COLUMN: New Cat

I don't often write column sequels. But I also don't often have days like the one I experienced last week.

If you're a regular visitor to this nook of the newspaper (and thanks if you are,) you might remember last week when I told my tale of Shane's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day. It was just like any other normal workday, except I woke up in a foul mood, pretty much hated everyone and everything, and decided it was a jolly time to try one of those Impossible Whoppers at Burger King, which immediately turned the day into sunshine and roses and made me swear off meat for life.

Or not.

Truth be told, the burger was better than expected, other than causing my stomach to make a delightful array of odd noises all afternoon as it figured out how to digest this foreign soy invader. Still, I couldn't quite shake the bad mood. As it turned out, I needed help to do that -- help that would come unexpectedly a few hours later.

I have long been a sucker for anything with four legs, sad eyes, and a well-timed meow. I share my living space with two cats who have graciously allowed me to house them, feed them, and see to their every need. But at any given time, I also have anywhere from 1-8 stepcats, who long ago realized that showing up at my back door with big eyes and timid meows usually results in a bowl of food their way.

Rock Island is rife with feral and stray cats, and I'm pretty sure most of them know my house. I'm an easy mark, or at least I used to be. A few years ago, one sad kitty started dropping by every night for a meal. Then it started bringing a friend. And another friend. But one day when I opened my back door to find no fewer than seven raggedy alley cats impatiently awaiting dinner, I closed up shop on Cafe Shane. Well, for a while.

I've recently had a new visitor to my back door. I first saw her tiny little frame last fall, timidly slinking around the edges of my yard. When I surprised her on my steps one day, I did what any normal grown adult would do: I looked her square in the eye and went, "Meow?" To my surprise, her tail perked up, she marched right over, and meowed back.

Thus began our long friendship. It didn't take long until I gave in and started feeding her. But this cat is no ordinary stray. She'll carry on full conversations with you. She'll ignore the food in favor of skritches and a lap to jump in. Her purr is so loud I can hear it from across the yard. But when the weather got cold, she disappeared for the winter. "Awesome," I thought, "she has a home somewhere." But as soon as spring sprang, she was back.

All summer long, this cat has been living in my yard. No matter the day or time, you can find her lurking nearby. I get home from work, she's on my back steps. I get back from a DJ gig at 4 a.m., she's there. I leave for the office first thing in the morning, she's under foot. Maybe she DOESN'T have a home? When I stepped out a couple weeks ago and found her politely sitting there in the middle of a rainstorm drenched to her little kitty bones, I decided it was time for action.

So last week, I put a collar on her with a day-glo note that said, "READ ME! Is this your cat? She's been visiting me and I want to help if she doesn't have a home. Call me!"

That brings us to my Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, when I came home from work to find her on my back steps, still wearing the collar I'd put on her days before. No one saw the note. No one called me. It was fixing to rain. There was no better time to act.

So I took her to the vet to get some answers. She's definitely a she. No micro-chip, but she's been spayed -- if she's not somebody's cat, she probably once was. But the vet also said she has several broken teeth, which is the sign of a cat who's led a hard outdoor life. Best of all, the tests came back negative and she didn't have any toxic cat heebie-jeebies.

So, as I type this, I have a new houseguest. The vet wants me to quarantine her for a couple weeks to make sure she doesn't have any lingering respiratory issues, so I've turned my bedroom into a makeshift kitty hotel. I'm still desperately trying to find out if she has a home -- I've put flyers around the neighborhood, ads in the paper, and posts on social media. If you or someone you know in Broadway/Longview Rock Island is missing a kitty, e-mail me.

But if no one claims her, I might just have a new roomie. The key word is "might." She seems cool with the arrangement, but my other houseguests appear less than enthused. She doesn't have any cat cooties, but she was providing transportation services to a wayward family of fleas, so now all three cats had to get flea treatments and stink to high heaven. And I won't gross you out, but there's been some tummy issues. Let's just say my new friend gets a little less cute every time I have to clean her poop off my WALLS. Ugh.

So yeah, what started as a Very Bad Day ended with me getting a new roomie. If she has an owner, hopefully I can find them. If not? Time will tell. But there's no bad mood a purr can't fix.

Or so I thought. Wait, isn't this crazy day OVER yet? Nope. Part 3 next week.   

COLUMN: Impossible Whopper

Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Okay, that's a lie. I didn't wake up on ANY side of the bed. I fell asleep on the couch watching TV. The bed had absolutely nothing to do with the lousy mood I've found myself in all day, but I want to blame something, so j'accuse, cursed bed!

From the moment I was greeted by the shrill tones of my alarm clock, I've wanted to take a mulligan on the day. Once upon a Shane, I would've most definitely switched the alarm off and been asleep before my head hit the pillow. But those days were called "college," and they're long gone. Adult Shane has a job and responsibilities and things to do regardless of random mood swings.

So instead I sighed deeply, grumbled something incoherently at a passing cat, and got ready to face the yucky day ahead. And, as is always the case whenever I find myself in a bad mood with a short fuse, people and places and things began queueing up to test my patience.

At least three drivers cut me off on the way to the office. I got stopped by a train. The woman ahead of me in line at the gas station chose that exact moment to purchase FIFTY lottery tickets -- and with my luck, she probably won. The other woman in line looked at me and then suddenly covered up her hand as she entered her PIN number at the register as though I were a Nefarious Dude Up To No Good -- then again, I'm sure the scowl I was sporting would have frightened anyone at that moment.

At the office, my co-workers (who are all honestly lovely people) accidentally did everything to get on my last nerve, from chomping on butterscotch candies to, well, breathing weird. Or breathing normally. I've never noticed my co-workers breathing before. But today? Suddenly I did, and I wanted them all to stop their needless breathing immediately. Clearly, I was in a rotten mood.

A perfect time, then, to tackle a topic I've been meaning to for weeks. On my lunch hour, I went straight to Burger King to try their much-touted vegetarian creation: an Impossible Whopper. My logic was infallible: Nothing could make my day any worse, not even a patty of soybeans pretending to be meat.

I've actually been curious about the Impossible Whopper for some time. I just assumed it got its name because it's impossible to make soy taste good, let alone taste like a burger. Still, I wanted to give it a shot. I've never met a burger I didn't like. But I've also never met a burger without the meat. But if I can give my arteries an occasional break from non-stop red meat infusion, I might just get to live a little longer. So I summoned up all my courage, pulled through the drive-thru, saw a menu full of hundreds of delicious things, and instead proudly ordered a bag full of (shudder) vegetables. Or legumes. Or whatever the hell this thing masquerading as a "burger" is.

I'm no food critic, but here's my take on it. First, there's the look. Honestly, it's kind of impressive. The patty has the right color. This is due to something called "soy leghemoglobin," which I believe is science-speak for bean blood. It gives the patty a brown-pink hue that legit looks like beef. That said, the patty's also thin and a little too unnaturally uniform. It's a perfectly round disc of whatever-the-heck-it-is that clearly says, "This did not come from a cow."

I did my best to just unwrap the thing and bite into it without judgment like it was any other Whopper. From a texture standpoint, it sure felt like digging into a burger. But I've got to be honest, the first taste that registered was definitely not-a-burger. It's a savory flavor, but not a beef flavor. Epic fail, I thought.

But only for a second. Because right after that flavor hits, its replaced by everything else a burger should taste like: ketchup, mayo, pickles, mustard. Grilled deliciousness. And the more I ate, the less I registered the not-a-burger taste. Maybe I just had to get used to it. After a few bites, I was pretty much okay with the thing. I still wouldn't call it a burger. But it's enough like a burger that I absolutely didn't mind it.

We as a society have a love-hate relationship with food that is bad for us. We don't call it "unhealthy," we call it "decadent" or a "guilty pleasure." Whenever we learn that some food item is slowly killing us, we don't stop eating it. We just look to science to make a healthier, less scary version of it. Our store shelves are stocked with diet sodas, almond milk, low-sodium salt, and whatever laboratory miracle "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" is.

A red meat diet is not good for you. So should we abandon burgers altogether? Or should we be happy there's a fairly-okay meat-less burger option out there? It reminds me of NBC's "The Good Place," when Michael the Architect attempts to explain why the afterlife is packed with frozen yogurt shops. "There's something so human about taking something and ruining it a little so you can have more of it."

Is the meat-free Impossible Whopper better tasting than a Whopper? Nope. But it's not awful, either. If you're the kind of person who can eat frozen yogurt and pretend it's ice cream, you can probably eat this and pretend it's just as good as a Quarter Pounder. And let's be real -- anything can taste good if you cover it in enough mayo, ketchup, and pickles. The whole thing was better than expected, and almost enough to turn my day around.

As for my bad mood? Well, a few hours later it got a infinitely better. And then infinitely worse. More on that next week.

COLUMN: Youtube

Everyone needs a hobby. I've got a few.

I love music. I love driving around aimlessly and seeing new places. I go to movies, restaurants, and concerts. I like auto racing. I like spending time with friends, listening to podcasts, and playing with cats.

But this past month, I've been nursing an injured foot that's turned me into even more of a hermitic couch-dweller than usual. For a while there, my biggest hobby was playing frostbite roulette with an icepack. That's when I developed a new passion: Youtube. Yes, in front of me sits a television capable of receiving 236 channels programmed by, written by, and starring people whose sole job is to entertain me -- while I instead choose to watch random snots with GoPros filming their version of "entertainment." (Spoiler alert: most of the time, it's not.)

The days of burying time capsules for future generations is over. Instead, I hope there'll be an archive of Youtube clips somewhere. That way, our children's children's children can look back, examine the evidence, and come to the natural conclusion that life in the 2010's consisted mainly of makeup tips, dumping ice over your own head, dancing to Drake, and watching other people play video games.

Thanks to the miracle of Youtube, you can watch the new Billie Eilish video. Then you can watch other people watching the new Billie Eilish video. Then you can watch Billie Eilish watching other people watch the new Billie Eilish video (seriously). What's HAPPENED to our world?

But Youtube really is amazing. You name the topic, there's channels and clips for it. If you want to watch lizards, there's a channel for you. If you want to watch Elizabeth Warren, there's a channel for you. If you want to watch a guy tell you that Elizabeth Warren is secretly a lizard working with the Illuminati to hide the fact that the Earth is flat, there's a channel for you. There's videos to love, videos to hate, and videos you love to hate. But what does Youtube have to say about OUR neck of the woods?

I've fallen down some deep online rabbitholes before, but never had I attempted what I just did: an entire evening of searching Youtube for "Quad Cities," "Davenport," "Moline," etc. The results were staggering, and I've learned much.

To be precise, I've learned that:

• Way too many people own drones. I've seldom seen drones flying around the Quad Cities, but it's clear they are. In fact, Youtube is home to dozens and dozens of soundless scenic aerial videos shot from drones flying above our downtowns, bridges, and flooded rivers. And they're all super duper boring. The only fun thing is trying to date the videos by whether or not you can see my car parked in the lot of our old downtown Moline office. I miss that place.

• People like trains waaaay too much. Look, I get it. Trains are cool, I guess. They're a vital part of our nation's history and infrastructure. They were also my dad's employer and a vital part of my financial well-being. But I don't really get the appeal of standing next to railroad tracks filming every car of a seventeen-minute-long coal train, let alone watching someone else's video of it. If you're into trains like I'm into music, you're as weird as me. But I'm also kind of jealous of you railfans out there. When I get stopped by a train, I'd love to feel joy and fascination instead of my usual response, which is to swear like a sailor and make exasperated sighs to no one at all.

On a side note, there's also an alarming number of videos out there of people sneaking onto freight trains and filming themselves free-riding to who-knows-where. This is just especially stupid. For one, here's a pro tip: when committing a crime, you should probably switch your camera to the "off" position. I'm all for the occasional act of rebellion, but if you think freighthopping is cool, I'll let my dad tell you the story about how he once had to helplessly watch a freeloader get decapitated. Use your head, don't lose your head, people.

• Fifteen years from now, there's going to be a lot of Quad Citians REALLY embarassed that their parents put their dance recitals online for all to see.

But I also found some real gems.

Search Youtube for "Davenport police" and you'll find a promo video from 1965 showing off the cutting-edge police technology of the time (radios! meter maids!) as well as some amazing shots of yesteryear Davenport.

I stumbled into a series of videos from street evangelists ministering and scolding Quad City pedestrians and passersby. To each their own, and I'm all for freedom of speech and religion, but they all come off a little self-righteous and mean-spirited to me. But then I discovered that there's another street evangelist in Oregon who takes issue with the street evangelists in the Quad Cities and there's a whole series of response videos and a Biblical battle royale I never knew existed. Fascinating stuff.

I've been at it for hours. I've seen everything from rap battles to cemetery tours. I've seen tornados in Davenport and UFOs over Moline. But I also found a clear winner - my favorite local video on all of Youtube. It's simply called "Cruisin' in Davenport" uploaded by a user called "OLDSCHOOLNEVERDIES". It has 546 views - well, now proudly 547. And it's just a fixed camera on the dash of what I believe to be a vintage Lincoln Town Car as it drives around the Quad Cities at night blaring all 6 minutes and 48 glorious seconds of the vintage disco/funk jam "First Time Around" by Skyy. And that's only one of several inexplicable videos of the same car night driving around the QCA unapologetically pumping amazing disco ear candy. Dare I say, in one of the videos, he drives right past my house.

We all need hobbies to cope with and avoid the stresses of everyday life. But my life is a LOT less stressful just knowing that somewhere as I type this very sentence, an anonymous disco avenger is out cruising our streets making the Quad Cities a whole lot funkier. If you're reading this, OLDSCHOOLNEVERDIES, please know that if you ever need a co-pilot in that sweet, sweet ride, I'm always available. Forever in disco, your funky pal Shane.

COLUMN: Stage 2

Last week in these pages, I offered my take on the ideal Quad City travelogue -- the things I'd want to show off to a QC newbie to welcome them to our neck of the cornfields.

Of course, it was an incomplete list. I could name-drop and shout-out my favorite things in the Quad Cities for days. If I were really showing off the area to someone unfamiliar, I'd ask them how much time they had. If I could swing it, I'd have Roald Tweet wow them with history. I'd have Kai Swanson lead them on a guided tour of Augie. I'd have Patrick Adamson drag them onstage. I'd have Jon Horvath pour them a beer. I'd take them to the Freight House Farmer's Market and Mercado on Fifth. It'd probably be easier to make a list of places I wouldn't take them.

But I can't take them to my favorite Quad Cities landmark, because it no longer exists. The building that quite possibly had the greatest impact on my life is little more than dust and distant memories these days. For a few brief years in the late 1980s, though, it was pretty much the center of the universe. I'd only visit once a week, but it's the spot where I made life-long friends and pretty much learned what I wanted to be when I grew up.

The Quad Cities Waterfront Convention Center in downtown Bettendorf is a majestic structure we should all be proud of. But when I look in the direction of that building, I don't see a convention center. I see what used to stand there: an unassuming, run-down, multi-use office space that looked like nothing special from the street. But if you were one of the cool kids, you knew to drive around to the back. THAT was how you got to Stage 2, the Quad Cities legendary under-21 teen nightclub.

How big of a deal was Stage 2? Well, I was there almost every Friday night for the better part of four years, and so were most of my friends. I wasn't even a full-time Quad Citizen at that point, so many of those Fridays involved driving up from Galesburg and carried on into my college years at Augie. My college friends oft spent their Friday nights at frat parties or out test-driving their fake IDs. As for me? I had overage friends with fake IDs showing they were UNDER 21 in order to sneak into Stage 2, where the most hardcore thing you could chug was Pepsi.

WHY was it such an important place to so many? I don't think kids today would understand.

I help out at my friend's record store from time to time, and I'm constantly flabbergasted to see what kids bring to the counter. The other day, a girl walked up with CDs from Tool, Taylor Swift, and Lizzo in one buy. "I listen to all kinds of stuff," she said with a smile. With streaming audio and easy access to all kinds of music, today's kids are a lot more worldly in their musical choices.

When I was a kid, your musical taste defined you. Especially growing up in Galesburg, it seemed everybody was either a Top 40 fan or a metalhead. Me? I was a socially awkward weirdo with a penchant for alternative left-of-center new wave music. As a hopeless square peg, I suppose it was natural for me to gravitate to dour tunes made by pasty-faced Brits who spoke to the loners, rebels, and weirdos of the world. Stage 2 proved I wasn't alone, and suddenly I found myself trying to fit in with other misfits. Saturdays at Stage 2 were for the Top 40 crowd, but Fridays were ours. Every weekend, the dancefloor would fill with goths, punks, gays, misfits, and freaks convinced (often accurately) that we were better than everybody else.

Somewhere along the way, we earned the monicker "corn chips," but nobody really ever knew how or why. (The glossary at inthe80s.com says: "Cornchip (noun.) Started off meaning a punk or new wave look. Later, any slightly avant-garde fashions, hair, or music. Mainly Illinois/midwest.") You may have had Bon Jovi. We had The Cure and Depeche Mode and a slew of lipstick-smeared bands of decidedly UN-merry men. You rocked out to Guns n Roses. We cried along with Morrissey & The Smiths. Nowadays in his old age, he's just kind of a bitter (and arguably racist) old man, but in his heydey, Morrissey was the only rock star who understood. He sang our woes and we loved his unconditionally (Sample lyric: "There's a club if you'd like to go, you could meet somebody who really loves you. So you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home and you cry and you want to die."

Were we better than everyone else because we wore black and claimed to see through society and all its trappings? Heck no. Every Friday at Stage 2 was like living a bad Afterschool Special except with a MUCH better soundtrack. For a group of people so sure of our intellectual superiority, we were rife with all the stereotypical angst, drama, and trappings of teen life. When the DJ would throw on a slow song, you could count on at least three people running to the bathroom in theatrical tears over whatever the daily drama was. It was our real-life teen soap opera, and I wouldn't trade those years for anything.

I doubt you could pull off opening a teen club these days. It'd probably just be a sea of underage twerking and worries about weapons at the door. That's a shame, because Stage 2 was the very best of my teen years. Its the sole reason I spend my weekends DJing in clubs to this day. It gave me lifelong friends I couldn't imagine being without.

I'm supposed to be all grown and mature and wise nowadays. But sometimes I still feel like that awkward loner. Sometimes it still seems like Morrissey is the only one who understands me. Sometimes I'd just like to be in a room full of weirdos dancing like our lives depended on it. Stage 2 may be gone, but it'll always be a Quad City landmark to me.

COLUMN: Travelogue

Sometimes -- but not often -- I can be a (gasp) nice guy. Don't tell anyone, I've got a rep to maintain.

We've got a new manager at work. He comes to us from a far-off distant land called Peoria. Soon he'll procure some real estate, move his family up here, and begin the long and arduous process of becoming a Quad Citizen. Until then, he's living out of a hotel and commuting home on the weekends.

I couldn't imagine the difficulties of a temporary arrangement like that, but I suppose I've got SOME idea. I spent my first years here living in a dorm room and commuting back to Galesburg to see my family. The tedium of the I-74 stretch between here and Galesburg is barely tolerable. Double it and you're in Peoria. The last time I drove from here to Peoria, a pothole made mincemeat out of not one but TWO of my tires. I feel his pain.

Regardless of where you hail from, it'd be a little intimidating to be stuck in a hotel room trying to make sense of a strange town, let alone four strange towns across two states while the main artery connecting them all is under attack. Welcome to the Quad Cities: Land of A Thousand Detours.

So I, being the aforementioned nice guy that I am, offered to take him out, drive him around, and show him all the important things he needs to see and know about our Quad Cities.

Okay, so maybe it's less about me being a nice guy and more about me trying to suck up to the new boss. But I remember what it was like arriving here my freshman year at Augie, not knowing a soul or how to get from Point A to Point B. I'd get lost on the daily. The first time I accidentally turned onto Arsenal Island, I had a panic attack assuming I was trespassing on a military installation. One time I got lost, crossed the Rock River, and thought Milan was Iowa. I needed a buddy (or at least a GPS) back then, and if I can help somebody make heads or tails of this place now, I'm happy to.

I have no idea if he'll take me up on my offer, but it got me thinking. If you had the opportunity to introduce a new arrival to the Quad Cities, what would you show them? I started daydreaming about my optimal Quad Cities travelogue, and I think I've got the basics down pat:

• This wet part here is called the Mississippi River. It flows north to south, except here where it flows east to west because the Quad Cities is cooler than physics. Oh, and except in spring, when it flows pretty much any damn place it wants. You DO own a pair of waders, right?

• This little boat is called the Channel Cat. It's a leisurely way to see the river. It's also currently the fastest means of crossing it.

• Okay, this is 12th Avenue. Except in East Moline, when it's 30th Avenue. And in Silvis, when it's Crosstown Avenue. Don't worry, you'll get used to it.

• Alright, see this big abandoned lot? Once upon a time, it was Watchtower Plaza. Then Rock Island turned into a field in hopes that magically a Wal-Mart would appear. We're still waiting.

• This is called a pizza. Yes, I realize how flat it is. Yes, I know there's enough cheese to clog the arteries of 3-5 fully grown adults. Yes, I realize it's cut into rectangles. Just shut up and eat it. Then you'll understand.

• Speaking of food, this place on your right serves the Quad Cities' most cherished culinary treat. That's right, it IS just cheese and beef poured over hash browns and toast. You got a problem with that?

• This is Harrison Street. Say, you don't happen to own a truck that's taller than 11'8", do you? Why am I asking? No reason...

• Here we have Moline's Riverside Cemetery. Did you know it was built by the "Father of the Skyscraper"? Neither did I til I just read it on Wikipedia. Now, get out of the car and go walk around that grave three times counter-clockwise while chanting "Nothing runs like a Deere." You'll either summon the ghost of John Deere or give me an awesome photo opportunity.

• Speaking of our ghostly friend, here's the John Deere Pavilion in downtown Moline. Inside you can learn all about the man, his innovative company, and the science behind modern agricultural equipment. Or you can just climb onboard a combine the size of New Hampshire and yell "VROOM!" while you pretend to be a farmer. Either way, it's culturally enriching.
 
• This here is the crown jewel of the Quad Cities and sums up everything I love about this crazy town. Behold the majestic downtown Davenport Skybridge that connects nothing to nothing. Let's say you want to cross River Drive here. You could either wait thirty seconds for this stoplight to change... OR you could climb five stories, walk across a nausea-inducing psychedelic light show, and climb back down. Ta-da! The convenience it affords us all is priceless. Actually, no, the convenience it affords us is apparently worth $7 million dollars, because that's how much it cost to build. What can I say? When we connect nothing to nothing, we do it in STYLE. 

• Oh, and here's some chocolate and ice cream and an art museum and a ballpark and a record store and a bar with video games and a college and a university and eleventy different microbreweries and parks and coffee shops and concert venues and antique stores and festivals and neighborhoods and some of the nicest people you'll ever meet.

Welcome home.

COLUMN: Mayomust

I've been called many things in life. "Go-getter" has never been one of them.

That's not to say that I have a lack of motivation. On the contrary, I'm usually highly motivated -- to do as little as possible. Nothing makes me work harder than knowing the sooner I get done, the sooner I can bellyflop onto my couch and watch alarming amounts of bad TV without interruption.

Some people claim that leading a sedentary lifestyle is bad for you. I believe these people are called "doctors." They're probably right, but there DOES exist evidence to the contrary. Three weekends ago, I got off my butt, went to a trivia night like a normal active human being, and ended up tumbling off a step and bruising my foot to kingdom come. Had I remained safely on my couch, no harm would have come to me except eye strain and moderate brain damage from watching seven episodes of Ghost Adventures back to back to back. Say what you will about couches, but it's tough to fall down stairs while you're sitting on them.

"You can't stay in shape unless you get off the couch, Shane." Untrue. You DO stay in shape. It's just a round and squishy shape.

Okay, so I'm probably not the ideal role model for how to live your life. One day soon, I'll be motivated enough to change that, promise. For now, though, I've got a foot to elevate, which gives me the perfect excuse for a few more days of guilt-free laziness. In fact, it's a good time to sit back and take stock in everything around me that makes life easier.

Has there ever been a greater advancement in modern laziness than the invention of the dishwasher? Think about it. Once upon a time, a team of scientists and engineers could have spent their precious time on Earth curing disease, eradicating famine, or answering any of life's mysteries. Instead, they came together and focused on the most pressing problem in all of society: those ten annoying minutes after every meal when we have to stand there and rinse off our kitchenware. God bless those legends of science.

We take so much for granted. I have a robot that does my dishes. I have two more that wash and dry my clothes. Magical machines heat and cool our food. But the machine sometimes takes too long to heat my food (waaah!), so I went out and bought a machine that heats food really, really fast (and sometimes blows it up when you forget to poke holes in it.)

I can roll over right now, yell a command at an always-attentive robot named Alexa, and instantly watch any TV show or listen to any music I fancy. Remember those days when you had to walk all the way to the DVD player to play a movie? HOW DID WE SURVIVE?

When it comes to new and exciting ways to do less with your life, consumerism can be our friend. But sometimes, it can take things too far. I'm talking to you, Heinz Corporation.

As Americans, and especially Americans who live in the Midwest, we all love a good burger, right? Even the vegetarians I know always cheer when someone figures out a new way to turn non-meat into meat-like patties you can throw on a grill. But our love for burgers comes with a unique hardship that we all must suffer through. I speak, of course, about the precious time and energy it takes to apply separate layers of ketchup, mustard, and mayo. Yes, the burden of condiment application is a Herculean task that has plagued our fragile Earth for far too long. There has to be a better way.

Thanks to the good folks at Heinz, our worries are over. Earlier this year, they released a series of new products onto supermarket shelves that take all our condiments and mixes them together into squeeze bottles of unimaginable horror: Mayochup, Mayocue, and best of all, Mayomust. Look, I'm the laziest person I know, and even I'll say it: if you need to buy pre-blended mayonnaise and mustard, you should be ashamed of yourself.

Is there a less appealing name for any product anywhere than "Mayomust"? It sounds like something you should be treated for, not eat. I suppose their hands were a bit tied. "Mustaise" sounds like something you apply to your basement after a flood and "Mayotard" just sounds like a hate crime. But perhaps the failure of the names to merge in any appetizing form should have been a clue that mayonnaise and mustard should never be stirred together.

If you're looking for creamy mustard, I'm pretty sure it already exists and it's called dijon -- and you don't procure that in a supermarket. As we all know, you simply pull your Rolls-Royce up to another Rolls-Royce and politely ask the elderly gent for some Grey Poupon. I don't personally know any of the folks who make Rock Island's legendary and delicious Boetje's Mustard, but I'm going to guess the threat of competition from Mayomust didn't leave them quaking in their boots.

I'm all for making life easier -- but not at the expense of a good burger. If Mayomust is your thing, more power to you. But please know that you ARE weird -- and your support of this product will inevitably lead to a future world where instead of grilling out, we're just going to have a squeeze bottle that goops out a mushy mix of beef, onion, and pickles onto a bun. It will probably be pumpkin spice flavored. You've been warned.

Now, if you'll excuse me, all of this typing has really worn me out. Alexa, close Windows and play Ghost Adventures.

COLUMN: Foot

"How far that little candle throws his beams!" Shakespeare once wrote. "So shines a good deed in a weary world."

Shakespeare's an idiot.

Once upon a time, I was an optimist. I was pretty sure life was grand. I thought good deeds were supposed to pay you back, fill you with warm fuzzies, and make the world a better place. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Let's flashback to two weekends ago. Having just gotten off work on a Friday night, your intrepid columnist thought it a wise idea to compete at a charity trivia event. I've always found trivia nights great fun. Not only do you get to contribute to a good cause, but it's pretty much the only occasion where the pointless amount of pop culture knowledge in my brain can actually be useful.

At the event, I was happy to discover that I knew the emcee and his reputation for very good trivia questions. As I sat there waiting for the event to begin, I noticed him having some difficulties getting the microphone PA set up. Having DJed parties and events since puberty, I know my way around a PA. Hence, I thought I should probably be a do-gooder and offer assistance.

That's when I sprang into action. Specifically, the action of breaking my foot.

Okay, I don't actually think it's broken -- but I definitely jacked it up pretty good. I'm still not quite sure how it happened. I went onstage and helped bring out a speaker. Then I turned to hop down and instead slipped off the step and landed on my foot sideways. I can now cross stage-diving off my bucket list. I gamely walked back to my table, but I knew I'd just done a bad thing. Minutes later, it felt like my rapidly swelling foot was about to split my tennis shoe in two. By the end of the round, I knew I had to get home to elevation and ice pronto.

So, yeah, if you were at a trivia night and your between-round entertainment was a grimacing fat guy in the throes of hysterical embarassment getting carried out by two poor trivia judges, that was ME and you're super welcome. I'm never doing a good deed again. My hero days are through. If I'd have just minded my own business, I might not have been able to hear the emcee but I also could've walked out of the place on my own power.

Don't worry, it's much better now and I'm already back on both feet, but only after having spent the past two weeks dwelling on my couch, using up every cube of ice in Rock Island and every ounce of charitable goodwill I could wring out of my friends. I've also been learning just how horrible summer TV is. When I broke my ankle several years ago, I at least had the common decency to do in the middle of winter, which got me out of snow shoveling AND allowed me to catch up on some great shows. In summer, though, the TV landscape is pretty bleak.

They say we're living in a renaissance of fantastic television programming. You wouldn't know it in August. About the only thing I've learned over the past two weeks is that America's got both Talent and Ninja Warriors, and I couldn't care less about either. Every channel is filled with Love Islands and Big Brothers and vapid people being vapid and it about did my head in. Until, that is, I found a show that single-handedly reinstilled my faith in humanity and the power of good.

How have I slept this long on "The Great British Baking Show"? I always assumed it was just another boring cooking show -- and it kind of is. I don't even like baking. But in a moment of boredom, I tuned in -- and was instantly wooed by its charm. I'm used to reality shows full of big personalities, back-stabbing and cutthroat competition. TGBBS, though, might be the nicest reality show of all time.

It's a competition, but you'd barely know it. Aspiring amateur chefs show off their best bakes, from cookies to cakes to truly weird pies (haggis and lamb? No thanks.) But they're all so unbelievably kind that it's endearing. They take tea breaks. They compliment each other. When one competitor finishes early, they help the others. And I'm pretty sure the winner gets nothing more than a plaque and a handshake. The closest they ever had to scandal was when one baker accidentally removed another's cake from the freezer forty seconds early. I've binged two seasons now and it's already rekindled my hope for humanity.

So even if you end up with bruised feet, good deeds and common decency are worth it. And right now, you've got a chance to prove it. Do you guys know what Codfish Hollow is? It's a barn up in Maquoketa that plays host to the most amazing concerts in our area. It's a magical place I visit as often as possible. Attendees park in a cow pasture and take a hayrack ride to the venue.

But last weekend, there was an accident. The tractor that pulls the hayrack toppled over. Codfish's friendliest face, 74-year-old driver Marv Franzen, was briefly pinned underneath. He's now in Iowa City facing a lengthy hospital stay with broken arms and a broken pelvis. Marv's a legend and needs our help. Friends and family have set up a fundraising website to assist with his medical expenses. If you have any spare coin, please consider a donation at gofundme.com/f/fundraiser-for-marvin-franzen.

I'd do just about any good deed for my buddy Marv and Codfish Hollow. Just don't ask me to fix their PA. Stage diving is NOT all it's cracked up to be.

COLUMN: Sky Potty

The Quad Cities is a uniquely diverse place -- one populace spread across two states, four cities, multiple villages, dozens of neighborhoods, and a countless number of cultures. Yet despite the many people, places, backgrounds, and life stories that make up our Quad Cities, there's some things we can all agree on.

Iowa is north of Illinois. Whitey's really IS the greatest ice cream on the planet. Paula Sands is a national treasure. The only acceptable color of tractor is green.

And the #1 thing we all surely agree on? We just can't get enough of the I-74 bridge construction project.

Can you believe there was once a time when we had to suffer through uneventful direct commutes to work without a single exciting detour? Imagine the stress of having to drive from Point A to Point B without the respite of a refreshing ten minute traffic jam. Just think how boring life would be without the thrill of zipper merging.

Okay, so maybe the construction sucks and there's no good way to spin it. Maybe my optimism is waning. Maybe I'm still frosty over having to sit there today while a flatbed hauling some impossibly long piece of bridgework had to pull an 18-point turn to get on the downtown ramp. I don't want to say the bridge project is cursed. I can, however, personally attest that it's been cursed AT -- and I'll wash my mouth out with soap in due time, promise.

But the end will come, and it's going to be amazing. As annoying as the detours and traffic backups are, it'll all be worth it. One day in the not too distant future, we'll be able to drive from Iowa to Illinois without fearing for our lives. We'll have bridge lanes wide enough that we won't have to white-knuckle clench our steering wheels every time we pass a semi. And we'll have enough lanes that we won't be guaranteed half-hour delays every time a fender bends.

Until that day, my daily riverside commute from Rock Island to East Moline might sometimes be arduous. But it also affords me a daily view of the construction progress, which is nothing less than amazing. What began as floating platforms have rapidly become epic towers erupting out of the water to hold the framework arch of what will soon be our new bridge. How it was done I haven't a clue. Magic? A genie? A well-trained army of catfish?

Those towers now rise some 225' above river level, jutting into the sky and adorned with a bright red topper that surely holds important construction gear and fancy technological bridge-making wonders. At least I assumed it did. Then my friend Cindy Anderson came along and shattered all my understanding.

Nearly every day, Cindy goes down to the river, takes a picture of whatever strikes her fancy, and posts it to Facebook as her photo of the day. Recently, she took her zoom lens to the red box atop the temporary tower. Sure enough, it's a vital part of the bridge construction process.

It is, in fact, a portable toilet.

Yes, precariously perched atop a 225' testament to mankind's ingenuity and triumph over adversity sits -- a sky potty. Normally I'm above toilet humor. But this time, the toilet humor is above me.

So bad news, anyone who hoped to be the first to, umm, christen the new bridge. Someone's already beat you to it. I had to learn more about this heavenly latrine, so I got ahold of Danielle Alvarez. She's the I-74 Project Manager for the Iowa DOT and knows more about the science of aerial toiletry than anyone really should. So what on Earth is a porta-potty doing waaaay up there? It's simple, really.

"We have men and women constantly working atop that temporary tower," Alvarez explained. "When you gotta go, you gotta go!"

Makes sense. I thought MY commute was bad. Imagine if your commute involved a 225' climb -- only to get to the top and go "uh oh." That's the definition of a bad day. That's why a crane routinely takes the lofty loo to its dizzying heights, where workers move it into place in case they have to make a movement of their own.

How's it stay up there? "Besides being tied down?" responded Alvarez with a smile. "Gravity. It gets heavier throughout the day." Wow.

So what's it like to answer nature's call some 19 stories above the mighty Mississippi?

"It's only scary when you look down," said Alvarez.

Working on that bridge must be a high-pressure job reserved for our most heroic. But does anyone feel the pressure more than the poor crane operator tasked with gingerly bringing THAT bad boy down without, umm, spillage? According to one crew worker, we needn't worry.

"Our crane operator takes crap very seriously. He considers things like wind velocity rocking the porta-potty and making sure no one's in it before it's moved. He's got it down to a science."

I wish I knew anything about construction. I have no idea how a project this massive gets accomplished. Maybe it's a team of highly skilled, death-defying workers. Maybe it IS magic. And maybe sometimes, it's literally just a big load of [expletive]. All I know is I'll be happy when it's done, and I think that's something we can all agree on.

COLUMN: Cats (With A Capital C)

Congratulations, Hollywood. You actually did it.

I'd read some of the reviews and I just couldn't believe it. "The scariest thing you'll ever see," they said. "A new masterpiece in modern horror," some proclaimed. I didn't believe the hype. There was no way it could be more terrifying than the classics. But I've seen it for myself, and they're not lying. Move over, The Exorcist. Make way, The Shining. Step aside, Mr. Krueger. Hollywood has just released the most terrifying film you'll ever see.

I speak, of course, about the brief trailer for the upcoming movie adaptation of "Cats."

Last week, Universal Pictures released this nightmare fuel unto the world with little warning. Mankind was clearly not prepared.

The "Cats" trailer is truly two of the most off-putting minutes you'll experience all year. If a brief montage can elicit this kind of repulsion, the full movie (coming this Christmas) might be the end of us all. You've officially been warned.

It isn't just that you're watching a star-studded cast prance about in cat costumes. That would be bad enough. But the makers of "Cats" then took the footage and added CGI effects to make everyone look like beastly half-naked singing-n-dancing cat aliens from some untapped plane of Hell. If there really IS a secret UFO stronghold under the mountains of Area 51, we now have a pretty good idea what its residents resemble. Finally, the world has answers to questions that have plagued mankind, such as "What would Dame Judi Dench look like with fur and a tail?" (The answer? REALLY creepy.)

It doesn't help that this trailer is for the movie version of my least favorite musical of all time. Even without CGI and fraudulent feline fur, "Cats" creeped me out as a kid and continues to creep me out today.

For one, it has NO plot. Zero narrative. Zilch. Here's what happens in "Cats": cats sing about being cats. The end. Okay, maybe there's a TINY plot. "Cats" is the story of a tribe called the Jellicles, who meet once a year to elect one cat to travel to the Heaviside Layer, where they'll be reborn into a new life. Essentially, the entire musical is nothing but cat-people singing about why they should die -- and frankly, if I was trapped in this plot, I'd be pleading to die, too. In the end, I presume one of them does. I don't know for certain -- I've never made it that far without fleeing for my life and sanity.

I don't know a THING about how "Cats" came to be, but I have a guess. Once upon a time, Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote an amazing song called "Memory." It's a boss tune. A real tear-jerking show-stopper fit for a diva. Trouble was, he had no musical to put it in. Just then he looked down, saw his cat sleeping, and thought to himself, "That'll do." "Cats" is a two-hour excuse to hear "Memory" and little else.

At some point, he must have come up with the word "jellicle" and thought it was cool. But nothing rhymes with "jellicle," so most of the songs rhyme "jellicle" with "jellicle." If "Cats" had a drinking game where you had to swig every time someone said "jellicle," the entire audience would be dead of alcohol poisoning fifteen minutes in.

Other songs just abandon rhyme altogether, because why bother? You're already in the theater, you've already paid the money, and you're only there to hear "Memory" in the first place.

Mr. Webber, I know cats. Cats are friends of mine. This is not cats.

Either my cats are really weird (admittedly a possibility) or Andy Webber got it all wrong. Despite my constant encouragement and deepest desires, my cats have never spontaneously broken out in song and dance. At best, I might get a meow, and even that's pushing it.

Maybe its up to me to fix what's broken in "Cats." I might not be able to carry a tune or play a lick of music, but tonight, my cats and I put our heads together and came up with the basics of a musical I like to call "Actual Cats."

Act I, Scene I. The curtain opens to reveal two housecats sleeping on a couch. Upon the sound of a housekey turning a lock, they yawn, stretch, and immediately go into the opening number, "Hungry Songs for Hungry Cats."

This is followed quickly by other memorable sing-along numbers, such as:

"Back To Sleep"
"Guess Where I Peed (It's Not the Litterbox)"
"I Know You Have Food, Where Is The Food?"
"I'm Not Staring, I'm Judging You"

Act II is a little more emotional, with songs like "Pet Me Pet Me DON'T PET ME THERE" and the dramatic tale based on a true story, "I Don't Know This Girl You Invited Over (So I Pooped In Her Shoe.)"

Then, once the audience is deeply invested, hit 'em with the show-stopper. "Hunnnngry! It's so eeeasy to feeeed me / When you feeeed me, I'll understand what happiness issss, tilll the food bowl... FILLS AGAIN!" The audience weeps. Someone hacks up a hairball. Curtain.

Easy peasy. No need for a Heaviside layer or cat reaping ceremony. No one had to hear the word "jellicle." No one had to see a furry Dame Judi Dench. Dear American Theater League, you may send my Tony to the usual address.

COLUMN: Too Hot

Well, well. We meet again, empty white Notepad screen.

I can't wait to share the super exciting column topic I have this week -- except I don't have one.

Here's the thing. I usually write about what I see, where I go, and the things I do. But THIS week, the only place I've gone is my couch, and the only thing I've done is sit here on my e'er-expanding fanny. Sorry, but it's just too hot to do anything else, and I have ZERO patience for triple-digit forecasts.

I just looked out my window and witnessed a dude jogging by. In these temps, that's just death-wish levels of insanity. It's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk right now. At least I think it is. It's too hot to go outside and actually try it. But that's not gonna stop Joggerman. He had a clear look of superiority on his face as he proudly strode past all shirtless and self-righteous. He's not gonna let a little thing like an Excessive Heat Warning interfere with HIS exercise regimen.

As a rule, I don't generally wish ill fortune upon people, but I've gotta say, it would probably serve him right if he doubled over and started power barfing all over the sidewalk. Well, as long as it's not MY sidewalk. If it's hot enough to fry an egg, I don't wanna know what it would do to THAT. Eww.

Give us chubby nerds one bit of credit: We know how to stay indoors, especially when outdoors feels like a torture sauna. I'm supposed to be skilled and gifted at wasting time watching bad TV and obsessing over good video games, but I've already got cabin fever. How does this happen? A few years ago, I broke my ankle and spent the better part of six weeks surfing this couch with few complaints. Why can I not spend six hours on it today without the walls closing in?

But hope is not lost. On my lap sits a machine of infinite power, with access to all the knowledge of the world and at least 10,000 cat memes. If there's an answer to these heat-addled doldrums, surely it can be found on the internet. Back in a second...

BOOM. It took less than five minutes. I just went to a self-help site and pulled up an article entitled "GREAT THINGS TO DO ON A HOT DAY." Shall we dive in?

- "Cool off in the nearest stream or river by kayaking." Umm, okay. First off, don't own a kayak. Second off, can't swim. Third off, this author's clearly never endured a spring flood in the Quad Cities, because the nearest river is barely in its banks and still reeks of unhinged raw sewage. This helpful hint might as well just say, "Nothing to do on a hot day? Why not drown yourself in fetid feces water?" Hard pass.

- "Fill a child's swimming pool with ice and jump in!" It's so hot outside I'm not entirely sure that a bag of ice wouldn't just turn to steam the second I walk outside. Plus, this solution would first require me to roam the streets approaching random children and asking to borrow their pools. Clearly not a good look. Shane-ger danger.

- "Grab some water pistols, fill them up, and shoot your friends!" Because it always ends well when you go running around the neighborhood brandishing a mock weapon. That's never gotten anyone in trouble. Pass.

- "If you have a dog, give it a bath! Watch it run around like crazy trying to dry off!" I don't have a dog. I have cats. Specifically, I have cats smart enough to hate stupid activities like baths. If I tried to give my cats a bath, they'd watch ME run around like crazy trying to find something to stop the bleeding. No thanks.

- "Put on your favorite beach music and dance like a crazy person!" The music's already playing. In my house, it's never NOT playing. But the sight of me dancing is too embarassing for ANYONE to witness, including my cats or, God forbid, myself should I accidentally side-eye a mirror. Absolutely not.

- "Get in your car and drive somewhere you've never been before, somewhere cooler!" It's a 22.5 hour drive to Lake Windigo, Ontario. That's the furthest point north of here accessible by car. It's only 8 degrees cooler there, though admittedly you might catch a refreshing breeze whilst running for your life from angry moose.

But just when I thought this list didn't know me very well, I think I just found one of their pieces of advice that might be doable:

- "Stay in, write an opinion column, and see if your local newspaper will publish it."

Hi, I'm Shane, and my opinion is that it's too [expletive] hot outside. Let's see if my local newspaper will publish this.

COLUMN: Love Island

Sometimes it's easy to believe the world is beyond saving.

After all, the evidence in support of a society beyond redemption is staggering. Half of us hate the other half for entirely asinine reasons. Social media was supposed to unite the world, but it just gives us new and exciting ways to argue with strangers. Taxes are rising. Businesses are closing. Racism. Sexism. Homophobia. Tom Cruise. The future looks grim. There are some who say we're done for.

Not me. I'm an optimist. This morning, I watched a man nearly trip over himself to hold a door for an elderly lady. On my lunch hour, a car backed up an entire lane of bridge traffic just to let me make a left turn. At the gas station, a stranger complimented another stranger on her shoes. We as a people are innately good, and goodness is always worth saving. Humanity is strong and intelligent and one day, we -- or at least our children's children's children -- are going to live in world of positivity, equality, intellect, and hope. This is what I believe.

Then I turned on the TV and watched "Love Island" and I take it all back. Society has failed. We're doomed.

I have no patience for schlocky reality dating shows, but I needed to check out "Love Island." The British version has been a ratings juggernaut and the talk around every UK water cooler. When CBS announced the risky commitment of launching the American version five nights a week all summer long, I had to see what the fuss was all about. It must be great fun, no?

No, indeed.

I've now watched three episodes of "Love Island," and I'm honestly not even sure WHAT I've been watching, other than I definitely feel icky for doing it. It is a reality show? A dating game? Or has CBS just finally figured out how to air family-friendly pornography in primetime? I dunno what it is, other than gross.

Today's young people have advantages we never did. They've been raised in a tech-savvy world of limitless potential, walking around with instant access to all the knowledge of the world right in their pockets. Surely this new generation must be the smartest, most worldly, woke creatures ever raised on this planet, right? Just imagine the important discourse, soul-sharing, and refined conversations a modern dating show would contain.

Then chuck it all out the window, because here's how "Love Island" starts:

"Hi, I'm Caro! I'm 21, I'm a marketing student. I recently just started loving my hair, so I'm, like, really trying to own it, and so that would be my number one best quality!"

Within minutes, "Love Island" has already set us back as a society by about a kajillion years. Caro was quickly followed by Alana.

"I think my personality is a good quality," she announced to the camera. "Well, and I've got a nice butt! I really do! I'm just gonna let Jesus take the wheel!" I'm hoping if Jesus took the wheel, he'd immediately pop a U-turn and drive as far away from Love Island as he could.

In a post #metoo world, how could something this insipid, shallow, and sexist ever get green-lighted? Then I rapidly discovered it's not just the girls who are an embarassment. No, thankfully "Love Island" is an equal opportunity flaming dumpster pile.

Ladies, meet Michael. "Being this good looking is a gift and a curse," he philosophizes. "People make assumptions and judge, like I'm this dude who's way into myself. That's just not me. I also love animals." Clearly Michael's a catch, or possibly someone you could catch something from.

The plot of "Love Island" is simple. Painfully simple. Five impossibly attractive women are instantly paired with five gym-raised dudes and forced to live together in a tacky villa in Fiji. Remember that 80s music video that ruined the career of Billy Squier? The one full of bad decisions where he pranced around a neon set that looked thrown together by the decorators of "Miami Vice" during a bad cocaine binge? 

"Love Island" is like being stuck in that video forever, except Billy at least had the decency to don a pink t-shirt. On "Love Island," shirts and pants are clearly optional, and most residents opt out. The rest of the show is just skeevy makeout sessions, muscle flexing, catfights, and camera crews with itchy trigger fingers on the zoom button. In the end, somebody wins $100,000 but I still have no idea how. If this is what modern love's all about, then consider me perfectly cool with being eternally unlucky in love.

Maybe one day someone will green-light "Nerd Island," where human beings with actual personalities sit around watching anime, playing video games, and judging others not by the niceness of their butts but by truly important standards, such as the contents of their record collections. I'd watch that show. Heck, I'd go ON that show.

If "Love Island" becomes a hit over here, I'm officially pronouncing society beyond redemption. PLEASE tell me you have better things to do with your summer than sit around and watch vapid hot people be vapid and hot. Don't worry, I'll tell you everything you missed later. I mean, SOMEONE has to keep tabs on this show for the survival of mankind. These are the sacrifices I make for you, for journalism, and for the common good. Now if you'll excuse me, its almost 7 p.m., gotta go. Caro's going on a private date with Cormac. SQUEEEEEAL!

COLUMN: Blue Angels

I may have had a full-on Top Gun moment last week, folks.

At least, I THINK I had a Top Gun moment. Truth be told, I have no idea what a Top Gun moment even is, because I've never seen Top Gun. Like all movies starring a certain shiny-veneered thespian with the unmitigated gall to have once married MY future wife Katie Holmes, I took a pass.

Here is precisely everything I know about Top Gun: Some dudes fly planes. Berlin sings what might be the only 80s song I truly despise. Someone feels the need for speed. And worst of all, I'm pretty sure Tom Cruise's character does NOT die, and I hate movies with sad endings.

Still, I think I had a moment that captured the essence of Top Gun.

It was lunchtime, and I was leaving the office in search of fast food. I'd been listening to a quiet podcast on the commute that morning and had left the volume on my car stereo fully jacked. When I turned the key, it kicked on LOUD. But instead of the quiet podcast, it defaulted to a dance music channel on satellite radio, and suddenly vintage house music was blaring out my speakers at an entirely inappropriate, unprofessional, and unhealthy decibel level.

In other words, it was awesome.

Instantly I was swept back to my raver days of 1992, when my biggest concern in life was funky dope beats and how to make them funkier. For a fleeting moment, I didn't care what any of my co-workers or our customers may have thought (apologies all around.) The publisher of the paper could have been pulling into the lot with Donald Trump and Joe Biden for all I cared. For just a moment, I was going to sit there, close my eyes, lean back, and let the bass thump. But that's when a new noise popped in. Somewhere behind the familiar oontz-oontz-oontz of some sweaty French DJ, I heard it.

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Man, I didn't remember the bassline in this song being that wicked?

rrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRR

Suddenly I realized what was happening. "No way," I thought to myself as I sprung open the car door and leapt out.

RRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

And that's when my subwoofer immediately lost the good fight to the majestic thunder of the U.S. Navy Blue Angels searing through the sky overhead in a formation so tight it looked like they were only inches apart. The fly-by was so low I could actually see their little heads in the cockpits. Like that stupid Berlin song, it literally took my breath away.

As it turns out, I have an instinctive reaction to witnessing a squadron of F/A-18 Hornets soundtracked to wicked house music. And that reaction, friends, was to yell "YEAAAAH!" and throw a clenched fist triumphantly to the heavens. I've never seen Top Gun, but that HAS to be something Tom Cruise would do, right?

Now, to any non-insane person who may have happened upon our parking lot at that moment, what they clearly witnessed was a sad fat man having a spontaneous midlife crisis. But to me, I was living the dream -- well, until I sheepishly realized how ridiculous I must have looked before quickly returning my arm to a normal and decidedly less triumphant position, turning down the volume on my stereo, and self-consciously driving away.

But let's be honest, the Blue Angels are rad. As far as I'm concerned, they can headline the air show EVERY year. I've witnessed them a handful of times, and they never fail to amaze. These are military folk who have crossed the line from heroes to death-defying lunatics, and I love 'em for it. No words can properly express the respect I have for the speed, precision, and technical might of those magnificent men & women and their flying machines.

There's nothing like witnessing aeronautics in motion -- provided I'm safely on terra firma. Flying is not for me. I lose my stomach when I reach the second rung of a ladder, let alone pulling 5.2 G's in a vertical ascent to 8000 feet. Occasionally the Angels invite local journalists up for an aerial cruise. Not that they'd ever turn to the dude who writes about cats and bad TV, but trust me when I say they can spare the call. I guarantee I'd be the first ridealong to use the barf bag before the plane even fires up.

I am, however, a fan of watching others defy gravity. Youtube offers a surplus of amazing flight videos, from the Blue Angels to beyond. One of my favorites is a guy named Tucker Gott who fills his Youtube channel with paramotoring videos. That's the hobby and/or suicidal deathwish where you put on a parachute, strap a gas-powered fan to your back, and literally wing it. His selfie videos, where he's basically open-air cruising at 8000 feet in a wind-fueled lawn chair, are unreal. Except they ARE real, which is even more unreal.

In this world, there are some who slip the surly bonds of Earth and forge a new path through the heavens -- and there are others who yell "YEAAAAH!" and fist-pump like no one else is watching. I'm pretty sure I know which camp I fall in. Thanks for a great air show, Blue Angels. You're welcome back anytime I need a Top Gun moment. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a huge stack of Tom Cruise movies to not watch. 

COLUMN: Dear Uncle "Jack"

Dear Uncle "Jack,"

We need to talk.

You've been my uncle for most of the years I've been alive, and for that I'm grateful. You've always treated me with kindness and a smile, and I love spending time with you guys when you come to town. You're a great uncle and I'm proud to say we're family.

But I'm a little less proud to have you as a Facebook friend.

I realized long ago that we're NEVER going to agree on politics. Every time I log onto social media, I brace for whatever offensive memes, cartoons, and manifestos you decide to share with the world. Your goal is to provoke, and you do a pretty good job. I've come to learn that the best course of action is usually to bite my tongue and resist the urge to return fire. Whenever someone disagrees with you, it just fans the flame and inspires more eye-rolling content.

I'm never going to change your opinion when it comes to politics, and you're never going to change mine. So rather than waste our time starting flame wars on Facebook, it's usually best if I just ignore your rants and keep my trap shut. Trust me, I've become pretty adept at swiping past your many posts.

But I can't swipe this week away. You can rag on #fakenews and invent Benghazi conspiracies all the live-long day for all I care. But now, you've decided to celebrate Pride month by unleashing a daily stream of gay-bashing, and I can't ignore hateful nonsense like this. So let's have a chat.

I'm not gay, but I try to be an ally to my friends in the LGBTQ+ community. I support their rights, but I also support freedom of speech. As long as it doesn't escalate into threats, hate speech, or libel, you have the right to express your opinion on anything you want. That's what makes America so great. When those hateful clowns from Westboro show up to picket funerals, most of us justifiably want to punch their lights out. I choose to ignore their despicable rhetoric and instead celebrate that we live in a country where even ignorant buffoons have the right to speak their minds (or lack thereof).

I get that you have some religious issues with "alternative lifestyles." That's your right, too. I'm no theologian, and I'm not qualified to argue on the accuracy of the specific translations of those one or two Old Testament verses you repeatedly fall back on. But I'm pretty sure using the Bible to justify and fuel hatred and intolerance is the exact opposite of everything I know about Christianity. Jesus said nothing in the New Testament about being gay. If it wasn't a big enough deal for him to weigh in on, why do you feel the need?

You don't like gay people. Well, I don't like onions -- but you don't see me outside of McDonalds onion-shaming everyone who walks out with a Quarter Pounder. If you think it's wrong to be gay, then my best advice to you is: don't be gay. Is there really need for more discussion? No one is trying to indoctrinate you or your grandkids into the gay cabal. If you're not gay, then the gay agenda shouldn't concern you. Love who you love, and let others love who they love. Everyone lives happily ever after, and I can go back to checking Facebook without wincing.

The other day, you asserted that being gay is "a choice." I hold a different opinion, and so does most of the country, and so does science. But for the sake of argument, let's do an experiment real quick. If you're certain that a person "chooses" to be gay, then put your money where your mouth is and give it a whirl. For the next five minutes, choose to be gay. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I dunno, go find a picture of the dude who plays Aquaman and see if you can choose to be attracted to him.

No luck? I guess this means one of two things. Either (a) you're more of a Clooney type, or (b) maybe there's a teensy tiny chance that folks don't get to choose who they're attracted to.

What really made me write this column, though, was this gem you posted today: "Dear LGBT, if you don't want to be treated differently for being gay, then stop acting like being gay somehow makes you special. Your sexual orientation is neither an achievement nor a holiday." This, more than anything else, shows how much you're missing the point. Pride has nothing to do with wanting to be seen as special. It's about wanting to be seen as equal. It's about bravery and strength. It's about taking pride in your true self. It's about tolerance and acceptance and celebrating the diversity that makes life so rich.

Equality shouldn't be an argument. It should be common sense. I have friends who are straight, gay, transgendered, and some whose orientation I don't know or care about. I just call them friends, and that's enough for me. I'm not a soapbox columnist who writes impassionated pieces that inspire social change. I'm the guy who writes about cats and reality TV. I'm the guy unashamed to quote Taylor Swift -- and to that extent, Uncle Jack: "You need to calm down, you're being too loud."

I hope everybody had a wonderful Pride month. I see that July is National Aunt & Uncle Month. I'd send you a card, Uncle Jack, but I don't want to unfairly insinuate that being my uncle somehow makes you special. After all, having me as a nephew was a choice, and your familial orientation is neither an achievement nor a holiday.     

You're my uncle and I love you. You'll always be family. But I just wanted you to know why you're no longer my Facebook friend.

COLUMN: Ghost Hunting

Summer brings to mind many adjectives: carefree, lazy, relaxing, tropical, sunny, delightful, etc. Thus far, mine can be described as spooky. And perhaps a little stupid.

In my never-ending quest for personal growth and long-term success, I've set a series of important goals for myself this summer. Well, okay, ONE goal: It's time to get my DVR queue down to a manageable level.

This is the ONE time of year when I get a respite from my arduous and time-consuming TV watching schedule. We're in that magic window between the end of season finales and the start of my true summer shame: Big Brother. It's the perfect time to watch all the shows that have been gathering and taking up space on my DVR.

There's just one problem: it's mostly all quite terrible stuff. I watch all the good quality shows live, which means I leave the DVR to tape all my guilty pleasures. My DVR presently sits at 98% capacity. And I'd reckon about 95% of that 98% is nothing but shows about ghosts, UFOs, and sasquatches. I realize this sort of television fare is best suited for times a bit more Halloween-y, but some of these shows have been stacking up SINCE Halloween, so I need to get my summer paranormal on, y'all.

I like to think that I'm not a stupid person. That said, I DO enjoy my share of stupid shows about things that go bump in the night. Is most of it ridiculous hocum designed to get ratings and appeal to the lowest common denominator of humanity? Absolutely. Do I still watch it religiously? You betcha. And now I have somewhere in the range of 150 hours of this nonsense to catch up on, all so I can clear up room to record even MORE nonsense.

So while you've been enjoying nights out with good weather, great friends, and grilled food, I've been sitting here watching people take electromagnetic readings of door handles to prove the existence of bogeymen. Good times.

I'm starting to realize I can only suspend my disbelief for short doses. The more of these shows I watch, the more ridiculous they become -- and this is a genre that can already make the leap from scary to silly in a heartbeat. Among the worst offenders is a show featuring a woman with purported psychic powers who enters supposedly haunted homes and communicates with the dead. Having spent last night binge-watching, I have questions.

Each episode follows the same rough outline. We meet the scared homeowner who goes into great detail about their haunted domicile. The poor family is usually being plagued by unexplained noises, strange shadows, and the ever-popular "feeling like we're being watched." Sometimes they report seeing ghostly figures and apparitions popping 'round to say hello.

Then it's later that night. The psychic lady enters the house and says something ominous like, "THIS IS NOT GOOD!" before regaling us with tales of the evil and malicious spiritual forces at play.

Here's my question: I've seen umpteen episodes of this show, and I've yet to see her encounter ONE friendly ghost. Is there some kind of afterlife prerequisite that all ghosts must be demented or have some kind of malicious murderous agenda? As far as I'm concerned, this would be a bummer.

I've always hated change. When I'm forcibly shuffled off this mortal coil, if a white light shows up to take me away to the loving oneness of the universe, there's a pretty good chance I'll go, "Thanks, I'm good. I'd rather just stick around my living room if that's cool." I've always thought I'd be a fairly decent ghost to have around, but I'd clearly be a letdown if any psychic show came a-calling.

"I'm afraid you were right. Your house is haunted by the unholy presence of a dark spirit."
"Horrors! What does it want?"
"Let me attempt to communicate with him."
"I'm scared! What do you want, o spirit demon?"
"He says... he says... he says the band you were listening to last night was prosaic and derivative. He wants to make you a mixtape. He also hopes you could leave your TV on HBO. He wants to discuss the ending of 'Game of Thrones' with you."
"Oh no."
"THIS IS NOT GOOD!"

Pity whoever buys my house.

At the end of every episode, the psychic then tells the homeowners how to rid themselves of their otherworldly infestations. This can involve anything from salt to prayers to exorcisms and/or shamanic rituals -- all your standard ghostbusting checklist type stuff. But in the episode I watched last night, she produced a vial of something called "tar water" supposedly culled from one of the more voodooey bayous of Louisiana.

"One drop of this in each room," she explains, "and all spirits will be banished."

Well, that's handy. But wait, ALL spirits? So shouldn't tar water be the answer to every one of these episodes? In fact, shouldn't every episode from this point on last for exactly one scene?

"My house is haunted. Please help!"
"Here. Have some tar water."
"Much better. Thanks. Goodbye."

This might make for a slightly less entertaining program, but clearly a more efficient one -- not to mention a much-needed boon to the struggling tar water industry. Most importantly, it'd sure take up less space on the DVR. TV should hire me. It'd give me something to do this summer -- looks like I may have some free time on my hands.
   

COLUMN: Wasp Nest

Help me if you can, Quad Cities. I'm feeling down.

I'm working on this column Tuesday night. As I type these words, those lucky and/or wealthy enough to have tickets are presently at the TaxSlayer Center breathing rarified Beatle air. Sir Paul's in town while the biggest music geek I know -- namely, ME -- sits on my couch making a pouty face.

I shouldn't complain. I've seen my fair share of amazing concerts. Plus my couch is comfier than the seats at the TaxSlayer, and I should be grateful just to have a roof over my head and a place to call my own.

There's just one problem. My place is under siege.

I had no idea until last week. I was in the yard checking on the evergreen tree I've been babying since I moved in. But then something caught my eye, I looked up, and that's when things got fuzzy.

I've never fainted before in my life, but I'm pretty sure this was close. I may have forgotten to breathe for a bit. After thirty seconds of paralyzing fear, I blinked, ran full bore inside the house, and commenced freaking out.

There, hanging on the side of my house, was a wasp nest. No, I'm underselling it. This was a wasp metropolis, larger than a basketball, attached to MY safe space. At least I thought it was my safe space. It turns out my confines are no longer friendly.

Nothing makes an afternoon fly by quite like crippling irrational fear, and nothing turns me into a cowardly idiot faster than insects that fly and sting. If a bee gets near me, all rational thought ceases. I will run and scream like an idiot. I have tried to jump from moving vehicles. I once had a fast food employee think I was having a stroke in the drive-thru lane because a bee landed on my shirt and the only noise I could make was "Gfffraak!"

There is reason to my apiphobia. When I was little, I stepped on the wrong barn board and some angry bumblebees sent me to the emergency room when I puffed out with hives and my throat almost closed. Honey used to do the same, but nowadays I can eat it without problem, so there's a fair chance I've outgrown my allergy -- but I'm in no hurry to find out.

Wikipedia says that "unreasonable fear of bees in humans may have a detrimental effect on ecology," to which I say, "Sorry, ecology." I still want all bees to die. Look, I get it. Bees pollinate flowers and make honey. They're nature's little helpers who also occasionally inject us with venomous poison. But as far as I can see, there's no good argument for wasps. Wasps are just mean little attitude problems whose sole purpose is to make me act like a ninny and lose bladder control. Wasps are the worst.

I sent two texts. The first was to my friend Jason:

"Giant wasp nest on house. Will never sleep again. Their house now. Its been a good run. Goodbye forever."

The other was to my mommy.

"Wasps now own my house. Prepare bedroom, moving home. Buy cat litter."

Thankfully, Jason showed up before I could pack a suitcase. "Let me see this huuuuge nest," he said with an eyeroll until I pointed at it from the safety of my living room.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed. "You weren't kidding. That thing's huge!"

"I KNOW," I said, because, well, I knew.

"It's also vacant."

I crept around the house and steeled myself for another glimpse into my worst nightmare. Sure enough, the nest was empty. In fact, the bottom half of it was gone. All that was left were the desolate ruins of Wasptopia. I wasn't sure whether I felt relief or anger. The imminent threat was gone, but did I really spend 2018 as the unknowing landlord to hordes of my mortal enemy?

One thing was certain - this nest was getting evicted. The only thing I owned capable of reaching the nest was a feather duster with a telescoping handle, so if you happened to be driving through Rock Island and witnessed two weirdos playing the least manly game of aerial croquet imaginable, my sincere apologies. After a few misguided whacks, we brought it down.

And by "we" I mean Jason. I was cowering a half block away. Jason grabbed the nest and brought it over.

"See how cool it is? Look how much work they put into the creation of these things."

"Yes," I replied. "Behold this majestic and wondrous creation of nature. NOW BURN IT WITH FIRE."

I've had my fill of insects this season and it's only June. I've fought bagworms, gnats, wasps, and now tardy mayflies are coming around. Maybe it's a good thing I skipped the concert. I'm tired enough of bugs. The last thing I need are Beatles.

COLUMN: Bagworms

It's been a rough spring.

Record precipitation has ravaged the heartland with unspeakable flooding. We've seen neighborhoods evacuated, businesses shuttered, roads closed, and farmland devastated. I still have friends wading through toxic muck just to get to their front doors. They say there's "no such thing as bad press," but I'd reckon the folks who work at HESCO might have a different opinion. It's been (and continues to be) a big mess.

I'm lucky enough to reside on higher ground with a dry basement (knock on wood and/or concrete.) I haven't been completely unaffected by the floods of 2019, but once you see submerged cars and underwater basements, it's hard to complain about the extra eight minutes it currently takes me to get to work.

But I think we can all agree on the worst part of this year's flooding: THE STUPID GNATS.

When nature rained on us for a month straight, it seemed cruel. When the sun finally emerged but you still don't want to leave the house because of gnat swarms? Well, that's just sadistic. I can't open my back door without a half dozen of those winged wonders making it inside, and I don't need my geriatric cats attempting triple salchows trying to catch the microscopic monsters.

We'll beat the flood and we can beat gnats, too. I'm thinking either a DEET airdrop or a mass deployal of whatever creatures feast on gnats, unless said creatures are grosser than gnats (i.e. spiders need not apply.)

At great personal expense, I can proudly report that I've single-handedly lowered the local gnat population by five. That's the number I've accidentally inhaled and/or swallowed this week. That's 0.03 needless calories I've consumed in the name of gnat-destroying heroics. Remember that when you see me. I'm not chubby -- I'm a hero.

Unfortunately, gnats haven't been my only insect problem this year. Nature is coming at me full bore.

It was only days after I moved into my house that I first noticed the wee little volunteer evergreen sprouting up beside my house. I couldn't bring myself to pull it. I was trying to make a home, and so was this tree. A decade later, it's tall and proud. It's too close to the house, so I have trim it back every year, but it's part of my life. I was even excited to see little pine cones on it this winter.

Until, that is, a friend corrected me. "Dude, those are cocoons." Eww. Kinda gross, but maybe I helped bring a few more butterflies into the world. This spring, I spent a boring rainy day researching cocoons on the internet, and I'm glad I did. Turns out I wasn't making butterflies after all. I was making something way more disgusting. Eww, indeed.

If your life has been torn asunder by the floods of 2019, be thankful of one thing. No matter how bad things are, you're not an evergreen bagworm. It turns out my lucky tree's been infested by freeloading squatters with about the worst existence imaginable.

They start life as little wormy caterpillars who seek out delicious trees. Once a home/victim has been found, they eat the tree up, all the while crafting and lugging around a little bag made from tree bark, dirt, and silk. With bellies full, they hang the bag on the tree and crawl inside. If you're lucky enough to be a male bagworm, you emerge as a mouth-less moth with little time and one goal (hint: it involves the music of Barry White.) You might not have a mouth, but you DO have an "appendage" so impressive that you can land on another bag and impregnate the female without even stepping inside. You are what James Brown wrote "Sex Machine" about. But you have no mouth, so then you die.

Female bagworms don't get to be moths. They just chill inside the bag hoping for a gentleman caller before they die. If they were lucky enough to get lucky, their dead bodies could harbor up to 4,000 babies who eventually emerge and begin the process anew.

So if you're feeling down from the flood, at least be grateful you're not walking around building and carrying your own coffin before sealing yourself inside and hoping you get sexually violated so that one day your children will eat their way out of your carcass. That's horror-movie level terrifying, and this demented miracle of nature has been playing out some four feet away from where I watch bad TV every night.

The best way to curb a bagworm infestation is to pluck the bags from the tree before the next generation comes out to say hello. I went into immediate action -- specifically, the action of telling my lawn guy to get a-plucking. Hopefully we got them in time, but I need to monitor the tree for further signs of infestation.

That's what I was doing last week when I happened to look up into the face of pure evil. This was followed by me making a noise like "Gahhhhhk," turning pale white, and almost cold fainting. More on that next week, as Shane's Fun With Nature continues.

COLUMN: UFO Twister

I've never been a believer in making a "bucket list" of things I'd like to do before I die. I live in steadfast denial of the aging process, and any admission of life having an expiration date would be a clear concession to the grim reaper that I refuse to make.

That said, there's two things I've always yearned to see while I'm around. This weekend, I almost checked both off my list.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again because I'm quite possibly very stupid: I want to see a tornado with my own eyes.

They're deadly, yes. But tornados are also spell-binding. They seem to defy all laws of reason and physics. When we go about our day, we're used to the world behaving in a certain way. For instance, we can generally rely on the ground staying on the ground and the sky staying in the sky. But sometimes, the sky gets super angry that it has to stay in the sky and instead points a swirling finger of destruction at the ground to up-end our lives.

I've always been one of those idiots who wants to run TOWARDS a tornado, not away from them (DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, unless you want your home to be Oz.) I grew up in a house that was virtually tornado-proof, so maybe that's why I've always found them more fascinating than terrifying. My current house would probably come down with little more than a huff and a puff, but it hasn't stopped me watching every idiot storm chaser on Youtube with envy.

As much as I yearn to witness one, the reality of tornados is sobering and horrifying. A few years ago, I saw the damage firsthand to homes in Fruitland, IA and Washington, IL, and there are no words. My thoughts and sympathies go out to everyone in Kansas, Ohio, and obviously right here who've been affected by storms, floods, and this spring's historic outbreak of twisters. As I type this Thursday night, tornado warnings are popping off in Iowa for yet another round of damage and terror. If this is the new normal, it's a scary normal.

I almost had a front row seat. Occasionally in this column, I've poked fun at a certain regional meterologist who likes to call snow "white gold" and cheers on blizzards with enthusiasm. As it turns out, he's a great guy who's just an unapologetic weather geek. Every spring, he takes a pimped-out van on a week-long chase across Tornado Alley. This year, he invited me along for the ride. I desperately wanted to go, but schedules were tight and my only option would have been driving out and meeting up somewhere mid-chase that hopefully wasn't in the path of funnel. 

It wasn't to be. When you're storm chasing, the storms call the shots. This season, the storms called him to eastern Colorado, a bit far me to play catch-up. No storm chasing for me this year. Instead, I sought solace with friends at my favorite place in the world: Codfish Hollow. If you haven't been to the farm-turned-concert-venue in rural Muscatine, you're missing one of the greatest treasures we have.

There we were, standing in a field next to a rustic barn blaring decidedly NON-rustic rhythms, when my friend pointed and went, "What's THAT?"

"That" turned out to be the second thing I've always wanted to see. In the northern sky, three equidistant lights were evenly gliding from west to east, and three things became instantly clear: it was unidentified, it was flying, and it was an object. Missing my chance to see a tornado sucked, but a witnessing a UFO was the best consolation prize I could ask for.

It wasn't even a clear night. Only a few stars were visible, but these lights were almost as bright as the Big Dipper itself. Was it three objects or one BIG object (aka the mothership where they take the abducted for routine probing purposes)? I stood transfixed as they disappeared into the horizon before springing into professional journalist mode. Thankfully, my years at the newspaper taught me proper interviewing technique in times of crisis.

I approached a couple of potential witnesses and calmly asked, "OMIGOD DID YOU JUST SEE THE [EXPLETIVE] UFO IN THE [EXPLETIVE] SKY JUST NOW?!?!?!?!"

So, fellow Codfishians, if a chubby insane person accosted you this weekend with tales of aliens in the night sky, he did NOT, for the record, take too much brown acid. He really DID see a [EXPLETIVE] UFO in the [EXPLETIVE] sky.

And I did, for approximately 16 hours. Some of you spent last Monday with family and friends on a day of rememberance and togetherness. Others may have spent the day submitting field reports to MUFON, the Mutual UFO Network. That's where I discovered five other identical reports that night, from Iowa to Michigan, reporting the exact same sighting. Whatever I saw was big.

And it was. While we were dodging storms and firing up barbecues, Elon Musk and his SpaceX team were releasing sixty new broadband satellites to orbit Earth. Before the satellites were properly positioned, they were released low enough to be seen by the naked eye. The mass of lights nearly sent the Netherlands into a panic. By the time they orbited back over North America, you could only see three of them. I found video of the flyover from a SpaceX fan in Chicago, and it was exactly what we'd witnessed.

So our UFO wasn't actually a UFO, but it was a FO regardless, and a day with a FO is better than no FO, I always say. Maybe one day I'll see something truly unidentified in the night sky. Maybe one day I'll be able to go on a real storm chase. Until then, tornados and UFOs remain on the bucket list I'll never admit to making because I plan to live forever unless an alien or a twister gets me.