COLUMN: Nunchucks

I have a friend who takes great pride in the fact that he is a self-proclaimed "freak magnet." It's his assertion that all things weird, wacky, and random just seem to gravitate his way and happen before his eyes. Over the years, he's born witness to riots in shopping malls, seen Santa Claus (or someone dressed as such) trolling for pornography, witnessed a new mother feeding her infant baby soft drinks, and was once kidnapped on a first date.

This doesn't sit well with me.

You see, I've spent 42 years of my life carefully developing my swollen ego and shallow sense of self-importance, and my egotistical brain would like to think that the world revolves around ME. Ergo if there's a freak magnet in the house, it should be yours truly, thanks much. It's MY assertion that my friend gets the pleasure of witnessing occasional weird and cool stuff in his life mostly because he's lucky enough to be friends with me. Or maybe he just hangs out at too many shopping malls. Either way, he's no freak magnet. Or so I thought.

Then last weekend happened. Let me set the stage. It was a Friday night and, for once, I was plan-free. That's why I found myself in the car with Friend Jason, driving around the Quad Cities aimlessly in search of something to do. After a fruitless hour wasting gas and watching other people clearly having more fun than either of us, I was out of ideas. In desperation, I flipped my phone open and sent a message to Facebook-land:

"HELP! BORED! Anybody doing anything worth doing?"

At first, the replies were sporadic. Then two messages came in. The first was from my friend Celeste. She was at an area pub with her hubby and some mutual friends and wanted us to pop by. The second was from my freak magnet friend, who was equally bored and wondered what we were up to.

As a general rule, I'm not much of a bar-hopping kinda guy. Unless the place has an empty DJ booth in need of beats, I'm usually more at home IN my home than in some random loud bar surrounded by inebriated yahoos. But since my house was busy winning awards for Mostest Boringest Place in the Whole Wide World Ever, I gave in. Within minutes, Friend Jason and I were on our way to meet up with the Freak Magnet and head for the pub.

I was bracing myself for the worst. Drunken smelly louts peacocking their machismo. Cute girls absolutely ignoring me like usual. Me not being able to hear anybody over some obnoxious unending song that'll either be Phish or a band trying to sound like Phish. Maybe someone will invite me to play darts or pool so that an entire room of strangers can bear witness to my absolute and total lack of coordination. Good times.

We got inside the door and immediately spotted Celeste and her friends. As we walked over, a tap on my shoulder introduced Freak Magnet, who arrived mere footsteps behind us. That's when Celeste came up.

"You got here just in time," she said. "...for the nunchuck battle."

Okay, maybe my friend IS a freak magnet after all.

Rock Island is a great town, but sadly, I've found it to be somewhat lacking when it comes to contemporary spontaneous outdoor ninja warfare. Not any more. Within minutes, a car pulled into the lot and out popped two honest-to-gosh ninjas. Well, they had ninja t-shirts on at least. And they were formidable dudes with equally formidable names: Jimmy and Cookie, henceforth known as Rock Island's elite roving ninja strike force.

I've seen at least two or three kung fu movies in my day, so I figure I'm somewhat of an expert when it comes to ninjas. And if there's one thing we experts know about ninjas, it's that they're stealthy little buggers. You know, you're walking down the street minding your own business, and then WHAM ninjas jump out of the darkness and proceed to ninja the heck out of you. They're all about invisible covert stealth -- which is why these guys were packing nunchucks with flashing rainbow-colored lights on the ends.

I also don't seem to recall the part in any of those kung fu movies where the ninjas did their ninja-ing to a boombox cranking Michael Jackson's "Rock With You," but that didn't stop Jimmy and Cookie. What followed was a full exhibition of nunchuckery to an entirely bewildered crowd, but it didn't take long for them to win us over. I was rooting for Jimmy, but sadly it was Cookie who took home the grand ninja prize... of a different t-shirt. Before it was over, another dude nearby up and started breathing fire. I couldn't make this stuff up.

Now, just in case you DIDN'T watch those three kung-fu movies that I did, nunchucks are basically two small wooden clubs connected at one end by a chain. In actuality, I fear I know precious little about martial arts weaponry -- but I do know, in the grand scheme of things, that nunchunks look difficult to master.

Sure, I get the advantageous combat strategy of smacking somebody upside the head with a wooden club, but what if you MISS? I'm no physics major, but I'm pretty sure that thrusting one of those sticks forwards means that eventually it's going to reach the end of its chain and double back on the thrustee, no? I'm fairly sure the most impressive feat of nunchuck mastery is somehow doing it without the chucks coming back and racking you in the nuns. I'm not exactly in the market for having a baby, but I don't want to take the option off the table via wooden club, either.

But most impressive of all was that nunchucking happened, and happened randomly in front of me, without fanfare or a calendar of events. Just your run-of-the-mill, no-warning, no-nonsense neighborhood nunchucking. I won't tell you the name of the bar, because in reality, mixing alcohol with combat weaponry probably isn't considered safe, smart, or too particularly legal. But Cookie and Jimmy appeared to be employing at least a modicum of safety, and I don't think rogue ninja battles are commonplace at this otherwise fine and legal establishment that probably never even knew its parking lot was playing host to good-natured urban melee.

It was just a crazy night, and that's precisely what I love about the Quad Cities. You never really know what's on the menu. Maybe my friend really IS a freak magnet. I'll have to settle for being one of the freaks.

COLUMN: Chicken Roulette

I've always been a big fan of games. I'll admit it: I own a visor that only gets worn for Monopoly. I've skipped classes and called in sick to work [note: PRE-Dispatch/Argus, of course] for the express purpose of playing video games. I once hosted a session of the card game Rack-O that lasted for 10 straight hours. An epic round of Rail Baron once cost me a dear friendship. And if you've ever participated in a charity trivia event, I have probably beaten you. Badly.

I take gaming seriously, but we may have just crossed a new threshold: I've invented my own game. It's full of risk, reward, strategy, and, above all, suspense. A game where the agony of defeat might just be all too real a turn of phrase.

It all started with an empty wallet. You ever have one of those weeks where every bill comes due in one masterfully spontaneous symphony of suck? That was me last week. Top it all off with the sudden expense of a flat tire and presto -- say hello to Broke Shane.

I'm not a big fan of making a dollar stretch -- all you have to do is look at my bank account to discover just how bad I am at it. (Note: Please do not ACTUALLY look at my bank account. One of my friends had her identity stolen last week by a thief in Maine. It doesn't sound fun, and trust me when I say that stealing MY identity at the present moment wouldn't even score you enough gas money to GET to Maine.)

It was a long week 'til payday and I had to put a stop to the wallet bleed, so I came up with a plan. Rather than waste money eating out for lunch every day like usual, I needed to brown bag it for a bit. That's why I went to the grocery store and invested my remaining coin in a big bag of frozen chicken breasts. I got home and threw it into the crock pot at 4 p.m. By the time it hit midnight, I had a pot full of tender chicken that pulled apart with ease. Bachelor cuisine at its finest, and I could survive off this stuff for days.

When I first left home a kajillion years ago, my mom made sure to impart upon me an encyclopedia worth of cooking tips -- of which I believe I remember about three. One was, "Don't put food in the refrigerator until it cools." I honestly have no idea why this is. It wasn't something awesome like, "Don't put food in the refrigerator until it cools... OR IT'LL EXPLODE!" Maybe putting hot food into a cold fridge wrecks the taste, or maybe it makes food spoil faster. I have no idea why you're not supposed to do it. I just know my mom told me not to, and that's good enough for me.

So I took the chicken out of the crock pot and set it in a storage container to cool down for a few minutes. And then I fell asleep.

If cats could talk, I'm sure I would have been their #1 topic of conversation on Monday. They sure seemed intrigued as to why I woke up in a start at 6:30 a.m. screaming, "OMIGOD! CHICKEN!" and bolted for the kitchen. It took me precisely thirty seconds to put a lid on the chicken and throw it in the fridge, but had the damage been done? I had just taken a ten-dollar investment and let it sit out on the counter for six hours.

And that, my friends, is how I invented the new high-stakes game I like to call... CHICKEN ROULETTE.

There's another nugget of wisdom I recall from my mom. It was something like, "Chicken is really good for you... EXCEPT WHEN IT KILLS YOU." My mom really hammered this one home. I don't know if she just assumed that her idiot son would immediately start feasting on raw chicken like sushi or what, but thanks to her frenzied warnings, I usually leave poultry cooking to the professionals.

It might be finger-lickin' good, but if those fingers touched it in its raw form, you will surely die of e.coli. This is why every time I grill chicken, I end up cooking it down to a shriveled little carcinogen that's probably just as toxic.

But what of cooked chicken that's accidentally left out all night? I guess there comes a time in every bachelor's life when he has to look deep within himself and ask the question: Am I too chicken to play chicken with some chicken?

I assessed the situation. The potentially funky poultry passed both look and smell tests (because, as we all know, bacteria is always day-glo orange and stinky.) Also, I keep my house so cold it's practically a refrigerator in here anyways. And I've eaten so much crummy fast food over the years that I may have built up a tolerance to most standard variations of food poisoning. Or maybe I've wrecked my system on so much bad food over the years that one iota of salmonella could kill me dead. A sick day from work might be nice, but projectile vomiting might put a damper on the holiday.

I opted for my favorite game show tiebreaker: I phoned a friend. Many of them, in fact. Answers ranged from: "YOU DIDN'T EAT IT, DID YOU?" (a vegetarian friend who I think is just horrified by chicken in general) to "just chase it with some vodka and that'll kill all the bad stuff" (a fellow bachelor) to "I don't THINK it'll kill you. You'll PROBABLY be fine" (my mother, surprisingly, but note the disclaimers.)

Sometimes, you've just got to bite the bullet. Or, in this case, the chicken. Over the past 48 hours, I've now played chicken roulette four times. As I type, there might be a listeria rave in my gastro-intestinal tract. So far, so good... but I'll admit that my stomach seems a little wonky right now. I'm hoping it's just from all the worrying. It turns out chicken roulette might be full of suspense, but not in a fun way. I don't really recommend it as a party game, unless you're up for answering "so what did YOU do this weekend?" with "Oh, not much. Well, other than killing all my friends."

I shoulda stuck with Monopoly. I just hope this chicken doesn't stick with me.

COLUMN: Visitations

Death stinks.

I realize a sentence like that is about as revelatory and headline-worthy as other such breaking news items like "the sky is blue," "the Earth is round," and "Tom Cruise is simply awful."  Still, it must be said.

This past year has been rife with people in my life passing away, and most of them before their time. Not that I'm a big fan of that phrase, because really, is it ever anyone's "time" to depart this realm? If I had my druthers, and my health, I'd be perfectly okay with remaining alive until further notice, and I'd reckon most of you feel the same. The great beyond might be a much better place, but I'm honestly in no big hurry to find out. I've always been one to resist change.

But even more unfair than our inevitable demise is the fact that as we get older, more and more people that we care about are taken away from us. It may be an unavoidable fact of life, but it still stinks. If there's one place on Earth I hope I don't set foot in the foreseeable future, it's another stinkin' funeral home.

Last week, I wrote a column about how, in most social situations, I'm incredibly gifted at being incredibly awkward. Nowhere is this on display more clearly than when I have to attend a visitation. By the time I'm in the door, I'm already stammering and breaking out in an uncontrolled sweat. In weird situations, my usual defense mechanism is to crack jokes and look for humor in the situation -- but, as a general rule, the interior of a funeral home is, by and large, a joke-free zone.

Instead, I'm left to somehow fend off the sadness and try to stammer out words of compassion, encouragement, and support for family and friends, all while trying my absolute best not to sweat all over them. It's an entirely awkward and uncomfortable experience. But this is probably a GOOD thing. If you're the sort of person who's completely at ease and comfortable at visitations, you are most likely a Class A weirdo-pants. Or you are a funeral director. And, honestly, to dive into that career path by choice, you might still be at least a SMALL bit weirdo-pants.

But it's not as though I learned funeral awkwardness on my own. For that, I had a coach.

When I was a kid, my great-grandmother suffered a debilitating stroke. My memories of the woman are a bit cloudy, but what I recall was everything you'd want a grand-grandmother to be: a chubby, smiling, boisterous lady who earned my affection through a non-stop supply of hugs and candy. A resilient woman, she went on to survive the stroke in a vegetative state for over a year. I may have just been a little kid at the time, but even then I knew how awful it was to see this vibrant woman connected to life support.

I don't remember much about my great-grandma's funeral, but I do remember what happened a few months later. My dad was out of town when my mom was reading the paper and suddenly stood up.

"Go put on some nice clothes," she told me. "We need to go to a visitation."

My mom had spotted an obit in the newspaper, and the deceased was my great-grandma's former roommate from the nursing home. She and her family had been nothing but nice to us during our time together, so my mom wanted to return the favor by paying respects.

There was just one problem. As we rounded the corner to join the receiving line, I saw my mom ever-so-slightly go from sad to panic. She looked at me. "IT'S NOT HER."

Sure enough, my mom had the name wrong. It turns out my grandma's old roommate was alive, thriving and surviving. Instead, we were in line to express our condolences to the family of a total stranger. "Follow me," my mom whispered as we exited the line and tried to sneak out unnoticed. We would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for that pesky funeral director who stepped in-between us and the exit.

That's when my mom showcased something I'd never seen: her acting skills. Yes, my mother -- the light of my life, the woman who taught me everything, the person I looked to for strength, guidance, honesty, and wisdom -- quickly assessed the situation and came up with the best and most mature possible strategy: fake crying. "I just need a moment outside to collect myself," she told the funeral director, hand to her face, pretending to sob.

You would think a funeral director would point us in the right direction, perhaps even open the door. You'd think a funeral director would know when to back off and let someone in fake grief fake-grieve in private. Not THIS guy.

"Here," he motioned. "Let me take you to one of our quiet rooms where you can have a seat and reflect. How did you know the deceased?"

"No, no," my mom said awkwardly. "I just need to step outside."

I might have been little, but I knew comedy gold when I saw it.

"Mom, it's okay," I said. "Let's go to the quiet room. You need a tissue."

I'm pretty sure my hand still hurts from the death grip she put on it, but it was worth it to watch my mom squirm her way out of this mess. Eventually Mr. Overly Helpful turned away and we stealthily scuttled off into the night. As I recall, it took an extended layover at Pizza Hut for my mom to get properly un-mortified and lose the red from her cheeks.

You'd think we would have learned our lesson. But some twenty years later at my grandfather's funeral, the minister was not on his A-game. At one point, he told us that my grandfather was likely being embraced by a whole clan of Connors. Comforting, except that my grandfather's family was the COOPERS. Knowing my grandpa's beloved short fuse, my mom and I both simultaneously pictured him yelling at a heavenly room of strangers, "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? GET AWAY! SHOO!" which made us both inappropriately start to giggle mid-funeral. Which we both tried to cover up... as fake crying. What can I say? I guess I learn from the best.

In the end, there's no point in feeling awkward at visitations, because it's an awkward time for everybody. Last week, I lost a friend -- but instead of feeling awkward, I found myself surrounded by her family and sharing the love for a lady who touched many lives. Earlier this year, another friend of mine died who was a big theatre buff. Her visitation included show tunes and a beautiful enlarged photo of her -- dressed in zombie gear crawling out from behind a tombstone. It was the exact way she'd want to go out, and that's the important part.

So here's to you, Rose, Peggy, Brian, Russ, Leevon, Kenny, Ruthie, Jesse, my cousin Jenni, and everyone else gone too soon. Leaving you might have been awkward, but knowing you  was a pleasure.            

COLUMN: Country

It always amazes me when I see people who look perfectly comfortable in their surroundings. I don't know how it's done. I think I'm just naturally gifted at being really, really awkward.

Some folks are photogenic and warm up to a camera. Others float through life with an aura of comfy coolness. But look in the background of those pics. That's where you're bound to find that one accidental photobomb who looks horribly ill-at-ease. You know, the guy with the weird expression that says "I don't belong here" mixed with "I may have spiders in my pants." The guy so out-of-place that you'd swear he's been Photoshopped into the situation directly from his home world of Weirdtopia? That's usually MY role in life. I bring the awkward, and I bring it hard.

Nowhere is that more evident than when you stick me in the country.

It's no big secret that nature and I tend not to get along very well. Winter's too cold, summer's too hot. If it's icy, I'm bound to slip in it. If it's green, I'm bound to be allergic to it. If it's an insect, I'm probably terrified of it. If it's a bee, I'm terrified AND allergic. Rain makes me wet, snow makes me shiver, and the sun gives me a rash. As far as I'm concerned, there are about two good weeks of weather all year and the rest is for the birds.

I suppose, then, that I should gravitate towards big city life. After all, if there's one thing that keeps Ma Nature in check, it's a concrete world. Pollen doesn't grow on blacktop, and that pesky sun stays at bay thanks to all that sweet smog. It's paradise on Earth, right?

Well, not quite. I also hate sharing space with lots of people -- and sadly, they've yet to invent a lightly populated metropolis. Big cities might have tons and tons of neat stuff to do, but that also means there's tons and tons of people DOING that stuff. The traffic is insane and half your life's just wasted getting from A to B. Maybe I just need to stay in my living room forever and find a job where the only interaction I have with society is when the pizza guy rolls up.

But sometimes, I surprise myself.

It was late on a Friday afternoon when my friend Linn called me at work. I had zero plans for the night and was looking forward to a beached-whale evening on the couch. Linn had other ideas. In fact, she had an extra ticket for the Barnstormer concert at Codfish Hollow that night. A few minutes of peer pressure later and I found myself in a car on my way to (gasp) nature.

Everyone should experience a Barnstormer show at least once in their life. Codfish Hollow is a farm hidden in rural Maquoketa, and for a few weekends every summer, it transforms into one of the most unique concert venues in the Midwest. Upon arrival, guests park in a pasture. From there, it's just a game of dodge-the-cowpies to get to the hayrack ride that takes you down the winding treacherous road to the Hollow.

At the farm, you're free to roam the grounds, view the art installations, and check out the live music, which happens no-frills style in a barn that's almost entirely free of any air circulation whatsoever. You usually end up witnessing some of the greatest musical moments of your life, but you do so while sweltering elbow-to-elbow with hundreds of the sweatiest, smelliest hipsters you could possibly dream up. It's not just nature, it's every aspect of nature that I hate, all tied together in a sweaty, stinky bow.

Then why do I love it so much?

On the way there, I was Joe No-Fun. I was the guy insisting we bring lawn chairs. I was the guy sucking down Claritin and covering my body in Deep Woods Off. I was the guy complaining about EVERYTHING. Then why was I also the guy who stepped out of the car into the middle of a cow pasture to feel entirely at ease? Suddenly I didn't care about anything. The stress of the work week, the worries about whether we'd left something at home, the fear of looking awkward around others... it just melted away.

I guess when your biggest worry is whether or not you're about to step in cow poo, you really don't have much to complain about. It was fun being with friends in that pasture, it was fun on the hayrack, and it was fun being sardined inside that God-forsaken oven of a barn. I wasn't just dealing with nature, I was actually (gasp) enjoying it. Okay, when a bee flew by me, I still ran away like a chicken, but I did it without screaming like a little girl. That's a triumph.

By the end of the night, I had some serious un-Shane-like activities under my belt. I hung out in the sun. I hiked. I played horseshoes (Note: anyone who thinks horseshoes is a wussy sport needs to have a chat with my right shoulder. It's two days later and I still feel like I pitched a no-hitter over the weekend.) I poked a hornet's nest. I tromped out into the middle of a field of fireflies to check out the Supermoon. And at the end of the night, when the skies opened up and rain poured down, I welcomed it. I was a sweaty, smelly mess -- and I kinda loved it.

Anyone who knows me wouldn't believe how much fun I had in the boonies. But there's one thing that a lot of people don't know about me: I grew up in the boonies. A 50-acre farm, to be precise. Well, not a FARM by definition, I guess, because we didn't farm it. My folks just liked the country -- and so did I. I remember days of hiking around pastures trying not to scare the bulls. I remember eating wild raspberries off the vine in our woods. I remember playing in the creek when a rough green snake swam between my legs -- and at the time, I thought it was COOL instead of terrifying. I remember swingsets and bike rides and dirt and sweat and bugs and clouds and stars and grass.

At some point, I lost touch with country me. I'd estimate it to be about the time I discovered video games. Country me didn't stick around long that weekend, but it was nice to make his acquaintance again.

I'm certainly not made for the country, but I'm not made for the big city, either. I guess I'm both Donnie AND Marie -- a little bit country AND a little bit rock & roll. I'm more of an in-between, and I guess that's why I like it here in the Quad Cities. We're big enough to never be boring but small enough to escape down a gravel road when the need arises.  

So maybe I'll always be the awkward guy who never wholly fits in. But I'm okay with that -- they call it a HAPPY medium for a reason.

COLUMN: Cat Mayor

Somebody asked me the other day why I've never considered running for political office. I'm pretty sure the maniacal laugh I responded with was answer enough.

For one, I know there's video of my college years out there somewhere, and I'm pretty sure TMZ could have the footage online by the time I even set up a podium for my first press conference. Thanks, but I prefer my life relatively scandal-free, thanks.

And I suppose there's the small matter of me not really knowing a thing about politics. I like to think that I'm plugged in and fairly well-rounded in my political leanings, but that's hooey. Truth is, if it's not on the front page of this paper or the first ten minutes of "The Daily Show," it's usually out of my loop or over my head. Besides, I'd like to think that you people deserve someone in control of your fiscal future who's capable of doing simple math without having to count on his fingers.

More than anything, though, I don't deal well with confrontation. If I get a negative comment on a performance review at work, my stomach ties up in knots, I pace around the house, and can't sleep for a week. When you run for office, random strangers end up hating you just because your favorite color is either blue or red. I can't take that kind of pressure. Not many people could.

That's why politicians are an entirely different breed of animal. And in Mexico, they're actually an entirely different breed of animal.

July 7th is election day across Mexico. And in the eastern town of Xalapa, the leading candidate for mayor is an orange-eyed black and white kitten named Morris. He might only be 10 months old, but he's already got 110,000 Facebook followers and a successful line of campaign t-shirts that read "YES WE CAT!" According to the Associated Press, Morris stands a fair chance at winning the election behind his campaign motto, "Tired of Voting for Rats? Vote For a Cat."

A witty way to protest a political system rife with corruption? You bet... But then I got to pondering. And you know what? When it comes down to it, I don't know if you could come up with a candidate better suited for a mayoral position than a cat. Think about it:

• Food shortages would never be a problem. There would be NO greater concern to a cat administration. I'm pretty sure my cats can tell you exactly how many pellets of cat chow are currently in inventory based on one shake of the bag alone. You run low on food and there'd be heck to pay at the next city council meeting.

• Civic defense would be a way of life. My cats have two primary motivations in life. Food is first. Second is making sure of what's going on Outside, and specifically making sure that Outside never comes Inside and that Outside knows that Inside belongs to Inside. Occasionally Outside will send a feral ambassador for a back porch screen door summit. It never goes well. My two indoor cats appear to mostly hate one another, but they will forever remain a unified front against Outside.

• Cat Mayor would NOT play by the rules. Cats have no rules. "Don't claw the furniture!" Cat Mayor laughs at you. "Don't jump on the kitchen countertop!" Cat Mayor does not compute.

• Cat Mayor would be a tough negotiator. Last week, I fell asleep on the couch. Silly me forgot to ask my cats' permission first. Worse yet, I had the unmitigated gall to nap my way through dinnertime. BAP. Zzzz. BAP. I'm pretty sure I'm asleep but I'm also pretty sure there's a paw hitting my head. BAP "Mrow." BAP BAP "Mrow." "SHUT UP STUPID CAT!" BAP. "Mrow mrowwwwwwwwr." Guess who won?

• Cat Mayor would take things to new heights. The other day, I watched one of my cats confidently climb the stairs to my loft bedroom, nimbly jump onto the tiny precarious ledge of the loft, and instantly lose her balance and tumble off. But before I could even go "OMIGOSH" and run to her aide, she managed to push off of the staircase handrail, do a mid-air 360 ollie, land in a forward somersault on the couch one full story below, and casually look over at me like, "What? I TOTALLY meant to do that."

• Cat Mayor would know how to command attention and clean up his own messes. There is no worse noise on Earth than that of a cat hacking up a hairball. And when that noise invaded my slumber at 4 a.m. the other night, I was duly grossed out. Yet my naive little semi-conscious brain thought, "Don't worry. It'll stop soon," and I attempted my best to sleep through it. That was when the simple realization hit me like a horror movie: THE NOISE IS COMING FROM ABOVE YOUR HEAD. Sure enough, I was asleep on the couch and my cat was inches above me on the backrest about to vomit directly onto my face. How I summoned the fortitude I will never know, but in the blink of an eye, I reached up, grabbed the cat, and blindly heaved her as far away from my head as I could. I heard her safely land and hack up what I'd reckon to be a level 5 biohazard. The next morning, the floor was spotless. I'm not asking any questions.

• Cat Mayor can turn on the charm. I'm pretty sure if an axe murderer stormed into my house and chopped me into itty bitty pieces, my cats would still put on the big sad eyes, flop over, and mandate a belly rub. If the axe murderer had FOOD, new alliances would instantly be formed. It's like any good business relationship: you scratch MY back, and I'll... demand that you keep scratching it.

• And lastly, Cat Mayor wouldn't need a fat cat donor when Cat Mayor IS a fat cat himself.

Pshaw, you say. Surely, Shane, there's no way a town could survive with a feline mayor. I'm being ludicrous, right? Right?

It turns out our friends in Xalapa are behind the times -- especially if you've ever been to Talkeetna, Alaska. It's a small village and tourist destination at the base of Mt. McKinley. Oh, and for the past 16 years, it's been presided over by a tailless cat named Stubbs, the duly elected mayor of Talkeetna. And, according to various news stories written on Stubbs over the years, his approval ratings remain high to this day. Sure, he sleeps a lot, and he definitely sheds more than your average mayor, but during his reign, he's kept taxes low, checks in with area businesses on a daily basis (especially the ones serving food), and isn't afraid to interact with tourists.

So, Mayor Pauley, you can rest in the knowledge that I'm not coming for your title any time in the near future. I cannot, however, speak for either of my two housemates. I'm pretty sure one of them is giving me a stump speech right now. Either that or she wants food. Either way, I have to go.

COLUMN: Newton

I believe that everyone on Earth has two sides: the person we want others to perceive us as, and the person we actually ARE. I'm not exactly sure about the person who I actually AM (I like to think of him as a work in progress,) but I most certainly know the person I'd like to be perceived as.

He operates on an entirely higher plane of cool that some can't even comprehend. He's funnier than the average bear, but he's also just a little bit aloof in that distant and mysterious way. He's a well-traveled ladies man who loves exotic food, cutting-edge music, avant-garde art films, and you just KNOW he has a library full of classic literature in his house. He is equal parts Holden Caulfield, Jack Kerouac, and Robert Downey, Jr.

The real me is a teeny bit different. I'm only funny if you give me a laptop computer and an indefinite amount of time. I'm not aloof -- I'm just too shy to talk to you. I'm afraid of airplanes and I can't hold eye contact with a pretty girl. My definition of exotic food is Taco Bell, I secretly enjoy the music of Chris Brown, my favorite movie is "Twister," and the largest library in my house is the stack of water-logged Entertainment Weeklies I keep by my toilet.

Holden Kerouac Jr. I ain't.

No matter how much I yearn to be the coolest guy in the room, it'll never happen. I'm just me. A guy who's afraid of bees and bugs, routinely breaks out in heat rash, hates to get his hands dirty, and sleeps with socks on. A guy who doesn't know how to change a tire or swim or snap his fingers or keep his shoes tied.

And, yes, a guy who loves NASCAR.

I know, I know. I can't explain it either. I'm a card-carrying liberal Democrat who drives a European car laden with bumper stickers supporting both Obama and the Human Rights Campaign. I should hate NASCAR.

But I can't help myself. I don't know if it's the speed, the excitement, the danger, the strategies, or what. All I know is that I like stock car racing, and not just a little. It's one thing to tune in to the races, but I read the blogs and follow the Twitter feeds. I call in to NASCAR talk radio. I'm currently in a close second place in my NASCAR fantasy league (yes, they exist.) And, every once in a while, if I'm feeling especially brave, I go to a race.

Maybe you spent last Saturday racing for the cure or gumbo'ing your ya-yas. Me? I was in Newton, Iowa for the Dupont Pioneer 250 NASCAR Nationwide Series race, where I learned many truths about the reality of being a NASCAR fan:

* Fellow NASCAR fans are, by and large, really nice people, occasionally to a fault. We got to the race early and got stuck in line next to a guy with clearly nothing better to do than make 150 new friends. Talking at roughly the volume of a stock car to absolutely anyone daring enough to make eye contact, we learned all about the murders in his hometown ("They'll git the guy, mark my words, what with the D&A and all. With D&A, they can go back and check out what George Warsh-ington was up to if they wanted!") We learned about his daughter's neck goiter (she's doing much better.) We learned that his wife was running late (and/or packing up her earthly belongings and heading for the hills whilst the getting was good.) Still, I'll take THAT guy over the usual beer-spilling frat-boys I end up next to at most rock shows.

* Iowa Speedway workers are, by and large, really nice people. We were concerned that we'd miss the autograph signing, so the staffer at our entrance unlocked the gate early, searched all of our bags early, and scanned all of our tickets early, all so we could run straight to the autograph line when the time came.

* NASCAR drivers are, by and large, really nice people. We made it to the autograph session and managed to score a couple of the much-coveted admission wristbands. I got to meet Brian Vickers, Elliott Sadler, Trevor Bayne, and a dozen other drivers. ALL of them were unbelievably nice. I couldn't help but think of the hours I spent in college trying to meet my favorite musicians only to discover they were arrogant twits.

* NASCAR sponsors really enjoy giving away free stuff. Fill out a quick survey from Sprint and get $5. Fill out a quick survey from Chevy and get a free t-shirt. On an entirely unrelated note, I hope Mr. Bud Weiser enjoys his Chevy brochures, and if a certain rival publication starts receiving telemarketing calls about their cell phone service, it should be dismissed as coincidence.

* Thanks to the sponsor trailer, I know for sure that Dupont Pioneer products yield "good, clean corn." Not that bad dirty corn we're all used to.

* I should know that if I'm ever out of my element and having a good time, it's bound to rain on my parade. And it did, quite literally, as the skies let loose during the introductory parade of drivers.

* If you think stock cars are loud, try sitting in the second row when they bring out the jet dryers. I've long since destroyed my ears on a steady diet of dance music over the years, and even a grizzled vet like me was sitting there with earplugs AND my fingers in my ears every time those wheeled deathmobiles rumbled by.

* Whoever sings that "Rain is a Good Thing" song is a liar.

* How does the Iowa Speedway make up for an eventual rainout? Apparantly by encouraging felony drunk driving. "BEER FOR THE ROAD?" shouted umpteen vendors at us as the crowd headed dejectedly to the parking lot. Many took them up on it. Turns out it was okay, though, because I'm pretty sure you could have passed out drunk, gotten a good night's sleep, and waited out the hangover while still in line to leave the parking lot. There's a chance I might still be there now.

Maybe I don't really like NASCAR. Maybe I just like waiting in line after line, all capped off by some extra waiting in the parking lot to get the heck out of Newton and head home while resisting the urge to bump-draft traffic on the interstate.

Holden Kerouac Jr. would NOT have been amused.

COLUMN: Triad

Sometimes it's good in life to take a break, sit back, and focus on that which matters the most: Pop music.

I am an unabashed music nerd. It is my hobby, my passion, and I'm pretty sure it's the reason I exist. My life-long love of audio has shaped my friendships and my existence.

And this week, it's shaped my column.

Eight hours ago, I was in my car headed for the office. Like every workday morning, my iPod was blaring away on random shuffle. Some people keep their mp3's meticulously sorted by genre, mood, artist, etc. Not me. I have 12,000 songs loaded into my iPod, and I think it's more fun to just throw them all together into a random hodge-podge. When I press play, I don't know if I'm going to be met by a lush ambient soundscape or slammed with soul-scraping European techno.

Today, however, I was hit with a classic: "Triad" by the Byrds.

It's a song I first discovered one day while absent-mindedly stocking shelves at my old record store job. I was swept away by its dreamy melody and hazy meandering. It's a perfect pastiche of 60s psychedelia and JUST the song I needed to gently ease my mind into another work day. Then, for the first time ever, I paid attention to the words.

For someone who claims to be one of the area's leading listeners of music, it turns out I have a bad habit of zoning out song lyrics altogether. There are tunes out there deeply imbedded in my heart that I couldn't BEGIN to tell you what they're about. I might know the vocal line, sure, but only phonetically. In-a-gadda-da-vida, anyone? Shoot, I can even croak along to "99 Luftballoons" even though it's in German. Sometimes a tune's so good that the artist could be singing about murdering puppies and you'd never realize it.

You do it, too -- admit it. What classic rock fan hasn't screamed along with the radio in their car to, "A modern day warrior, mean mean stride! Today's Tom Sawyer, mean mean pride!" Does ANYONE know what that song's supposed to be about? Rush wrote it, and I'll bet THEY don't even know. Half the song's indescipherable, but it doesn't stop us all from singing along. "Exit the warrior of today's top soil who gets high on YOU and some space invaders get right on through the prison of your YOUTH!" Or something like that. Who cares, it's still awesome, right?

When in doubt, I just assume that the artist is far more poetic, talented, and expressive than I'll ever be, and the true meaning of the song is just too deep for we mere mortals to comprehend. Unless, of course, the song in question is "Gangnam Style," in which case the correct response is to simply shut up and dance.

Analyzing lyrics is for suckers anyways. Sometimes it gets you into more trouble than it's worth. I was a huge fan of medieval fantasy books as a kid, and back in middle school I heard this song on the radio one day. It was a majestic tale of elegantly dressed paladins on a seemingly endless quest to win the hand of the fair maiden. I imagined gallantry and swordplay, dragon-slaying and valor. I went to school the next day and told my nerd friends about this great song of medieval chivalry.

Then I found out that the Moody Blues song in question was "Nights in White Satin" and NOT, in fact, "KNIGHTS in White Satin."

Which brings us to "Triad."

I missed out on the 60s, so I'm not exactly an aficionado when it comes to The Byrds. That said, they're one of those bands that pretty much EVERYBODY respects. They sang jangly, thought-provoking folk songs that didn't just reflect their generation, they helped shape it. You know, "there is a season, turn, turn, turn," and all that. The Byrds were one of the first pop bands to be more thought-provoking than hip-shaking.

So when I heard the lush psychedelia of "Triad," I assumed it was some introspective song about soul-searching and getting along with your neighbor or some such. With a name like "Triad," I figured it might even have some kind of Biblical allegory.

Well, I was right on both counts. It's DEFINITELY about getting along with your neighbors... in the Biblical sense.

It turn turn turns out that what I thought to be an innocent little 60s head trip is, in fact, a relatively lame plea for group nookie.

"You want to know how it will be / Me and her, or you and me / You both stand there, your long hair flowing / Your eyes are alive, your mind still growing / Saying to me what can we do now / That we both love you / I love you too and I don't really see / Why can't we go on as three?"

Yowza. My iPod's made me do a lot of things over the years, but this might be the first time in history that it's actually made me BLUSH on my way to work. Where was Tipper Gore when THIS stuff was on the radio, eh? I don't seem to recall The Byrds showing up on any PRMC hitlist. You'll burn an Ozzy Osbourne album but jangly ol' Roger McGuinn's free to sing about getting his polyamorous jollies any time he fancies? A time to kill, a time to heal, a time to laugh, a time to weep, and when that's all done, apparantly a time to getcha-getcha freak on.

As I continued listening, it just got ickier.

"We love each other, it's plain to see / there's just one answer that comes to be / sister lovers, water brothers / and in time, MAYBE OTHERS." Now, I enjoy when my mind paints a colorful picture of something -- unless that colorful picture is of David Crosby being someone's "water brother." Ew. I'm pretty sure I just got cooties.

Of course, nowadays Britney Spears can ride the same topic matter to the top of the charts and Lil Wayne could out-offend this track in his sleep (which, coincidentally, is how I think he records MOST of his material.) But this isn't the music of the ADD-addled shock-and-awe 2010's where a song like A$AP Rocky's "Problems" can reach the Top 40 chart with no fewer than 81 vulgarities in 4 minutes.

No, this is a song that's now 46 years old. So next time your grandmother tells you that you're going to H-E-double-hockey-sticks for that Marilyn Manson CD in your collection, I know JUST the song to start humming back at her. After all, if listening to a Judas Priest album can turn you into a devil worshipper, then maybe listening to "Triad" at one point turned your grandma into... EWW. DOUBLE COOTIES. Sorry I brought it up.

The worst part about all this is that now "Triad" is stuck in my head on auto-repeat and I've found myself singing along to it randomly all day today. So if you're out grocery shopping tonight and stumble upon a chubby 42-year-old warbling off-key to himself about orgies, I'm not crazy, I promise. I'm just a music nerd.

COLUMN: Couscous

I've been called a lot of things over the years, but "party animal" has never been one of them. If I had to choose between a life of being constantly surrounded by friends vs. a lifetime of isolation, I'd probably choose the latter... and maybe a good book or two.

Don't get me wrong, I love my friends to pieces and my life would stink without them. But I grew up an only child, and I learned from an early age how to appreciate a vast amount of quality alone time. I've just never been one to put on a party hat and race to where the action is.

But if I'm the one THROWING the party, it needs to be legendary.

It started in junior high. As the only kid in my clique lucky enough to live on a 50-acre farm, shindigs of varying size were a natural occurrence at my place. Whether it was water balloon tag in the summer or epic sledding parties in the winter, my house was a primary destination for weekend fun. There were cows to terrorize in the pasture, creeks to jump in the woods, and computer games to play when we realized we were all a bunch of nerds who preferred virtual nature to the real thing.

In high school, I was far from one of the cool kids, but it didn't stop our ragtag posse from throwing envelope-pushing parties as often as possible. Some were stunning failures (it turns out our "Strobe Light Only" party was less cool and more retina-damaging.) But some, like our epic senior year scavenger hunt, will hopefully live in Galesburg party infamy.

Speaking of infamy, if you asked anyone who went to my college at the turn of the 90's to name their favorite weekend destination, I'd wager a whole week's pay that over half would mention my old frat house. What looked like a standard dilapidated dwelling on the outside hid a nearly full-functioning dance club on the interior. With the kind of creativity that could ONLY stem from enterprising college students, the kitchen would transform into a DJ booth, the living room a dancefloor, and the basement...? Well, some secrets are best left OUT of the mainstream media, thanks. I'm not claiming it was smart, I'm not even going to claim it was entirely legal, but good gravy it was fun.

In case that last paragraph didn't sully your impression of me entirely, here's where I tell you that AFTER I graduated college, a friend and I supported ourselves for a couple years causing measurable damage to your children's hearing by introducing rave culture to the Quad Cities. It was as simple as finding a space, hauling in the best sound and lights and DJs that we could possibly afford, and letting the beat drop from sundown to sunup. But what looked like a dangerous slice of counter-culture on the surface was actually a serious business model, complete with permits, licensing fees, uniformed security, and profit margins.

So I guess when I sit back and think about it, this only-child loner DOES have a knack for entertaining. Ergo, when a friend suggested that I throw a get-together at my house over the Memorial Day weekend, I was down. My house, after all, has all of my requirements for a Grade A hootenanny: lots of open space, a decent stereo, and a soundproofed basement that ensures no neighbors come a-knockin'.

What sorts of trouble would we get ourselves into? Memory loss? Public nudity? Farm animals? NOTHING's off the table for this party veteran, am I right? (High-five.) And sure enough, by the end of the night, my friends and I had taken things to a new level of untold debauchery. Forget the amateur nudity, skip the farm animals, and ignore all rules. That's right -- we went straight for the hard stuff.

We got our couscous on.

It turns out there really IS an age when a night of thumping bass, animalistic hedonism, and next-day regret starts to sound LESS appealing than a good meal with pleasant company. I guess that age is 42. It's apparently time to put me out to pasture, because I had a thoroughly enjoyable evening with little more than a kitchen full of good eats and a living room full of good friends.

No scandalous drama ensued. No one got especially naked. Worse yet, I didn't realize until everyone had left that I hadn't even turned on any music. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME??

Instead, I cooked. That's the one hobby I've picked up in middle age: learning what this room with all the stoves and sinks and refrigerators is for. In my old apartment, it was the Empty Pizza Box Storage Room. Now that I've got a house, and especially one with a machine that washes the dishes for you, I'm realizing that I'm not entirely inept at cooking.

It's one thing to grill out some burgers. That was Old Shane. New Shane (or, more appropriately, Older Shane,) left the burgers and brats for an afterthought. First I grilled out an array of vegetables with a balsalmic maple glaze, packets of dilled summer squash, fanned potatoes, and yes -- a summer salad of fresh cilantro, cucumber, and couscous. Guess who's been watching the Food Network?

I now know what it's like to party it up as a 40-something, and it actually involved me saying the words: "Sorry there's no room in the fridge right now - my broccoli is marinating." Somewhere as we speak, Spuds MacKenzie's rolling in his doggie grave.

This is not to say, however, that Shane's Culinary Shindig 2013 was without any envelope-pushing excitement. Presumably in response to my intentions of consuming vegetables (an act which goes entirely against nature,) nature in turn replied by unleashing Weatherpocalypse on us roughly five minutes after firing up the grill. Most of my masterful grilling ended up taking place under a raincoat and galoshes. And if anyone asks, all the dishes I served were "basted in a reduction of hydrogen and oxygen" and not "covered in rainwater" and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I guess you'd have to ask my friends if it was a good time or not, but I'm going to call the night a success. I got lots of compliments on my handiwork, no one appears to have been struck down by e.coli, and I made it through recipes more difficult than my usual peel-back-foil-stir-and-continue-microwaving frozen meal prowess. And heck, I'm still a party animal, because guess what? After everyone left by the polite hour of 11:30, I decided to take a relaxing bath. And yes, I'm proud to admit there was nudity involved. High five!

COLUMN: Cicadas

The internet. It is the single greatest technological advancement of our lifetime. It has redefined the way we communicate, consume, inform, interact, and distribute videos of cute animals worldwide. And it is the Last Temptation of Shane.

I am somehow lucky enough to work for a great company in the newspaper industry that hands me a paycheck every week for a gig that is, more often than not, authentically fun to go to every day. That said, there's a bit of an expectation at play here.

In exchange for said weekly paycheck, the aforementioned great company (did I mention how GREAT they are?) expects me to spend 40 hours each week doing tasks that are, by and large, newspaper-y in nature. With the internet at one's desk, this can sometimes be a challenge. It turns out dancing cat videos are not especially newspaper-y.

I'm happy to report that, with the appropriate levels of self-control and dedication, it IS possible to go 40 hours in a week without downloading a bootleg movie, posting to Pinterest, or checking on the well-being of Lindsay Lohan. It's just that those hours are slightly sadder than all the others.

After years of time-wasting temptation, I've carefully learned how to live WITH the internet at my desk without living ON the internet at my desk. It's still vital for my job that I have routine access to the 'net, but Facebook and Huffpost headlines must wait until break time. My phone, meanwhile, secretly vibrates in my pocket whenever CNN has breaking news or Amanda Bynes does anything especially crazy. It's a daily struggle to stay out of the rest stops on the information superhighway, but it's an addiction I can control.

Usually.

Every once in a while, though, a headline comes along that's a little TOO tempting to resist. I was just on Yahoo doing a search that was truly authentically newspaper-y when I saw it. One little headline that stopped me cold and instantly made me forget about doing ANYTHING productive.

"SEX-CRAZED ZOMBIE CICADAS WILL SOON OUTNUMBER HUMANS 600-TO-1"

This is NOT the kind of headline one should just stumble onto while looking something up on the internet.  This is the sort of headline that needs to be delivered in primetime, preferably by Tom Brokaw, and quite possibly followed by the words: "RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!"

Once again, my enjoyment of the warm weather season has been cut off at about 3.5 weeks. That's how long it usually takes for me to read some horrific news story reminding me that nice temperatures are merely a smoke screen for any number of gross plagues, from bees and mayflies to mosquitos and West Nile.  It's not even June yet and I'm ready for the killing frost.

Thankfully, though, this particular epidemic doesn't really affect us -- apparantly the zombie sex-crazed cicada hordes are, for now, only terrorizing the East Coast.  I was pretty flabbergasted by the details, though.

We live in the Midwest, so we're familiar with the nightly summertime chirping of cicadas.  But these aren't NORMAL cicadas.  No, we're talking about MAGIC cicadas -- or at least those belonging to the genus Magicicada.

Cicadas spend most of their lives in their larval stage, squirming around underground and living off the juice of tree roots (mmm... tree juice.)  Your run-of-the-mill cicadas do this for a couple years before crawling to the surface and sprouting wings.  But magicicadas spend SEVENTEEN YEARS underground before popping out out en masse for what amounts to the grossest spring break ever.

These teenage cicadas have one thing on their mind -- and it's not G-rated.  Their chirping -- which is cicada for "hey, baby, how youuuuu doin?" -- can reach up to 94 decibels.  That's the audio equivalent of standing 15 meters away from a freight train. Correction: a sex-crazed freight train. They don't sting or bite or carry disease, but they'll routinely fly into your hair or, if you're especially lucky, they might attempt to mate with your leg.

The party only lasts for just over three weeks. That's how long it takes for the adult cicadas to pop out, get their freak on, lay eggs, and give all of us the heebie-jeebies... in other words, the entire lifespan of a cicada is pretty much equivalent to ONE good episode of  "Jersey Shore" -- except in THIS version, there's 500 million Snookis.

That's right, estimates of this year's East Coast brood have emerging cicada numbers possibly going into the trillions. The TRILLIONS. That's right, your geology teacher lied to you.  The earth is now officially composed of the core, the mantle, the crust, and the apparantly unspoken layer of SLIMY CICADA LARVAE patiently waiting for their pornographic moment in the sun.

After the three-week orgy, mom and dad drop dead while hatching larvae head underground for their chance to creep out our children seventeen years down the road.

There's NOTHING about this process that's not super gross and pointless in my book.  Whether its the notion of sharing my living space with a trillion horny Jurassic houseflies or the crunching under my feet of the resulting cicada holocaust, I'm sufficiently creeped out.  Thank gosh it's confined to the East Coast.

Except that it isn't.  North America is subject to 23 separate broods of these Magicicada.  Brood XIII is known as the "Northern Illinois Brood" and its ground zero is right here in river city, folks.  Somewhere under our very feet at this very second, prepubescent cicadas are sucking down tree juice and lying in wait.  Its next emergence is scheduled for 2024, and if East Coast Brood II is any example, it should be record levels of ick.

We have eleven years to prepare for the sexy onslaught.  If you need me, I'll be on the internet learning how to stop it. Or possibly researching real estate in Iceland. Maybe they have something newspaper-y there I can do.

COLUMN: Prom

I am not a morning person. When that alarm goes off at the start of a work day, it's everything I can do to pull myself out of bed and somehow muster the strength and intelligence to shower and clothe myself. I like to ease my way into conscious thought, and that's where the Today show comes in handy. If there's one thing you can count on to be safe viewing for a brain struggling to shift out of neutral, it's the cheese-laden banter of Al Roker.

But Al had a trick up his sleeve for me the other day. Instead of being in the safe confines of 30 Rock, the Today show had sent Roker on the road to visit the winners of their recent "Wake Up With Al" contest. On this particular day, Al was broadcasting from a farm in central who-knows-where. While he gave the forecast, this winning farm family stood to the side awkwardly cheering like the world's biggest fans of weather.

Well, all of them except ONE kid, who stood in the back, desperately hoisting his homemade sign high enough for the cameras to pick up:

"LUCY HALE WILL YOU GO TO FORMAL WITH ME?"

Lucy Hale, for those uninitiated, is the doe-eyed star of TV's "Pretty Little Liars" and the crush of many a teenage boy. And, clearly, a person with better things to do at 5 a.m. on a Wednesday morning than watch Al Roker milk a cow.

This trend of publically begging celebrities for dates is getting under my skin. It all started a couple years ago when a soldier returning from the Middle East posted a video on Youtube asking actress Mila Kunis to the Marine Ball. The video went viral, made its way to Kunis, and she accepted the offer. Suddenly this Marine had a date with one of the hottest actresses on the planet.

Within the week, another Marine had a date with Justin Timberlake. Betty White had to graciously decline an offer. Taylor Swift ended up taking a fan to the Academy of Country Music Awards. Last spring, an enterprising high school senior almost ended up going to prom with a porn star, all due to the miracle of the internet.

It's ridiculous and it needs to stop. Because I'm super jealous.

Look, if there's anyone around here who knows a thing or two about celebrity crushes, it's this guy. I've paid my dues. I've seen all 128 episodes of "Dawson's Creek," and if I can't figure out a way to ask Katie Holmes out on a date, neither should you. I've devoted past columns to my fan worship of Katie Holmes, and I'll admit it -- I've thought to myself, "Y'know, this newspaper reaches a LOT of people. What if somehow one of my columns were to get into HER hands? Maybe she'd be so touched by my gentle love of her body [of work] that she'd call me up...?"

But that will never happen, because luck is never on my side. Two weeks ago in this column, I mentioned a TV show I stumbled into about a guy obsessed with mustard. Two days after it published, I got an angry e-mail from the mustard guy. Heaven forbid one of my columns ever makes its way to the love of my life, but it finds it way to Colonel Mustard no problem. Greeeat.

These open pleas to celebrities would never work for me. First off, once you crest 40 years of age, you lose the cuteness factor. An enterprising teenager begging to meet Mila Kunis is charming; but when you're a chubby, socially awkward 42-year-old, you cross that not-so-fine line from cute to creepy. Plus at my age, there's no special events left to invite a celebrity TO. I'm way past prom and there's no military balls in my future. Methinks the campaign would lose its effectiveness if my lead were "Katie Holmes: Will You Go To Happy Joe's With Me?"

Plus it's pretty clear that the real key to successfully wooing a celebrity is to have a good sob story at the ready, and I'm fresh out. These soldiers returning from war are national heroes. The kid who went to the award show with Taylor Swift is a cancer survivor. I don't deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as that kind of greatness. The most heroic thing I've ever done is feed a stray cat. The only way this viral video thing could POSSIBLY work for me is by a tour de force of creativity, showmanship, and YOU, Quad Cities -- especially if you Quad Cities happens to own a digital video camera, 'cause I sure don't.

It doesn't have to be anything grandiose. I'm thinking something low-key yet hard-hitting.

FADE IN: WHITE. A blinding white, the kind you never thought possible. The camera pulls back to reveal we've been zoomed in on one of TOM CRUISE'S TEETH. As we pan further back, we realize it is a photo of Cruise taped to a dartboard. The camera swings around to reveal AN INFINITE NUMBER OF QUAD CITIANS, all lined up with darts in hand.

CUT TO:

EXT - RIVERBOAT. Me on deck, looking virile and handsome via special effects [someone in town can do that, right?] An original song fires up. It is entitled "Katie Holmes, You Are The Sunshine Of My Life So Come Have Some Taco Pizza With Me." [There's 385,000 of us - surely if we put our heads together, we can write the greatest song ever.] It will be performed by Suzy Bogguss, Lissie, Wicked Liz, Konrad, a reunited Tripmaster Monkey, a reanimated Bix Beiderbecke, and remixed by Radcon. The ladies will swoon.

CUT TO:

INT - DAV. SKYBRIDGE. This is the hip-hop break of the song that showcases how hard and street tough I am. Of course, I can't rap either, so we'll need Calliko, Grendel, and anybody else in town who can spit 16 bars. Of course, those bars are required to be about how hard and street tough I am.

FADE TO:

EXT - KONE TOWER, 180 FEET UP. As my voiceover suavely invites Katie to Happy Joe's, I bungee-jump from the top of the old Kone testing tower. [And by "I," of course, I mean a stuntperson. As we've already proven, I'm far too virile, handsome, hard, and street tough for such a risky move.]

BUILD TO:

FINALE. As I walk past Modern Woodmen Park, I drop to my knees in one last James Brown-style plea. If we time this with the 9th inning of a Bandits game, fireworks will explode all around me. Credits.

If it works, I'll convince her to make a sequel to one of her movies and I'll make sure you all get parts. ("First Daughter 2: First Daughterer.") Of course, since things never go my way, I'm sure Katie would see our finished product and go, "Hmpf. Nerd." while that farmer kid will probably end up marrying Lucy Hale. Life is unfair. I blame Al Roker.

COLUMN: DJ Nerd

If you happened to have read my column last week, you'll know that technology and I haven't been getting along so well. In the course of last week, I somehow managed to break not one but TWO laptop computers, my computer workstation, my iPod, and the circuit board that runs my entire car. Either the machines are about to take over or I've ticked off a robot god somewhere.

This is an odd situation for me to be in, because I'm usually the guy running TOWARDS the latest technological advancement, not away from it. I've never lived in fear of technology one day making me obsolete. But I now fear a worse fate may have befallen me: technology is making me look old and uncool.

As many of you are aware, mild-mannered newspaper columnist Shane Brown leads a double life. When the weekend arrives and the sun sets, you can usually find me moonlighting as a DJ at an assortment of nightclubs around the area. This wasn't a hobby I just happened into -- this was a hobby born of necessity.

I love dance clubs. Always have, always will. Thumping bass beats, crazy light shows, cute girls... what's not to love? There's just one problem: I can't dance to save my life. I look as natural in a dance club as a beach ball in a snowstorm.

Apparantly when I was a pre-toddler, I started walking before I learned how to crawl. This is a bad thing, since babies use the crawling phase to develop motor skills. But I didn't care about motor skills back then. All I cared about was getting to my parent's stereo as fast as possible. Who could blame me? It had lights, it made noise, and it had that big black platter that just spun round and round.

My mom likes to tell the story of her friends freaking out when a barely-able-to-walk mini-me came toddling through the living room with an album in my hand.

"Sherry!" they'd yell at my mom. "He's gotten into your stuff and he's about to touch the stereo!"

"No worries," my mom would reply. "He's just putting on a record."

That's right -- I was DJing in diapers.

My love for music never waned, and my years playing drums in marching band taught me the importance of a good beat. By the time I got to the age when girls miraculously began getting cured of their cooties, I was already something of a dance music aficionado. I just did that aficionad-ing while seated motionless. If I was feeling especially funky, maybe you'd see a toe tap every so often. To this day, the only dancing I do is in my basement with doors locked and blinds drawn, and I'm pretty sure most people would mistake it for a seizure.

When my hometown opened its first teen dance club, my world changed. One step into that place, one whiff of the fog machine, and I knew I was home. The shiny floors and fancy lights made the place come alive like my wildest dreams. And the music? OH, the music. So loud you could feel it in your chest like it was rearranging your own heartbeat. Home sweet home, other than my inability to do anything but stand around awkwardly hoping against hope that I somehow looked cool.

Then it hit me -- there was one place at a dance club where a motionless person could fit right in: the DJ booth. I could hang out in this Eden every weekend AND pick all the songs AND get paid? Every weekend was Christmas.

Back in those days, if you were a DJ, you didn't have to worry about being cool -- you were too busy worrying about being a DJ. Records had to be bought, equipment had to tracked down, and mixes had to be practiced to perfection. Having the hottest music meant routine trips to Chicago and even staying up 'til 4 a.m. to place overseas orders with your favorite London record shops. DJ's weren't cool. We were nerds who were slaves to our passion, and all we had was hope for a day when DJs finally got notice and respect.

Well, that day is now, and let me be the first to tell you: it stinks. It may have taken a couple decades, but the mainstream world is finally starting to warm up to modern dance music. Suddenly DJs are showing up on the Top 40 charts. Guys like David Guetta and Calvin Harris are becoming platinum artists. Tiesto earns $250,000 to spin tracks for two hours to an arena full of people. To compare, last weekend a guy handed me $2 to play Journey.

At the same time DJing came into vogue, it also became a LOT easier to do. Thanks to new tech, instead of spending countless time and money tracking down all the hottest tunes, they're just a download away to anyone who wants them. Instead of lugging pounds of equipment to every gig, all you need now is a laptop. Instead of night after night practicing the skill of beat-matching, you can buy DJ software that does it for you. Go look up a video of Steve Aoki, one of the top tier DJs in the world. 10% of his set is spent actually mixing. The rest of the time, he's jumping around the stage like an over-caffeinated breakdancer.

And now it's gotten even worse. Traktor is one of the top names in DJ software, and this week they released their very first DJ app -- for smartphones. For a $4 download, you can now pull out your iPhone and do everything that used to take me a carload of equipment. I used to be able to hide my rhythmically challenged nerdiness behind a wall of gear. Thanks to modern technology, now I can just stand there furiously tapping on a cell phone looking super-duper awkward for the whole club to see. Thanks, technology!

Suddenly DJs are no longer the pasty-faced chubby nerds of yore who only came out of their basements for gigs. Swedish House Mafia look more like Swedish House Models, and have you guys actually SEEN Bauuer, the guy who came up with the Harlem Shake? Dude looks like an Abercrombie catalog. Some of these new DJs can even (shudder) dance. The era of nerdy DJs is over.

The odds are stacked against me. Try all I might, I'll never be the cool guy at the club. I'm fat, I can't dance worth a lick, and I'm now officially closer to 50 than 30. Yet the passion remains. When I walk into a club, the hairs on the back of my neck still stand up. I still love being blinded by strobe lights, the smell of an oily fog machine, the feel of headphones around my neck, and that magical rush when you mix into just the right song to send the crowd over the edge. As long as there's a club willing to put their trust in an aging nerd, I'll do my absolute best to fill that dancefloor, even if I have to do it with a phone in my hand. I have no choice -- it's my passion.

COLUMN: Destroyer of Technology

I'm not one to enjoy the thought of my dear sweet mother making whoopie in her heydey, but you've got to hand it to the woman:  her timing was ideal.

For a wee little nerdling like me, could there have been a better era to be born into? I was six years old when my folks took me to the theater to see "Star Wars," and it was just the beginning. I saw ALL the geeky greats in the cinemas of Galesburg: Close Encounters, E.T., Tron, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Never-Ending Story, Willow, The Dark Crystal, Beastmaster, Goonies, Gremlins, Weird Science, The Lost Boys... other than the occasional wedgie or two, it was the salad days of dorkdom.

And it didn't stop with movies. In the early 80's, it seemed like the entire WORLD was made of science fiction. The radio blared Gary Numan and Devo and A Flock of Seagulls and it sounded like the future incarnate. TV's greatest hero was a talking car. I had a Dungeons & Dragons character named Fokstarr (which, admittedly, in retrospect sounds less like a hero and more like a Belgian bisexual T-Rex cover band, but I digress.) At any given time, at least ten different galaxies required saving down at the video arcade. People clearly dressed like they were from another planet.

As a product of the 80's, It's no surprise that I spent a good chunk of my childhood fantasizing about slaying orcs, conquering planets, and having magical superpowers. I just never expected that one day I really WOULD develop a superpower, and I'm pretty sure it's an EVIL one at that.

I am Shane, Destroyer of Technology. The story I am about to tell you is 100% true.

It all started last weekend. Like most Saturday nights, I was moonlighting as a DJ at a relatively popular nightspot in the Village of East Davenport. Not to brag, but I was, as they say, in the zone. Mixes were coming fast and furious, I was throwing down tunes I didn't even know I had, and the crowd was eating out of my hand. I was giving that bar a vital pulse: oonce, oonce, oonce, oonce, oonce, oooooooo-nnnn-cececece-k-k-k-kkkkkpft.

And THAT was how I gave the vital pulse of the bar a massive coronary. Or, rather, my gear did.

Once upon a time, owning a mobile DJ system meant carrying around a half-ton flight case full of CD players, turntables, mixers, and amps -- not to mention crates of records and books of CDs. Thankfully for the structural integrity of my spinal column, life's a bit easier in the digital age. All of the controls I need are now right there on a laptop and all of my songs on a portable hard drive. When it comes to music management, most computer experts will tell you that Apple-based systems are usually more stable and reliable than a PC, so when I made the jump to digital, I bought a MacBook to run the whole thing.

There's just one problem with using a Mac to DJ: when it DOES break down, this PC guy doesn't have the SLIGHTEST idea what to do. And at that moment, on that Saturday night, at the height of the club's business, my MacBook just... stopped. For reasons I still can't explain. And all I knew how to do was stand there, eyes blinking, awash in surprise, while 200 clubgoers all turned and stared like I'd just won the idiot sweepstakes.

It's ok, though -- I'm a smart guy and I always come prepared. My trusty iPod was in my pocket. I pulled it out, plugged it into the board, and listened as I hit play and it went "wuhhhhk-k-k-k-k-k," sending echoes of feedback across the bar. That's right, at the precise moment that my MacBook died, so did my iPod. So if you walked into a bar a couple weekends ago and heard some ear-shattering feedback followed by a VERY frazzled-looking chubby guy furiously attempting to reboot a computer, congratulations: you've witnessed the Shane Brown DJ Experience.

The next morning, I awoke with a mission: to figure out what caused my DJ system to brick the night before. After breakfast, I turned on my PC to see if I couldn't find the answer online. Annnnd I sure couldn't find the answer online. Why? Because my PC's hard drive had crashed. If you're keeping score, that's now TWO computers and one iPod in one weekend.

I needed serious help, so I grabbed my computers and my iPod and set out in my car to find a geek squad, Apple expert, DJ tech, or basically anyone willing to hug me. And I made it all the way out of my garage. That's when I realized I had no heat, air, stereo, speedometer, or ANY controls on my dashboard. I meekly pulled the car back into the garage and spent the rest of my Sunday rocking back and forth on the couch waiting for things around me to break.

Suffice to say it was NO surprise to walk into work Monday to hear, "Our computers are down!"

"Of course they are," I replied. "I'm here."

It's clear that I have some kind of evil technology-killing superpower. I'm not quite sure why it chose THIS week to manifest itself -- I don't recall angering any gypsies, walking under any ladders, or feeling especially cursed. But if you value your electronics, you should give me a WIDE berth for the time being.

It's now a week later and I've managed to fix some of my technological carnage, though I still have no idea what caused my DJ system to crash -- so I bought some shiny new cables and a four-leaf clover and am hoping for the best. I'm just a little miffed that after decades of yearning for some kind of awesome superpower, the one I get ends up destroying everything around me that's fun. But I just realized it might have advantages. If there's one thing bad movies from the 80s have taught me, it's that one day, Skynet will become self-aware, machines will go on a killing spree, and all of humanity's hope will hinge on a guy named John Conner. But he had to mount an ARMY to destroy the machines; all I apparantly need to do is try to turn them on. So maybe I'm a hero after all. Or maybe it means that Arnold Schwarzenegger is going to jump out and kill me at any moment. I'm going to need to research this some more.

Anyone have a computer I can borrow real quick?

COLUMN: Idiocracy

Vladimir Zwoyrkin and Philo Farnsworth aren't a likely pair to be found sharing the same space in the annals of history.  One was a Russian transplanted to Pittsburgh, the other a Mormon with a small lab in California. But they DID have a shared dream. Farnsworth built a photocathode tube able to focus a visual image onto a layer of photosensitive material, resulting in an electron image capable of being multiplied via a positively charged detector. Zwoyrkin saw Farnsworth's invention but envisioned a different model where cathode ray tubes could be used to both create and display images. These two men, working on opposite ends of the country, laid the blueprints for what we know today as television.

Zwoyrkin and Farnsworth had different approaches to their work, but they did share one important thing in common:  Not once did either ever utter the phrase, "...and with this discovery, it is my distinct hope that one day, mankind will be able to harness this technology to enjoy watching bearded rednecks make duck calls."

Have you ever seen Mike Judge's brilliant satirical movie, "Idiocracy"? In it, a man and woman are accidentally frozen alive and revived in the future. When they awaken 500 years later, they discover that, thanks to the dumbing down of pop culture, the world is populated exclusively by morons. In this future world, the top-rated TV show is the aptly titled, "Ow! My Balls!"

"Idiocracy" was released in 2006 and supposedly took place in the future world of 2505. In the real world, it's now 2013, but as I scan the TV dial these days, I'm scared that we're already broaching "Ow! My Balls!" territory. Everywhere I look, there's some new "reality" show seemingly intent on dumbing down America. Once upon a time, A&E stood for Arts & Entertainment Television. Now their programming consists of Duck Dynasty and Stuff People Watch While Waiting For Duck Dynasty. Once upon a time, MTV showed music videos. Now I'm pretty sure all they air is a 24-hour montage of drunk girls fighting. TLC WAS The Learning Channel. As I sit here typing, it's currently devoting an entire show to a man who owns 8000 bottles of mustard and is conquering his obsession with something called "ketchup therapy." The only thing I'm learning is that cable is a waste of money.

Where did it all go wrong? I'm not sure, but I have my suspicions. If I had to trace back the dumbing down of this generation's idea of entertainment, I'd say it was a three-pronged attack: American Gladiators, America's Funniest Home Videos, and Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. Once we started sacrificing scripted programming in favor of embarassing home videos, dudes fighting each other with giant Q-Tips, and Jim Carrey talking out of his hindquarters, culture was doomed.

Back in my day -- you know, when we had to walk a mile barefoot through the snow to watch "Fantasy Island" -- if we enjoyed a particular celebrity, we tuned in to watch a show they starred in. But nowadays its not enough to watch celebrities act and sing. Nope, now we need to watch them dance, work for Donald Trump, swap wives, and dive into pools. When that's all over, we can switch to "TMZ Live," which is pretty much 30 straight minutes of celebrities trying to walk away from cameras in a hurry.

So why get all worked up over this? After all, bottom-of-the-barrel entertainment has been all the rage for the better part of a decade now. But I just read an article that proves we're about to eat THROUGH the bottom of the barrel and descend to an as-yet-undiscovered subterranean level of trash.

Familiar with the DIY Network? Once upon a time, it was an educational home improvement channel with hands-on shows that guided you through the pitfalls of home remodeling and restoration. Their programming was top-notch, but there was just one problem. In their hurry to make quality television that actually stood a chance to educate folks, they neglected to include even ONE D-list celebrity. Tsk, tsk.

That all changed a couple years ago when "The Bronson Project" debuted. The one thing better than a home improvement is, of course, a home improvement show starring TV's Balki Bartokomous -- and, because the world sucks, the show was a ratings triumph. This was followed last season by "The Vanilla Ice Project," where our favorite washed-up rapper was back with a brand new invention: the remodel of a mansion -- and, presumably, if there was a problem, yo, he solved it. More specifically, his "team" did. He pretty much stood around and checked out the hook while his DJ revolved it. The ratings, naturally, were gold.

This week, the DIY Network announced its new shows currently in production. First up? "Vanilla Ice Goes Amish," where our hero joins an Amish colony in order to stop, collaborate, listen, and raise a barn. Then there's "The Rev Run Project," where the chubbier half of Run-DMC updates his family home (spoiler alert: it's tricky.) And yes, a third show wherein Hall & Oates fix up an old farmhouse.

Look, folks: It's my JOB to sit around and think up funny stuff, and I'd never be able to come up with a premise as ridiculous as a Hall & Oates fix-it show. But maybe this is a cash cow I need to learn to ride. If the key to success is merely matching up a mundane activity with a washed-up musical act, it's high time I launched my OWN network. I'll call it Crummy Recording Artists Performing on TV, if only it had a catchy acronym. Here's some ideas I'm mulling over for programming:

• HVAC Maintenace with Air Supply - They might be all out of love, but they're rife with knowledge about energy efficient ways to heat your home.

• Preparing for the LSAT with DJ Jazzy Jeff - Okay, here's the situation, your parents have you worried about your law school examination. Perhaps a nice refresher would do you some good. Well, maybe you shouldn't... yeah, of course you should.

• I'm Alright, You're Alright: Self Esteem Building with Kenny Loggins.

• Cooking Meat Loaf with, umm, Meat Loaf - Duh. It's cold and lonely in the deep dark night, but I can see paradise by the oven light.

• The Captain & Tennille + 8 - Let's see how much love can keep them together when they're paired with 8 precocious orphans.

I'd share more, but they're MY intellectual property. Plus "Welcome to Myrtle Manor" starts in a minute, and I am NOT missing that. You know, so that I can continue to report on the degradation of modern entertainment. Not at all because the trashy girls are super cute. No sirree.

COLUMN: Albania

The Republic of Albania is a proud nation on the banks of the Adriatric Sea in Southeastern Europe. Rife with unspoiled beaches, breathtaking mountain views, and ancient architecture, Albania is a vacationer's dream. Whether it's a lost weekend in the honeymooner's city of Sarande, a panoramic drive down the Rreshhen-Kalimash Motorway, or an educational getaway to the Gjirokaster National Folklore Festival, there's something for everyone in the rich culture and colorful heritage of Albania.

And the cuisine...?  Oh, don't get me STARTED on Albanian cuisine! Umm, really, don't get me started, because I have NO idea what Albanian cuisine is like. But thanks to this past weekend, it's officially NOT for lack of trying.

Truth is, I'm a food bigot. I try to be worldly, I really do. My favorite music comes from England, my favorite car comes from Germany, and my favorite fly definitely hails from Spain... but when it comes to food, I am a flag-wavin', red-blooded, red meat consuming American.

What can I say? I like my food simple and free of surprises. If I could live on a diet of hot dogs and cherry pie, I probably would. If it looks weird, I'm not eating it. If I can't pronounce it, I'm not eating it. I'm just not very adventurous when it comes to trying food that's outside my comfort zone. I'm a basic staples kinda guy -- flour and sugar, bread and butter, ketchup and mustard, cake and ice cream, cows and pigs and chickens and turkeys. Occasionally I'll be brave and eat some tuna. I have enough adventure in my life as is; I don't need to eat things I can't identify in order to feel alive.

There's just one problem: It turns out that a simple red-white-&-bland diet where Pizza Hut is considered "ethnic food" is actually really, really bad for you. It's not exactly NEW news, but a study came out last week that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that a Western diet high in red meat and high-fat dairy literally takes YEARS off your life. It's becoming clear that I need to start being brave.

It's not like I'm afraid of exploring. There's nothing better than setting off with a tank full of gas, a car full of friends, and a mission to get as lost as possible. Some of my greatest stories have come from aimless driving, and the first good weather weekend of the year is always reserved for taking the first back road out of town. In 2013, that day was last Sunday. It was early when the phone rang.

"Hi, how are you?" came the voice of Friend Jason.
"Bored. How are you?" I replied.
"Also bored. Shall we?"
"We shall."
"I'm on my way."

With those pleasantries out of the way, it was just a matter of grabbing the iPod and hitting the open road. The day's adventures took us in a northeasterly direction into the blissful weirdness of rural Illinois. It was a delightful way to waste a day. We shared many a polite wave with passing farmers, saw some spectacularly terrifying lawn ornaments, visited a picturesque country cemetery, took a wrong turn and ended up trespassing onto a private club, marveled at a huge wind farm, and there may even be a chance that if you were driving along a back road last Sunday, you may have caught a glimpse of two grown men laughing hysterically as they stood in a country park attempting to launch a kite. Not that those two guys were us, because we're far too macho and mature for something THAT silly and DEFINITELY way too cool to have a Spongebob Squarepants kite at the ready in the trunk of the car.

But the real highlight came when hunger kicked in. Our eyes were peeled for any weird little restaurant with a lot of character. Enter Amboy, an unassuming rural community in Lee County. That's where we saw the sign, and brakes were screeching within seconds:

"PIZZA JUNCTION: MEXICAN & ALBANIAN FOOD."

That's right, I have now traveled to the exact junction where pizza meets Mexico meets Albania. And heck, why not? I like tacos, I like pizza, and I'd never heard a bad word about Albania in my life. Maybe it's like peanut butter cups -- you know, when good things come together to make greatness. "You got Albania in my pizza!" "You got pizza in my Albania!" It was time for dinner. Or kho ishte koha per darke, as they say in Albania.

Pizza Junction might be my new favorite place in the world. There's barely an inch of wall that's not covered by odd pieces of history. Above the clear ceiling tiles, someone had placed decorative bird statuettes, most of which had fallen on their sides, creating the sensation of eating just under some kind of strange bird apocalypse. The menu sadly told us that Mexican cuisine was only available on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but I was feeling adventurous and we wanted to try Albanian food. Whatever that was.

The Albanian portion of the menu was plentiful. Lots of interesting sounding dishes with virtually no explanation as to what they were. The waitress came out and we hit her with questions.

"We want to try something Albanian! What's good?"

"Umm, I dunno," was her reply. "Nobody orders that."

"What's an Albanian beef roll?" Jason asked.

"Umm, I dunno," was her reply. "Let me go check." She returned a moment later. "It's the same as our regular beef roll."

"I want the Albanian baked beans and Albanian sausage," I chose.

"Umm," she said. "Let me go check." She returned another moment later. "We don't have that."

I began to wonder if by "Albanian," they were referring to the haute cuisine of Albany, New York. In the end, at least I TRIED to be adventurous, so it's a baby step. I ended up with a plentiful  salad, an amazing cup of vegetable beef soup, a large baked potato, and a giant ham steak slathered in pineapple sauce. It was HEAVEN, and I'm pretty sure it set me back all of seven bucks. Friend Jason, meanwhile, enjoyed an American-yet-apparantly-also-Albanian beef roll, and it turned out to be a gyro-type pita thingamajig that he spoke highly of as well. So if you're ever in the Amboy area and hungry for, well, pretty much ANYTHING, head for the Junction.

American or not, the food was amazing -- and even though I still know nothing about their cuisine, I can now find the country of Albania on a map, so I can't say the day wasn't educational. My health might fail from eating like an idiot, but if that starts to happen, I now know I can convalesce along the curative beaches of coastal Velipoja in scenic Ada Bojana. See you there.