magic of Christmas, no matter how many festivals of trees, lights, and/or Victorian walks it takes. I'm proving my friend wrong, and with any luck, I'll make her eat her words AND the roast beast. Of course, she's vegetarian, so it might have to be a tofu beast.

It started last Saturday night. Every year, East Peoria takes one of their city parks and turns it into a holiday wonderland of lights, floats, elaborate displays, and merriment aplenty. Amy and I had exactly 4.5 hours to get down there, soak it all in, and get back in time for my weekend DJ gig. I went to their website for directions.

"From Decatur: ... From LaSalle/Peru: ... From Champaign: ... From Springfield: ... From Chicago: ..."

Hmm. Apparantly if you're from the Quad Cities, East Peoria doesn't care how you arrive.

What East Peoria's website SHOULD have said was this: "Directions - go to East Peoria. Look for the tallest hill you can find. See the infinite line of barely-moving vehicles crawling up it. Go to the end and pray you see lights prior to death from old age." I'm not kidding when I tell you the line of cars was roughly 3 miles long, and moving at a pace that made me jealous of snails.

"It's okay," I told myself, "we've got thirty minutes. I'm sure it's just around this next bend." It wasn't.

Meanwhile, let's talk about the car behind me in line. Well, it wasn't a car so much. More like one of those jacked up monster truck-a-majigs. All I could see in my back window was a giant grill and a forboding Dodge Ram logo. And the guy was riding my bumper like our cars were connected. Did I mention that we were in MY car, a stick-shift? And did I mention that we were in stop-and-go traffic up a 30 percent grade epic hill? The next twenty minutes were spent revving my engine to not slide back and have a Dodge Ram logo forever imprinted in the back of my skull.

Then I smelled it. And it wasn't chestnuts. More like toxic death. It was, in fact, my clutch screaming for help. We were out of time, my car was critical, and we had to get home.

Thankfully, Amy understood. We found a turnabout and pulled in.

"Ooooh, look!" Amy exclaimed, "You can see the festival! I'm taking a picture!"

Sure enough, through the trees lurked the East Peoria Festival of Lights. Or what I could make of it. There was a float of some kind, and loads of pretty lights, but I couldn't make out what I was staring at. Amy jumped out of the car with her camera and took photographic evidence of the display we had driven two hours to see... a dinosaur butt.

That's right, the well-lit rump of what appeared to be a triceratops. Which, from our angle, looked more like a big lump of lights. Sigh.

We got back on the interstate and out of Peoria with JUST enough time to get me to work. Which would have been swell, had my clutch not disintegrated 30 minutes later.

If you're wondering, folks, where the magic of Christmas lies, I can now safely tell you all that it is NOT alongside the shoulder of Interstate 74 ten miles east of Galesburg. I checked. Then I swore. I swore a lot. I swore so much that I'm pretty sure I'm on Santa's naughty list for the rest of my life. I swore so much that all the Whos down in Whoville will be in therapy for the next decade.

Then I calmed down and called for a tow. It turns out that there's only one tow company in Galesburg my insurance company relies on, and I had the pleasure of breaking down during their annual Christmas party. Instead, my tow had to come from someplace that I think was called Bobby Joe's. Or Billy Bob's. Or Bubba Boy's. Or Baba Booey's. The point is, they were located in... East Peoria.

That's right, I had to call a tow truck in Peoria -- to come get my car in Galesburg -- and drive it to Moline. Deck my tow truck driver's halls with gobs of money, fa la la la la. Oh, and a 70 minute ETA.

You know what's good about growing up in Galesburg? My parents still live there. In fifteen minutes, Ma and Pa Brown were there in multiple rescue vehicles. It was decided that my folks would wait for the tow while my girlfriend and I raced to Rock Island in the family mini-van. All that to only be TWO HOURS LATE for work.

Thanks to my comrade Jeff James for covering in the DJ booth those two hours. Thanks to my parents for gallantly rescuing us. Thanks to Bobby Billy Bubba Joe Boy Booey for the longest tow he's had to do in a while. Thanks to Precision Auto for what I seriously hope won't be a price quote that kills all Christmas joy (they're estimating as I type.) Thanks to Amy for being an understanding girlfriend, and to Amy's grandma for the short-term loaner car that's getting us around this week. And thanks to Linn, for helping me realize that the magic of Christmas isn't in a tree or a light or a dinosaur butt, but in the people we surround ourselves with at the holiday season. Happy Christmas, everyone. Now get back to shopping. Time's a-wastin'.

COLUMN: Shopping

Being in the first year of a new relationship is a magical, wondrous time, right? This is when you, as a couple, affirm the similarities that make you click as a unison team. It's also the time when you, as two individuals, discover the differences that allow your complex personalities to complement one another in interesting and exciting ways. My girlfriend and I choose to embrace these differences as they come along.

Take shopping, for example. My girlfriend is of the opinion that shopping might just be the single-most fun, thrilling, and life-affirming activity that a human being can do. I, on the other hand, am of the opinion that my girlfriend is OFF HER ROCKER AND PERHAPS NOT PLAYING WITH A FULL DECK. But man, is she cute -- so I let it slide.

I suppose I can't blame Amy on this one entirely. She can't help it. I mean, I think it's genetic, right? Clearly, this is not a case of me vs. her. Caution, stereotype ahoy: This is a case of men vs. women -- or, as I like to call it, sane people vs. the crazies.

Dear Women of the World, what can you possibly find enjoyable about wandering around a retail store with no aim, list, or reason? I. Don't. Get. It. I mean, come on. There are video games that need to be played. Sporting events that need to be watched. Things that need to be sawed in two with saws. It simply comes down to this:

Women see shopping as social entertainment. Guys see shopping as a task.

Let's take the other night for instance. Amy alerted me to the fact that I was running precariously low on toilet paper.

(And wait, can I digress for a second here? Ladies, what DO you do with the massive and vast quantities of toilet paper that you folk use? When I was single, a 4-pack of Charmin could last me a month, I swear to you. Nowadays, I'm lucky to have a 4-pack last me 4 days. I'm pretty sure that when I'm at work, Amy sneaks over and just unrolls t.p. down the drain while probably yelling "wheeeeee!" Then again, I suppose one uses an exceptional amount of toilet paper when one goes to the restroom THIRTY-SEVEN TIMES A DAY. Okay, I'd better stop or she's gonna read this and I'm gonna get coal in my stocking.)

Anyways, yes, I needed toilet paper and some other necessities. Normally, this would merit a run to the nearby drugstore, wherein one can pay inflated prices for the privilege of dashing in and out with ease.

Instead, Amy insisted we go to one of those big box stores. I won't say which, so let's pick a word at random and call it "Bullseye."

Now, there are a vast number of reasons to dislike big box retailers, and I firmly subscribe to them all. For one, they're putting all the poor little mom & pop stores out of business. And then there's the hypocrisy of some chains selling vast quantities of profane R-rated movies while mandating the censoring of any hip-hop album it stocks via edited lyrics. And there's the whole business of the environment and certain stores that seem to get their jollies by abandoning their Supercenters to go a block away and pave over some wetlands to make a SuperDUPERCenter.

Or maybe I'M the real hypocrite. After all, I don't seek out mom & pop stores, I just seek out convenience. And while it's hyprocritical of a store to only censor selected items in their warehouse o' pop culture, it's probably just as hypocritical of me to chastise them whilst their generous advertising inserts in this very paper help write my paycheck every week. And as for the environment? If we lost all our wetlands, my environmentalist friends would have a cow. Me? I'd clap for a world without localized West Nile Virus breeding grounds and then I'd have a cow, too -- preferably on Swiss with some pickles and mayo.

The point is, there's only ONE real reason why I really, truly dislike big box retailers: I'm PATHETICALLY LAZY. Whenever I step foot in one, it invariably ends up that the item I need is roughly 2.5 football fields away from my present location, and the only thing I hate in life more than forced shopping is forced exercise.

But Amy wanted to go to Bullseye, so that's where we found ourselves last night. Sure enough, we walked through the front doors in Moline and quickly discovered that the toilet paper aisle was somewhere roughly three miles east of Geneseo. So off we ventured across fields and fields of bargains (and me without my hiking boots.)

THIS is where big box retailers really nail you, because in-between us and the toilet paper treasure trove was, well, pretty much the entire rest of the store, which began calling out to me with come-hither glances. "NO!" I told the myriad of items, "I'm on a fixed budget and have roughly eleventy kajillion Christmas presents to buy. I MUST stay on track."

But excuuuuse me? Is that a rather comfy-looking knit thermal for only $15? Wow, I'd better get that, it's a deal. And what's this? A green henley for under $20? I'd look gooood in that. Hold the phone! Is that a totally sweet winter coat for only FIFTY BUCKS? Jeez, my current coat looks kinda ratty... Awww, look, CHRISTMAS TREES! And what's a tree without tinsel... and lights... and ornaments...

The average price of a 12-pack of Charmin is, what, six bucks? I left Bullseye that night with a bill for $180 and a carload of non-essentials. Well, I suppose I DID find a couple of Christmas presents in that mix, but I'm still seeking the definition of "fun" in there someplace, 'cause that's certainly NOT what I just had.

I suppose it could be worse. I suppose I could be dating someone who thinks that shaving a few bucks off a retail sticker is worth waiting in line until 4 a.m. on Thanksgiving night. Happily, we both agree that sleep trumps bargains any day of the week, up to and including Black Friday. And Amy reminds me that, on more than one occasion, she's had to twiddle her thumbs while I spend the occasional requisite hour or two digging through bins at record stores, an act that she seems to refer to as "pointless and boring" and I seem to refer to as "fun." Hmm.

I'd love to debate that point, but I need to get to the store - we're almost out of toilet paper.

COLUMN: House

Well, it's official. The truth is finally hitting my clique of friends: It appears that we're not kids anymore.

I'm mighty good when it comes to denial. As far as I'm concerned, I'm still in college and have just been skipping classes for a reeeeally long time (and when my parents find out, I will be sooooo dead, dude!) Responsibility is for old fuddy-duddy no-fun-niks like Mom and Dad. As for me, I'm such an easy-going, carefree 21-year-old that I've been at it for seventeen years now. Some folks say that makes me a 38-year-old.

But it's finally happened. One of my clique -- Friend Jason, no less -- has bought a house.

Sucker.

I've been an apartment dweller my entire adult life -- and I'm pretty much okay with it. In fact, I've been pretty much the SAME apartment dweller my entire adult life. I moved into my complex my senior year of college, and thus far the only move I've made since is to leap from an efficiency to an upstairs one bedroom.

Why on Earth would anybody want to move into a house? I own a lot of stuff, and, take it from me, stuff is oftentimes heavy. I couldn't imagine putting all of my worldly possessions into a U-Haul without rupturing a disc and/or spleen. If it's time for me to move -- wait, I'm told by my girlfriend that the correct phrasing here is "WHEN it's time for me to move," I'm only gonna do so when I've got enough money to pay a team of testosterone-fueled macho men to do all the work.

With a house comes loads of needless house-related responsibilities. Houses have lawns, and for some reason, people like to keep them mowed and raked and snow-shoveled. Houses have gutters that clog up with really vile crud. Houses have hot water heaters and boilers and plumbing and ductwork and vents and appliances and a cornucopia of fancy things that can, and will, break.

My apartment has many of those things, too. But when THEY break, I pick up a phone and call a dude named Scotty who comes and makes it all better, and it doesn't cost me squat except a monthly rent check. So what's the point in being a homeowner?

"But Shane," the responsible portion of today's audience says, "if you buy a home, you can start earning equity!"

But what do I need equity FOR exactly? So that I can one day buy a bigger and more breakable house? Have yet more acres of lawn to be mowed and raked and shoveled? Forget that.

Still, who am I to stop Friend Jason from growing up? So when he told me his offer had been accepted and that he was now inarguably a resident of Rock Island, I smiled with encouragement and approval.

Sucker.

Last Saturday was moving day, and we were there in full support. Over the years, Jason's not just been my best friend, he's been the rock I can rely on for help anytime day or night, not the least of which was when I needed a hand moving from one apartment to the other. I was more than happy to return the favor.

Of course, having worked the night before until 4 a.m., I wasn't exactly the see-you-at-sunup kinda guy. By the time my girlfriend and I arrived, Jason and his other friends had already moved most of the big stuff. I wandered into his new place to check it out for the first time.

Yep, it was a house, alright. Hmm, the living room sure had nice carpeting. And the kitchen was really spacious. And do I see a dishwasher? I started counting -- one bedroom, two bedrooms... THREE bedrooms? Man, that seemed needless for just one guy.

I went out to the truck and started grabbing whatever I could. As I deposited a box in the spare bedroom, the weirdest thing happened. It was an empty room, but for just half a second, I swear I saw my entire music collection arranged in a meticulous display of imaginary shelves.

I walked back into the living room and caught a flashing glimpse of my sectional sofa against the wall, with a perfect view of my TV and sound system. And I'm pretty sure I heard the bass thump of the subwoofer that I own but never turn on for fear of disturbing my neighbors.

Another box was marked "basement," so I found the stairs and headed down, dreading the inevitable array of spiderwebs and concrete that awaited. But wait a tick. The basement is CARPETED? Hang on, the basement is FINISHED?! It was like another mini-house down there!

After the boxes were all moved, Jason had to return the U-Haul. But he had also scheduled the cable guy to come hook things up, so I volunteered to wait at the house while he drove the truck back. While he was gone, I set to work hooking up his audio & video equipment while my girlfriend entertained herself by unpacking and setting up his kitchen in record time. As I sat there on the floor unrolling speaker wire listening to the love of my life humming away in the kitchen, I was pretty sure for a quick moment I felt... home.

I went out into the backyard. Sure enough, it was COVERED in dead leaves. I checked in the garage -- a GARAGE! -- and saw a rake leaning against a wall. I raked it across the ground and felt a weird excitement to see a clear strip of green grass unveiled. I kept on raking until I was staring at a huge pile of leaves. It was a bit of work, sure -- but kind of satisfying.

It didn't hit me until the drive home that the odd feeling in my stomach wasn't indigestion -- it was a tinge of jealousy. I wanted pretty new carpeting and extra bedrooms and a dishwasher and a finished basement. I wanted to rake my own backyard (or at least pay a neighbor kid to do it.) Instead, I was pulling into the parking lot of apartment sweet apartment -- where my upstairs neighbors enjoy frequent and voluminous 3 a.m. frolicking sessions. Where the drives, sidewalks, and car windshields routinely become icy deathtraps. Where I can get a contact high from the random scents wafting out of neighboring units. Oh, and where, in two days, I get to call the state's attorney's office to find out what day I'm going to be called as a witness because one of my neighbors allegedly raped a girl some 20 feet from my bedroom wall.

Uh oh. I think I just decided that I want to buy a house. Man, am I a sucker.

COLUMN: Oscillo

I like to think that, at least occasionally, I can be a smart guy. Sure, there are times when it's doubtful -- like when I play in trivia events and my teammates look at me in sad wonder when I don't know the answers to history and geography questions that they consider common knowledge. And yes, it's true that I'm the only person I know of who can routinely explode a Hot Pocket in an innocent attempt at lunch. But on the whole of life, I'd like to think that I'm somewhat with-it.

But occasionally, I find that the rational and pragmatic side of my brain takes a holiday. Never is this more true than when I get sick. Personally, I blame these moments on over-medication.

I have trust in science. And if science says I can take a pill and feel decongested, I'm taking that pill without hesitation. If I get a cold, I'll have my mobile medicine cabinet in my pockets: a travel pack of Kleenex, ibuprofen, decongestants, antihistamines, nasal inhalers, hand sanitizer, cough suppressants, expectorants, and, if I'm feeling particularly peckish, a nightcap or two of Pepto-Bismol.

This is not to say that I'm some kind of weirdo pill popper who abuses over-the-counter drugs. I only take what's necessary to relieve symptoms, and I follow all directions and mind all potential drug interactions. I just like to be pro-active in my cold battles.

But then there's the flipside of science. The science that's not handed out by medical professionals in white coats. The science that's usually dispensed by aging, long-haired ex-hippies in sun dresses who seems genuinely concerned about my chakras. The "science" you have to put quotes around. And if I'm sick enough, this "science" begins to make sense.

Just as I'm a sucker for over-the-counter medicine, so am I for herbal wonder cure-alls. This, I firmly believe, is a genetic trait I've inherited from my mother. Ma Brown reads a whole lot of Prevention magazine, and Prevention is awesome if you're a crazed germophobe such as we members of Clan Brown. If there's ever a study that proves gargling with pureed asparagus prevents spleen cancer, you're gonna read about it first in the pages of Prevention. It's the mothership for herbal remedy hocum-pocum.

As a result, over the years I've tried nearly every herbal miracle fix-it for colds and flu. They come and go, and they all have the same cycle: (1) An "incredible new breakthrough" is reported by the herbivore press. (2) Everyone tries it and claims varying degrees of success. (3) Modern science does a test and finds out that it's absolutely, positively, incredibly rubbish. (4) We wait for the next miraculous wonder herb to be plucked off a mountainside in Nepal so that the cycle can begin again. Time and again, I fall for it.

I used to think echinacea helped me every time I had a cold... until I read a story attempting to prove its worthlessness. Same thing happened to me with those effervescent herbal vitamin tablets. Those little things were initially touted to make you invincible. Now studies are saying that not only is it a fairly lousy way to get Vitamin C, but some brands may contain dangerous levels of Vitamin A. Plus ANOTHER new study claims that mega-dosing on Vitamin C may contribute to kidney stones, and frankly, I'd rather be sick for a month than deal with that again. I tried zinc supplements when they were all the rage and found out quickly that I prefer having a cold to having every meal for the next week taste oddly zinc-y.

In fact, in all my experiments with herbal medicine, I've only found one that I swear to you actually works: Elderberry syrup. If you take a few spoons of elderberry early enough, it CAN knock out a cold before it starts. Plus it tastes kinda nummy, so double bonus.

The point is, I'll try anything at least once. And when I was whining on Facebook the other day that everyone around me was coming down with H1N1, several folks recommended I try a product that had escaped my radar thus far: Oscillococcinum. Their testimonials were impressive, so I picked up a box.

And an impressive box it is: Right there on the front, it says "Flu-Like Symptoms: Feeling Run-Down, Headache, Body Aches, Chills, Fever." I should note that it doesn't say that it CURES or ALLEVIATES any of these symptoms - it just lists them. Hmm. Each packet of Oscillococcinum contains a handful of little pellets that you pour under your tongue while they dissolve. Presto, flu go bye-bye. Or does it?

Here's what I learned on the internet. Once upon a time, there was a doctor named Joseph Roy who was studying the Spanish flu. Under a microscope, he found a bacterium in the blood of victims that he called "oscillococci." The same bacteria was found in folks with cancer, syphilis, and eczema. Assuming this bacterium to be a disturbance of our life force, he worked on isolating it to use as a homeopathic vaccine that he hoped would cure cancer (and, presumably, eczema.) He theorized that the power of these bacterium could be imparted into an edible form by diluting it and pouring the dilution over milk sugar. And the best source of Oscillococci that Roy could find? Duck liver.

So when you're placing Oscillococcinum in your mouth, you're basically eating tiny duck-liver-flavored malted milk balls. The box claims the active ingredient in Oscillococcinum is "anas barbariae hepatis et cordis extractum 200CK HPUS," which in layman's terms means duck liver diluted 200 times over, which in sub-layman's terms means water served from a dirty glass. Imagine a glass full of duck liver. Then you dump that out and refill the glass with water. Then you dump it and refill it again. Then do it 198 more times. Your 200th glass of water is now "medicine," despite the odds that your glass doesn't contain one single molecule of duck liver by the time you've rinsed it out 200 times. Umm?

So it all sounds fairly hokey to me. I think I preferred oscillococcinum better when I thought they were magic curative balls of wonder. That said, I took the recommended dosage and am (knock on wood) thus far flu-free. So maybe oscillo IS magic. I know it magically caused $14 to disappear from my wallet.

NOTE: Two weeks after this column appeared in the Dispatch/Argus, I received the following letter:

December 2, 2009

Shane Brown
Columnist
The Dispatch
1720 Fifth Avenue
Moline, IL 61265

Dear Mr. Brown,

I'm writing in regards to your Nov. 22, 2009 column "Help or hoax? Duck liver bacterium, elderberry syrup, Echinacea" in which you doubted your mother's advice and believed the Internet about our product Oscillococcinum.

Moms are always right. Please find enclosed two of the four studies supporting Oscillo's claim to "reduce the duration and severity of flu symptoms." This is unlike many that work by masking symptoms. The latest study published in a British scientific journal found that when patients took Oscillo within 24 hours of the onset of symptoms, nearly 63 percent showed "clear improvement" or "complete resolution" within 48 hours.

Furthermore, Oscillococcinum has been on the market in France for 65 years and in the United States for 25 years with no reported side effects, and stands firmly on its reputation for reducing the duration and severity of flu symptoms. In fact, it is the best-selling (in Euros) over-the-counter product in the cough/cold/flu category and a top ten selling brand (in both Euros and unit volume) in French pharmacies. In the U.S., its success in natural product stores like Whole Foods Markets has led to it now being carried in CVS, Walgreens, Wal-Mart, etc.

Regarding your question that the package does not actually state it "cures or alleviates" symptoms, please know that Oscillo is regulated as a drug by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration. As such, it adheres to the same labeling guidelines as other over-the-counter drugs. Please note that other OTC's do not use language such as "cures." For example, Tylenol label reads "temporarily relieves minor aches and pains due to the common cold, headache, backache, etc." Due to these regulations, only the symptoms that Oscillo works against as shows in studies are listed on the box label.

Regarding homeopathic medicine in general, six meta-analyses of high quality clinical studies have shown the efficacy of homeopathic medicines and have concluded that this efficacy can not be dismissed as merely a placebo effect. These results confirm 200 years of safe and efficacious use of homeopathic medicines, and explain why homeopathy is a growing choice among patients and healthcare professionals.

Please let me know if I can provide any other information for you or arrange an educational discussion for you with one of our medical experts. I'm available at 610/325-XXXX or by e-mailing alissa.gould@XXXXXXXXX.XXX.

Thank you for your consideration of this matter,
Alissa Gould
Boiron USA Public Relations Manager

P.S. It doesn't have a duck flavor. And I'm including samples that your co-workers, friends, or family can help you test with a product test. But you have to take it at the onset of symptoms.

Okay, so...

My column made it to Boiron HQ all the way out on the East Coast. Yikes. But it was cool of her to write, and cooler still to enclose a CASE of Oscillo-Coccinum. So I'm keeping some on-hand, and the next time I start to feel lousy, I'll give it a go and see what happens.

COLUMN: H1N1

I vaguely remember what it was like to live in a carefree world. Where every day brought the potential for excitement and the promise of tomorrow brought hope for an enchanting future. A world where dreams could come true if you just wished on a star. Where you could put on a pair of Nikes and JUST DO IT, whatever "it" was. A world where the bogeyman didn't lurk behind every corner.

Then I opened the paper and turned on the TV and it all went to heck. Thank you, global media, for not allowing me one sleep-filled night of carefree abandon and optimism. That would just be silly.

So by now it should be clear to us all that the H1N1 virus is out to destroy the human race. Yes, it won't be long until the only residents of Planet Earth will be germs and toxins and ragtag gangs of bloodthirsty survivors with inexplicable Australian accents who occasionally meet in the middle of deserts to listen to Tina Turner sing songs about Thunderdome.

Okay, maybe it won't bring on the Apocalypse, but you can't pick up a newspaper or turn on a television these days without being haunted by the spectre of swine flu. With such massive media coverage of our new microscopic visitors, it sure would be nice if everyone got their stories straight. CNN tells us that H1N1 is now the world's dominant influenza virus around the globe, yet just a couple weeks ago CBS News was reporting that only an estimated 20% of the folks who think they have H1N1 actually DO (the rest, presumably, have either a particularly nasty seasonal flu or a particularly active imagination.)

Either way, there's one clear message to take home from the media about H1N1: Be afraid. Be very, very afraid. And if there's one thing I'm super good at, it's cowering in fear.

As a long-standing, card-carrying germophobe, an invisible menace like H1N1 is super fun to have around. As I type this, my fingers are cracked raw from the constant application of Purell ("moisturing formula," my fanny.) My desire to write a good newspaper column is trumped only by my desire to be sure not to touch my nose, mouth, or eyes at any cost. Those little menacing buggers could be on my hand right now. Or maybe on the very newspaper and/or computer mouse that you're touching this second. Shh, listen -- I'm pretty sure I heard some of them plotting against mankind as we speak.

But surely I'm over-reacting, right? They say that the flu virus can only live for a few hours outside of the human body, and everybody's been reading the papers and watching TV and following the advice of healthcare professionals, right? Well, let's just say that I pay attention in public restrooms (in a 100% non-perverted way) and I know which of my co-workers do their lavatorial duties WITHOUT WASHING THEIR HANDS (you know who you are.)

So I think until the menace of H1N1 recedes from our headlines, the best coping mechanism is to assume that every one of you are tainted, toxic, and covered in a thin layer of contagious mucus. The truth is, my immune system is comprised mostly of the nutritional elements of the Taco Bell menu, so I'm fighting a battle that I'm destined to lose -- but I'm not going out without a fight.

I love my colleagues at the newspaper, I really do. All of them. But this month? They kinda suck. It all started some three weeks ago when one of my co-workers mentioned that her stepkids were sick with the flu. Gulp. A week later, that co-worker was sick herself - but not before showing up to work for an hour and presumably spreading her cooties around the office all willy-nilly. A few days later, her nearest cubicle dweller came down with the flu. The week after that, MY nearest cubicle dweller got it... and decided that rather than keep her germs to herself, it would be more fun to sit some ten feet away from me, sounding like an alien from Close Encounters of the Phlegmy Kind, reassuring all of us by repeating, "Don't worry, I'b DOT sick!"

I'm now on the shortlist of flu survivors. No-one's been tested, so we don't know if it's H1N1 that's been going around, but I don't want to take my chances. I feel really bad for my co-workers and friends who've come down with this yuckiness, I really do. But I'm also horribly shallow and selfish and don't exactly want to experience the fun for myself if I don't have to. But here's where it gets dicey.

About a month ago, I came down with a whopper of a head cold. The kind that debilitates for a few days and then lingers for a few weeks. I've still got a gnarly cough from it. And when I was at the height of sick, my caring and loving girlfriend doted on me like a trooper. I never had to move a muscle or worry about a thing, because she was constantly by my side armed with soup and love.

So last week, when my girlfriend told me that she suddenly wasn't feeling well, I knew what I had to do:

"Ewww! Seriously?!?! GO HOME! Don't touch anything!" Oh, and then I sprayed down my entire living space, up to and almost including my cats, with a liquid inch of Lysol.

Okay, so Boyfriend-of-the-Year I ain't. But flu-free I remain for the time being (knock on wood.) And I wasn't entirely without caring: I made her a delightful care package, which I placed at her doorstep while maintaining a minimum distance of six feet. I bought her soup and water and a vaporizer and Vitamin C and anything I could think of to make her visit with the swine flu as short as possible. She even complained about being bored so I got her this great High School Musical 3 Activity & Coloring Book. Strangely, she didn't find it as funny as I did.

Happily, she's much better now. Happier still, she continues inexplicably to like me. I've allowed her back into the apartment and might even kiss her in a few days. I, meanwhile, am putting my faith in a regimen of vitamin supplements and elderberry syrup. Little did I know, though, that the answer to flu avoidance may be staring us all in the face. If, that is, you're currently staring at the severed liver of a duck. More on that next week.