COLUMN: Where Did 4th Grade Go?

Last week, I learned with some sadness of the passing of my third grade teacher's husband.

Memories of grade school are fuzzy, but they're warm fuzzies -- the warmest of which hail from third grade. My teacher that year was amazing, and I remember a classroom filled with music, laughter, encouragement, equality, and support. She was the real deal, and I'm happy we're still in touch.

If there's one thing my mother and I share, it's our mutual sense of caring and compassion. Well, and our mutual love of gossip. I wasted no time calling home to pass along the news to Mom.

"Oh, that's sad," my mom said. "She was your fourth grade teacher, right?"

"Nope," I replied, "she was third grade. Fourth grade was... umm..."

And then it hit me. Or, rather, it DIDN'T hit me. I had no earthly idea who my fourth grade teacher was. My mind drew a complete blank. I remember all my other teachers clearly. But FOURTH grade? It's like it didn't even exist. 

I am nothing without my noggin. My brain contains every essence of my personality, my life's precious memories, and a comprehensive database of what I'd reckon to be 134,704 different songs that get awkwardly stuck in my head for no particular reason. (Today's was "Obsession" by Animotion. You're welcome.) There's no way my brain could let me down and wipe all of fourth grade from my memory. But, alas, it has. My autobiography jumps from third grade directly to fifth.

Now, I SUPPOSE you could say I'm not exactly a spring chicken anymore, and the dimming of distant memories is perfectly natural. It might even be possible to think my brain just (gasp) isn't exceptional and perfect. 

Naw. That's silly talk. My brain's awesome and I'm a genius. This leaves only one rational explanation: Clearly, somewhere along the way, I have been abducted by aliens.

I've watched enough paranormal documentaries to know when my brain's been monkeyed with. I've watched countless testimony of people who claim to have been sucked out of bed and beamed aboard motherships where they were poked and prodded before being deposited back to Earth with strange gaps in their memory. Darn you, aliens!

Obviously some interstellar visitors must have been toodling past in their UFO, caught a load of me and my massive intellect, and wanted to study my tremendous brain and its wealth of human knowledge within. And they obviously must have kept my fourth grade memories as a souvenir. As the hard-hitting journalist I pretend to be, I needed answers.

I've lost touch with most classmates from those days, but I found three on Facebook, so I sent them identical messages. This wasn't awkward at all, considering I can count on one hand all the words I've said to them collectively since the 1970s. But that didn't stop me from greeting my long-lost friends with, "HELP! Who was our fourth grade teacher? DID WE HAVE ONE? WAS I ABDUCTED BY ALIENS?!" 

The first to respond was Dee, a fellow Galesburg ex-pat who also now calls the QC home. She couldn't remember, either. "But I just messaged Amy T. She'll know."

Amy Z. was the next to respond. "I think I remember his name," she said. "I can't picture his face, though. I just messaged Amy T. She'll know."

I don't ever fancy being a fly on a wall, but I would've liked to have seen Amy T.'s face when she innocently opened Facebook to be assaulted by three names from the distant past all urgently demanding the name of our fourth grade teacher. To her credit, she DID know, and it WAS the name Amy Z. remembered as well. The name sounds right, but I still can't picture the guy or anything that happened in his class.

Clearly he had an immense impact on my life. I'm not saying he was a bad teacher. He might have been a great teacher. He might have been a Martian. I have no conscious recall either way, and that's a bit alarming. But it's refreshing to know my classmates are fuzzy on it as well. Either memories fade over time, or the spaceship that abducted me was big enough for our whole class to fit.

Maybe it was just a forgettable class. Maybe I learned my 134,705th song, reached the capacity of my brain's hard drive, and something had to be deleted. Maybe I'm just a human being with flaws and forgetfulness.

Or maybe that's exactly what the aliens want us to believe.

COLUMN: #Canceltok

I think it might be high time that we consider cancelling cancel culture.

There are several online content creators who spend their days gleefully destroying people's lives in the name of moral crusading and social justice. Is it deserved? Oftentimes, yes. Is it fun to watch? Absolutely. But is it super dangerous and a giant red flag as to where society's headed? You betcha. 

It's no secret that our world is full of truly horrible garbage nightmare people. Racist, sexist, and just plain awful folks live and walk amongst us every day. They always have. But in today's world, if you're a terrible person doing terrible things in public, there's a good chance someone's pointing a camera phone in your direction and your terribleness could live on the internet and haunt you FOREVER.

That's what the cancel-culture creators do. They post videos of awful people being awful, attempt to identify the offenders, and then sit back whilst the internet ruins those people's lives by any means necessary. They'll deluge the offender with calls and messages. They'll find that person's employer and deluge THEM with messages. They often won't stop until the offending party has lost their job, their reputation, and their livelihood.  

Is it fun to watch? Oh, for sure. There's nothing more satisfying than watching jerks get what's coming to them. But after you've watched a few of these videos, that allure goes away and you're left with the realization that watching terrible people suffer terrible consequences is... kinda terrible. It just makes me feel gross about humanity in general.

A couple weeks ago, video came out of a terrible person being terrible to the young staff of a smoothie shop. The irate customer yells and screams at the clerks, throws a glass violently, and at one point unsuccessfully tries to gain access to an staff area while the frightened clerks call 911. Then he calls one of the employees a "dumb immigrant" before the video cuts off. It's a hard watch.

There's absolutely no excuse for such behavior. Its reprehensible and shouldn't be tolerated by any society that calls itself civilized. Content creators pushed the video viral, and in no time at all uncovered the identity of the jerk and put his name on the internet for all to see. Not only was the guy found and arrested, but he was also fired from his lucrative finance job at Merrill Lynch. 

Kind of a feel-good story, right? It's great to see a garbage human held accountable for his garbage actions. But then a few days later, more information came out.

It turns out the guy was having a meltdown because hours prior, he had been in the shop and ordered a smoothie for his son. Due to miscommunication, he was given a smoothie that contained peanuts. His son is deathly allergic, suffered a bad reaction, and had to be ambulanced to a hospital. 

Does that give him the right to hurl racial epithets and glassware at the employees there? Absolutely not. Like I said before, there's no excuse for his actions. But should any consideration be given to the circumstances? There's no justification for racism or violence EVER, not even on your worst day. But have we all said and done sincerely stupid things in our worst moments that we later regret? Absolutely. This guy DEFINITELY needed to learn a lesson, but did he deserve his life and his family's income to be irreparably destroyed? 

I honestly don't know. And that's the point -- what gives any of us the right to cast final judgement? I'm certainly not qualified for the job. Are you? There are people out there qualified to judge. They're called judges. As much as I seethe when I see anyone treated with disrespect or pointless hatred, I also don't want to find myself succumbing to the same hatred by casting judgement from miles away behind a keyboard. When smoothie guy got fired, the TikTok creators who made it go viral then posted videos of themselves gleefully dancing jigs for destroying this guy's life. 

My fear is that some of these proud cancel-lors are less motivated by social justice and more by a desire to become the self-appointed judge, jury, and executioners of the court of public opinion. If they were only in it for social justice, they wouldn't have merch stores where you can buy their faces on t-shirts and coffee mugs. 

I've been worried about the repercussions of cancel culture for a while, but it might be fixing itself. Last month, someone uncovered evidence that one of the internet's leading cancel-culture crusaders had himself made some pretty questionable posts a decade ago. Now other creators are trying to cancel HIM, and the whole of TikTok's #canceltok is turning on itself. May the strongest survive, I guess.

I'll just sit back, watch with concern, and maybe enjoy a smoothie. I plan on tipping my server well.     

COLUMN: Coroner

People sometimes ask what compels me to be a columnist. Simple: to become famous and all-powerful so I can procure a horde of evil minions to rule the world with an iron fist. Duh.

But let's be honest. My path towards global conquest has thus far NOT been speedy. As of press time, my fists continue to be softer than iron, and so far I've only managed to recruit three minions, and that's only because I feed them and change their litterboxes. They're certainly evil, but I've yet to notice any of them do my bidding (unless my bidding requires hairballs.)

But an opportunity just crossed my path that could change everything.

True story: I just received an e-mail that says, and I quote, "The Rock Island Democratic Party is looking for folks in our county to run for local office. Would you like info on how to run?"

(Cue evil laugh.)

I've never had political ambition in my life. I can barely make eye contact with strangers, let alone govern them. I've been to a few city council meetings, and, umm, no thanks. Unlike Alexander Hamilton, I have no earthly desire to be in the room where it happens. All things considered, I'd rather be in the DJ booth in the dance club down the street from the room where it happens. 

If I'm going to run for office, it needs to be something innocuous. One of those jobs where most people don't even know what it is that you do... Clearly, I need to be your next comptroller (whatever that is.)

I'm pretty sure I have exceptional comptrolling skills. I will troll the meanest comps you've ever seen.

Other candidates might not be brave enough to make bold promises on the campaign trail, but not me. I'm a man of action. When you elect me, on my VERY FIRST DAY in office, I promise to waste no time before looking up the word "comptroller" in the dictionary to find out what it means. Heck, I'll do it right now.

Oh. Never mind. It involves numbers. Yuck. I can barely keep track of my OWN money, let alone anyone else's.

Trolling comps is a no-go for me, but that doesn't mean I'm thwarted. I just need to find some other public office that would be a perfect fit for a nerdy newspaper columnist with an extensive resume of music collecting, litterbox cleaning, and television consumption. There's only one obvious choice.

I need to be your next coroner.

Sorry, current Rock Island County Coroner Brian Gustafson. I've never met you and you seem like a decent guy. But the people demand I seek public office, and coroner seems pretty swell. I might not have any experience, but I did watch that one episode of "Quincy, M.E." where he confronts the troubling and dangerous fad of "punk rock," so I think I've got the basics down. (Off topic: If you haven't seen that episode, seek it out. It's magic.)

There's only a couple roadblocks to me being your next coroner: I have no medical experience and no earthly desire to ever see anyone's innards. But I have a plan: If you elect me coroner, I'll skip the icky innards and save a ton of time by simply labelling everyone's cause of death as "sexual misadventure." Not only will the county save money on fancy autopsy equipment, but if every death in town suddenly gets attributed to salacious and tawdry unmentionables, we could probably heat the entire county on the power of water-cooler gossip alone. Clean, renewable energy derived from pure, locally-sourced rumor mills. Good for the environment, good for Rock Island.

But alas, my dreams of public office were dashed once I discovered I'd have to quit THIS job. If I ran for office, I'm pretty sure the paper in fairness would have to legally give humor columns to anyone else running for the same office -- and if there's one thing prospective coroners are known for, it's their ability to make people laugh. I don't need competition like that in my life.

So, Rock Island Democrats, I sadly decline your kind offer -- for now. Maybe someday. Until then, I'll be hanging out with my minions and launching an exploratory committee (which will likely involve watching many more episodes of Quincy, M.E.)   

COLUMN: Wordle

I'm late. I should've had this column written and put to bed a half hour ago. Instead, it's 1:05 a.m. and I'm just now tippy-typing away.

I'd like to say I'm running behind because I'm an exciting person doing exciting things. Truth be told, I'm running late because I just spent the past 35 minutes of my wasted life pointlessly trying to guess a 5-letter word.

Wordle is evil and has plagued our fragile earth for too long. It must be stopped. 

Unless you live under a rock, and unless that rock has lousy wi-fi, you should know what Wordle is by now. The popular online puzzle game has gone viral out of nowhere and suddenly the whole world's obsessed with 5-letter words. The brainchild of software engineer (and apparent masochist) John Wardle, Wordle's daily puzzles are just perfect for those of us who like to augment our morning cup of coffee with anguishing mental torture.

The premise is simple: Each day, players get six attempts to correctly identify a random five-letter word. With each guess, Wordle will tell you: (a) which letters of your guess are NOT in the word of the day, (b) which letters of your guess ARE in the daily word, but are in the wrong position, and (c) which letters you've guessed correctly in the correct position. Given this information, you have six tries to correctly identify the word of the day. That's all there is to it.

There's only ONE Wordle puzzle per day, and every player around the globe gets the same puzzle, so don't spoil the daily answer for anyone unless you're willing to face the harsh wrath of the online masses. Wordle makes it easy to share your daily score on social media -- so now when I log onto Facebook, half my feed is taken up by people posting Wordle scores.

The first time I played, I correctly identified the Wordle of the day in TWO guesses. "Oh wow," I thought to myself. "I'm really good at this. Clearly, I am skilled and gifted at word puzzles. Let me share these results so as to impress my friends and followers with my clear genius." For 24 hours, I loved Wordle.

Then I played the next day. My first guess didn't contain ONE correct letter. My second guess revealed there was a "U" and a "K" in the word. By my fourth guess, I was desperate. "Is it CRUNK?" (It was not.) Umm, Is BRUNK a word? (It is not.) Is FRUNK a word? (No. But, let's be honest here, it absolutely should be.)

That second day, I swear to you I stared at my phone for almost a half hour, sweat dripping from my forehead. At one point, I yelled into the open air and sent various cats flying out of the room. Eventually, I threw my phone on the couch and stomped off to fold laundry, which I'm pretty sure is the adult equivalent of taking my ball and going home.

I'm finally coming to terms with the ugly truth: I am really, really bad at Wordle. Turns out it was PURE LUCK that first day when I got the word in two tries. Most days, it takes me 5 or 6. Some days, I can't get it at all. 

I can only assume Josh Wardle created this game in hopes of giving people a fun, relaxing brain-teaser to take their mind off things. Instead, it's daily torture that raises my blood pressure and drives me neurotic. Why am I terrible at this game? I'M A WRITER. I've typed a kajillion five-letter words in this column alone. Ooh, wait -- is ALONE today's Wordle? Nope. ARRRGH.

Why am I playing this daily nightmare? I don't find it enjoyable in the slightest. I find it maddening. But I'm doing it because all my friends are doing it and I have to post my stupid score to Facebook every stupid day. I have enough quite enough fear in my life as is. Now I get to add the fear of dying in my sleep and the police discovering my corpse next to seventeen pieces of scrap paper filled with 5-letter words and the one cop will turn to the other and go, "Yep, we got us a lunatic" and THAT will be my legacy.

"Here lies Shane... he was really frunking bad at Wordle." 

COLUMN: Satan Club

Once upon a 1980s, a short-lived teen dance club opened up in my hometown of Galesburg.

One fateful weekend, the club got some unexpected visitors. A group of punk and goth kids from Peoria showed up. The whole place froze as this pack of wild adventurers from Planet Cool walked in. For most of us, it was our first proper glimpse at actual counter-culture.  

The ripples were swift. Within days, several local kids had taken on the same look. Our mild-mannered high school was suddenly filled with mohawk haircuts, safety pins, and ratty jackets with hand-drawn anarchy symbols on the back. Parents were aghast. 

I was never a member of that clique. I was WAY too nerdy and my parents would've never let me dress the part. But I WAS somewhat accepted by those kids. You see, I was a DJ at that short-lived teen dance club. I didn't LOOK punk or goth, but I loved the music and spun it as often as I could. One of my proudest accomplishments was slipping a Sex Pistols song into my high school's homecoming playlist.

But one day, a teacher came up to me after class and asked the most ridiculous question ever: "Say, you and your, umm, interesting friends don't ever do... SATANIC things, do you?"

Say what? Other than the time I watched "The Omen" without my parents knowing, I didn't even know what Satanic things WERE. I still don't, honestly. But it didn't take long for rumours to fly that the local goth kids were all gathering late at night to sacrifice bunnies, vandalize churches, and commit unspeakable acts. From what I knew of those kids, they mostly gathered late at night to get unlimited refills on coffee at Village Inn.

But the general consensus around town was if you looked weird, you must be a devil worshipper. I will never forget going to a friend's house afterschool and finding a church pamphlet titled, "What To Do If Your Child Is A Punker Rocker."

This was the 1980s, and Satanic Panic was in full effect. Parents were terrified you could spin a record backwards and be brainwashed into Satanism, whatever that was. In West Memphis, three kids were wrongly convicted of murder on the basis they wore black and listened to goth music. It was a weird time to be alive.

Now here we are, some 35 years later, and the devil is once again scaring people. Last week, flyers were posted inviting the children of Jane Addams Elementary in Moline to an "After School Satan Club." As you can imagine, this didn't go over too well.

In reality, it was a pretty effective stunt. The organizers of this club seem less concerned about turning your children toward Beelzebub and more concerned about making a point that religion and schools probably shouldn't mix. Board of Education policy in Moline allows for community rental and usage of their facilities after-hours, and several religious groups take advantage of this. But if you're going to allow one religious group to rent your place out, you need to allow ALL religious groups to do it, even ones you might not subscribe to.

The organizers of the club say they're not attempting to convert children to any religious ideology. Instead, After School Satan Club promotes "benevolence and empathy, critical thinking, creative expression, and personal sovereignty." It's all just shock and awe on a ridiculous flyer that's meant to raise as many red flags as possible. Not to both figuratively AND literally play Devil's Advocate, but their plan sure worked. Some people were outraged, others were supportive, and the first club meeting went down the other day complete with protesters, counter-protesters, and an outraged Tucker Carlson on Fox News. 

I'm no devil worshipper. But I also think kids of ALL religions and backgrounds deserve equal footing and the chance to go to school without being made to feel different. I wouldn't send my kid to Satan Club, but I respect its right to exist, and I respect the Board of Education for playing fair. If you're worried about all this, don't be. I don't think this particular stunt will lead to a new Satanic panic. Let's face it, we've lived the past two years in a moderate state of perpetual panic as is. Most of us are fresh out of panic at this point.

Still, you know you're a product of the 1980s when you see a headline like "IS SATAN INVADING OUR SCHOOLS?" and all you feel is a sense of nostalgia for the good ole days when our biggest worry was what Led Zeppelin was saying in reverse. I've got some news for the devil: we don't need your backwards messages in songs. It's 2022. Today's chart-toppers are bad enough when you play them FORWARD, thanks much.    

COLUMN: Internet Crackpots

Once upon a time, someone invented the computer.

Many agree it was John Vincent Antanasoff, a physics professor from Iowa State University. One day, Professor Antanasoff needed to clear his head, so he hopped in his Ford V-8 and went for a drive that ended up, as legend tells, at Hunter's bar in Rock Island. It was there where he ordered a bourbon and jotted down notes for what would eventually become the first digital electronic computer.

Decades later, a team of like-minded tech experts -- and, supposedly, former Vice President Al Gore -- came up with a revolutionary idea for an interconnected network of computers -- an "internet," if you will. 

Imagine the hopes, dreams, and possibilities that went through the minds of those dreamers. Perhaps their concepts would one day lead to global communication, electronic commerce, streamlined business solutions, and exponential growth of global education and outreach. They had to be so proud.

I'm going to wager a guess that not ONE of those technological innovators ever once said, "With this, mankind can finally aspire to a day in which we can more easily tell the world that NASA faked the moon landing, aliens walk among us, and humans should consume great quantities of horse dewormer." 

There was a time I used to love and appreciate the weirdness of the internet. If you ever need proof that the world is deliciously bonkers, just visit the deeper nooks and crannies of the world wide web. If you keep opossums in your house, there's a website for you. If you cook opossums and need new recipes, there's a website for you. If you like to dress up in furry costumes and pretend you're an opossum on the weekends, there's an entire online community waiting for you with open arms -- err, paws.

But it's 2022, and the weirdness of the internet no longer hides in the back alleys of the information superhighway. Nowadays, it just stands on the medium hitchhiking -- and an alarming number of people us give it a ride. Last night, I opened my computer to two back-to-back newsflashes.

The first was a TikTok video stating that concrete evidence now exists proving that America's greatest treasure -- the late and universally-loved Betty White -- was, as you can guess, part of a secret Satanic cabal that drinks the blood of virgins in unholy rituals to achieve global domination. Oh, Q-Anon, it's good to know you're still out there. What's their damning evidence? I have no idea, because I rolled my eyes and scrolled past the video after 2.5 seconds.

I think the big takeaway here is the knowledge that, even on your worst day, when you're fully convinced that you're wasting your life, you can take comfort in the fact that someone somewhere at this very minute is watching reruns of "The Golden Girls" in slo-mo to see if they can find evidence that Betty White was a reptilian extra-terrestrial. Feel better about yourself?

Newsflash #2: Did you guys hear there's a surefire cure for COVID? According to a new wave of crackpots on the internet, the easy solution to ward off COVID is... drinking urine. (Note: Do not ever do this.)

I have at least 37 jokes here that I simply CANNOT tell you, because I like to operate within at least a modicum of good taste -- and I'm pretty sure I can guess one thing that does NOT taste good. But let me just say this: Those folks may be on to something. I bet they won't get COVID. Know why? Because the minute you start doing something THAT gross and stupid, no one will EVER want to come within six feet of your crazypants ever again. Problem solved. 

But that's what we've turned into. We can laugh at the foolishness all we want, but there are now chatrooms and message boards devoted to these crackpot theories, and all week long medical doctors have been forced onto Twitter to beg people not to drink their own urine, which is about the most 2022 thing I can possibly imagine.

So here's to your technological innovation, Mr. Antanasoff. You made something neat, and the world used it to prove just how utterly stupid we can be. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to power this laptop off and go pet a cat.     

COLUMN: Ich Spreche Deutsch

Sometimes it's good to find a new hobby. I'm just not sure I picked the right one.

I've been laying low in what will probably be a failed attempt to avoid the Omicron surge/scourge. I've already alphabetized my music collection and cleaned the basement. I'm running out of ideas to stay productive. This is usually when I give up, belly-flop on the couch, and zone out to TV and Tik Tok.

Last week, I discovered a content creator whose videos are fairly addictive. He's a random guy who happens to be conversationally fluent in over two dozen languages. He films himself walking up to foreigners and getting their reaction when he starts speaking in their native tongue. 

There's something deeply, deeply stupid in me that whenever I see someone do an impressive feat like that, my immediate response isn't to appreciate it for what it is. MY reaction is usually to say to myself, "Well, I could do that." For the record, in 99.98% of those cases, I could NEVER do that, whatever "that" is.

Regardless, I decided that night in my infinite wisdom to download an app that teaches you other languages.

When I was in high school, I took a couple language classes. I chose German for the important reason that "Rock Me Amadeus" and "99 Luftballoons" were pretty cool songs at the time. I was never good at it or anywhere close to being fluent. Upon graduation, what few German words I'd memorized fell right out of my head into a pile alongside chemistry, the rules of dodgeball, and whatever "algebra" is. 

But I'm smart, right? I should be able to pick up a new language. I decided on Spanish, a language that might actually come in handy once in a while. So I downloaded the app and set about my exciting journey of education and discovery.

I discovered things right away. Specifically, I discovered that (a) Spanish is hard, and (b) I didn't wanna learn it. Within days, I had completely abandoned Spanish and decided to try German again. I realize this makes absolutely no sense. I can't think of one possible scenario where knowledge of the German language might possibly impact my life.

But German seems way easier to learn. English and German languages are in the same family. Many English words are of Germanic origin. "To cook" in German is kochen. "To swim" is schwimmen. There's a better than average chance that if you don't know the German word for something, you can just add "-en" to the English and say it in an accent and you might be right.

Also, it turns out I didn't lose ALL of that German from high school. Some of it just ended up deep in a file cabinet back in the ol' hippocampus alongside the Pythagorean theorem, the correct way to write a cursive Q, and the lyrics to Madonna's "Vogue." As the app drilled me with German quizzes every night, I found myself constantly going, "Ohhh, I remember THAT!" 

I've been studying every night for two weeks now, and the app has taught me several useful phrases that will clearly benefit my life in untold ways. Phrases like:

- Der Bar ist schon! (The bear is beautiful!)

- Die Eule ist sehr nett! (The owl is very nice!)

- Die Pizza ist zu groB! (The pizza is too tall!)

- Das Wasser ist lecker! (The water is delicious!)

- Oh nein, das Brot ist zu lecker! (Oh no, the bread is too delicious!)

- Ja, Kanada ist cool! (Yes, Canada is cool!)   

Clearly, these are important phrases necessary to slip undetected into daily Germanic life without raising suspicion. These will be good to have in the back pocket next time I'm in Berlin faced with a loaf of bread that is problematically tasty. 

Still, it's strangely fun -- the app is encouraging and positive, and when you get phrases correct, little cartoon people in lederhosen come out and clap. There might not be much point in my learning German, but it's good brain exercise and makes me feel more accomplished than watching Tik Tok videos for two straight hours.

So I've got your back, people. The next time you find yourselves in Munich needing to complain about the height of your pizza, just call me up and put me on the phone with your waiter -- sorry, I mean your Kellner. Or just skip Germany and go to Canada instead. I hear it's pretty cool there.

COLUMN: Best of 2021 - TV

For 364 years out of the year, I regret wasting a measurable percentage of my life in front of the TV, living life vicariously through fictional people with lives far more interesting than my own. But for ONE magical day, I can pretend that I live a life NOT wasted. You see, the ridiculous amount of time I spend on my couch isn't wasted -- no, it's the sacrifice I make in order to provide the greatest of all possible public service: sharing my favorite shows of the year so that you, too, might fall lure to their charms and be as unproductive as me.

#5 - Only Murders in the Building (Hulu) - I went into this show with low expectations and rolled eyes. Despite its buzz and acclaim, I've always had a limited tolerance for Martin Short. For as lovely a person as he seems to be, his over-the-top schtick can be a bit much. But the charm of this show easily outweighs the hammy tendencies of Short, who manages to rein it this time around. "Murders in the Building" stars Short, Steve Martin, and Selena Gomez as a trio of true crime podcast devotees who launch their own project when a resident of their apartment building suffers an untimely end. It's a loving send-up to the kind of magical New York City living that may now only exist in fiction. The apartment building and its cast of residents/suspects becomes the real star of the show, along with an entertaining array of plot twists, red herrings, and smarter-than-average writing. 

#4 - The Beatles: Get Back (Disney+) - In 1969, the Beatles allowed camera crews to follow them through the creative process that eventually became their last-released album, "Let It Be." While the resulting rooftop performance became the legendary "Let It Be" concert film, hours and hours of filmed rehearsals and behind-the-scenes footage had never seen the light of day until now, when Lord of the Rings director Peter Jackson painstakingly went through it all and edited the highlights into this new multi-part documentary. For mega-fans, it's a treasure trove of insight and wonder. But even passing fans of the Beatles will marvel as songs like "Get Back" and "Something" arise from spontaneous rehearsal noodling. This honest and unfiltered gem of a documentary shows that the Fab Four were, at their heart, just four guys trying to make some solid tunes. And to see their humanity, arguments, and laughter only makes their feats all the more magical.    

#3 - The Great British Baking Show (Channel 4 UK/Netflix) - When the fad of reality TV started up with shows like "Survivor" and "Big Brother," it seemed like an interesting diversion from the norm. But as networks quickly realized the popularity and financial payoffs of low-cost reality programmatic, the market became flooded with hundreds of shows promising looks at supposed "real life." But here's the thing about real life: it's often really, really boring. That's why the landscape of so-called "reality TV" quickly became the breeding ground for cutthroat competition, "real" housewives, and a laundry list of horrible people being as horrible as possible for laughs and ratings. But if nobody wants to see actual real people getting along, don't tell that to "The Great British Baking Show," a cooking competition that's actually fun and inspiring. Nobody gets in fisticuffs or shouting matches, the contestants all help one another out, and the positivity that springs forth is contagious. There's no grand prize (other than a fancy engraved plate) other than pride and the joy of cooking. It's the TV equivalent of a hug from your grandma, and it's the kind of medicine we all needed this year.

#2 - Ted Lasso (Apple TV) - My favorite line in Ted Lasso comes in the very first episode, when the owner of the struggling AFC Richmond soccer club asks, "Do you believe in ghosts, Ted?" This causes the crimally optimistic coach to reply, "I do -- but more importantly, I think they need to believe in themselves." Season 2 might not be as optimistic as those epic debut episodes, as we begin to learn that Coach Lasso's inhumanly sunny disposition is likely a defense mechanism against the fears and insecurities that plague him. Still, the show's central mission statement that good trumps evil and that hostility should be faced with compassion and humility continues to make "Ted Lasso" essential viewing in this age of division and fear. It's the vaccine we should all agree to take this year.

#1 - Mare of Easttown (HBO). I didn't want to love this show. It's dour, bleak, and unforgiving in its painting of life in small-town impoverished Pennsylvania. But its also captivating beyond words. I initially expected it to be little more than Emmy-bait for star Kate Winslet (and she deserves ALL of the awards, trust me.) But beyond Winslet's flawless performance of a deeply flawed character is a multi-layered and unapologetically real look at how grief can affect both an individual and a community. And beyond THAT is a murder mystery stunning in depth and detail, with stand-out supporting performances from Evan Peters, Jean Smart, and newcomer Angourie Rice. It doesn't leave you with a good taste in your mouth, but its a gourmet meal nonetheless. It's the best show on TV this year by a WIDE margin.

With that, we enter a new year of doubt, uncertainty, and the continued divisions that plague our world (not to mention an ACTUAL plague thrown in for good measure.) But if 2021 was any indication, nothing will stop great art. Have a wonderful new year. I'll probably spend mine in front of the TV.   

COLUMN: Best of 2021 - Music

As a life-long card-carrying music nerd, there's a few things you can always be sure of. If you're in my car, I will definitely play bands you've never heard of and tell you WAY more about them than you ever cared to know. I will always be up for a debate with fellow audiophiles on the internet and within the magical confines of the nearest record shop. And every December, like the swallows returning to Capistrano, I will tell you my picks for the best albums of the year.

Long ago, I predicted the only silver lining of the pandemic would be the beautiful art that springs forth from creators in lockdown. 2021 didn't let me down. There were lots of stellar releases this year, but here's five that stood out.

#5 - FRED AGAIN - Actual Life I & II

Fred Gibson has spent the past few years as one of England's most in-demand record producers, working with artists like Shawn Mendes, BTS, and Ed Sheeran. But at the urging of his friend and mentor, the legendary Brian Eno, Gibson used the pandemic downtime to take a stab at his own material. What started as a time-killing project morphed into a two-volume collection of dance anthems, introspective ambience, and an audio diary that encapsulates the highs and lows of a year in isolation. If you think it's incapable for electronic music to have heart and soul, try this record on for size and heed and its closing words, "I know there's been a lot of reasons to stop / I pray you haven't done that." 

#4 - WET LEG - Assorted Singles

All you need to know about Wet Leg is the first comment that comes up under their Youtube page: "This song is so effortlessly cool I'd be scared to talk to it at a party." In fact, Wet Leg are SO effortlessly cool that I'm including them even though their actual debut album isn't scheduled to drop until April 2022. But the four singles they released this year stand so strong, they merit mention in any end-of-year wrap up. Seemingly from out of nowhere (the Isle of Wight, actually,) Wet Leg lit up hipster dancefloors with quirky angular guitar licks and non-sensical playful innuendo. Musically, it's as if French art students tried to become the B-52s by way of the Pixies. And they dress like Amish milkmaids with lobster hands because of course they do. Even in a lousy year, it's good to see the kids still know how to have fun.

#3 - BLEACHERS - Take the Sadness Out Of Saturday Night

Jack Antonoff is arguably the most sought-after producer in the world right now. But the man responsible for shaping the sound of Taylor Swift, Lorde, and Lana Del Ray shines brightest on his own material -- or at least he sure tries. Every Bleachers song tries to be a grandiose DIY anthem of low-budget studio wizardry. It works more often than you'd expect. On this, his third Bleachers release, Antonoff's entered what can only be described as his "Springsteen phase." The record is born to run from start to finish, including a guest appearance from the Boss himself, which must be every Jersey musician's dream. Like every Antonoff album, it's the sound of pure ambition and purposeful over-reaching.

#2 - SUSTO - Time in the Sun

Susto's Justin Osborne is known for being a straight-shooter, a master of simple and honest songwriting that leaves little to the imagination. With this record being crafted in a pandemic while dealing with the death of his father and birth of his child, it's no surprise that Osborne cuts to the quick, with titles like "Life is Suffering" and "God of Death." But, like all Susto records, the frank lyrics are still cloaked in an overriding optimism and hope for the future. Susto's always wonderful melange of Laurel Canyon by way of Cuba and the Carolina coast is in full effect here, providing an eclectic and electric mix of folk Americana to lift the spirits and soak your soul.

#1 - AVENUE BEAT - The Debut Farewell Album

It's not every day that a pop album turns into an honest tearjerker. The Nashville-by-way-of-Quincy-IL Avenue Beat had already caught my attention with their unique hybrid of smooth R&B and country harmonies. Struggling for attention, they capitalized on the pandemic by releasing the cathartically snarky "F2020" that quickly went viral (you can probably guess what the F stands for.) With attention finally turned their way, the trio set about recording their debut album. But halfway through, one of the members quit and the group suddenly disbanded. Rather than abandon their record entirely, the two remaining members stayed together long enough to record a heartfelt three-song coda detailing the painful end of their run. The result is a bittersweet triumph of gorgeous harmonies, whip-smart lyrics, and an ending that will break your heart clean in two. I first played this album on a solo roadtrip because I thought "F2020" was kinda cute. I wasn't expecting to spend the drive laughing, dancing, and then rolling tears. It's the sound of dreams soaring and then falling, and it's my favorite record of the year by a pop-country mile.

Honorable Mentions: There's so many other great records out there this year. Don't miss Lana Del Ray's "Chemtrails Over the Country Club"; the life-affirming beats of Sault's "Nine"; the shoegaze attack of You, Nothing's "Lonely//Lovely"; the sonic bliss of Tape Waves' "Bright"; or even the cheeky pop-metal heroism of Weezer's "Van Weezer." Here's to a musical new year, all.  

COLUMN: The Now

You know when you're coming home from a DJ gig at 3 a.m. and you're just completely wiped out and you... Sorry, what? No? You DON'T know what that's like? Ahh. Just me, then? Fair enough.

Well, last weekend, I indeed returned from a gig at 3 a.m. and was most definitely wiped. There's nothing worse than feeling exhausted but too amped up and full of tinnitus to sleep. I usually need unwinding with some mindless TV and a snack before I call it a night. So I flipped on Youtube and tuned to a channel that shows trailers to upcoming shows. That's right, when I'm not watching TV, I watch ads for things coming to TV. That's how I roll.

I was a bit surprised, though, when I saw a trailer for a mini-series called "The Now" starring Dave Franco and the legendary Bill Murray. I hadn't heard a thing about this show, so I checked it out.

It seems interesting. It's a comedy series about a guy who decides to turn his life around when he discovers he's the third member of his immediate family to have suicidal thoughts. It's directed by the Farrelly Brothers, the guys who brought us "There's Something About Mary" and "Dumb and Dumber" among others.

Then I got to the middle bit of the trailer, which showed a snippet of a police chase. It took me about thirty seconds before I grabbed the remote and re-wound it. Yep, I wasn't dreaming. The side of that car definitely said "MOLINE POLICE." And watching it again, I'm pretty sure that scene was filmed in downtown Port Byron.

Wait, is this TV show set HERE? Sure enough, "The Now" takes place in the Quad Cities.

Don't worry, you didn't miss an opportunity to hobnob with famous actors. They were never in town. The show was filmed in Vancouver -- but in order to accurately depict the Quad Cities, the Farrelly Brothers sent a secondary crew to shoot exterior footage of our area back in 2019.

Upon closer inspection, that wasn't just ANY aerial establishing shot of a quaint river town. That was an aerial establishing shot of OUR quaint river town. And what's that in the dead center frame of that shot? Yep. That's the sycamore tree in my front yard.

That's right -- my tree is a TV star.

I have but one motivation in life: to become super, deeply, mind-bogglingly famous. My time, clearly, is now. Yesterday, I was a nobody. Today, I am The Guy Who Owns That One Tree That Was On TV That One Time. I'd go outside to admire my tree, but I'm sure it's being swarmed by paparazzi as we speak.

There's so much to do.

* I clearly need to shoot a demo reel of my tree in all its glory and submit it for consideration to the Academy. In the 3.5 seconds of screen time it appeared in the trailer, it showed phenomenal depth of character. I'm pretty sure a nomination for Best Supporting Foliage might be in the cards.

* Does my tree need an agent? Do I need to get it a SAG card? The stable of working trees in Hollywood is small at best, and I will NOT let it lose any roles to Groot.

* Revenue streams need to be set up immediately. I'll see if I can get it on Cameo - for $250, my tree could wish you a happy birthday or congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials. Meanwhile, once the merch store goes live, you'll definitely be able to order a "My Family Went To See That One Tree That You Can See For 3 Seconds In That One TV Show And All I Got Was This Stinkin' T-Shirt" t-shirt.

* And what kind of manager would I be if I didn't get my new superstar involved in a lurid scandal to plaster its foliage all over the gossip pages? I already know what it's going to be. You see, there's one other actor on The Now that I didn't mention. I'm not going to outright CONFIRM that my tree is dating Pete Davidson, but I'm suspiciously not going to deny it, either. You'll have to ask Pete.

I don't know if Andy Warhol was right. Maybe not everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes. But someone's tree can definitely be famous for three seconds. Go check out my tree and the rest of the Quad Cities on "The Now" streaming on Roku -- and if you do, let me know if it's any good because I do NOT have a subscription. 

COLUMN: Water Clog

The official list of Things I Am Good At Doing is fairly small. I can make a mean mixtape. I can talk your ear off about pop culture endlessly, whether you want me to or not. My editor can attest that I'm highly skilled at submitting a column longer than it should be every week. I'm gifted at stammering, not making eye contact, and running late to most occasions. That's my principal skill sets right there.

As for Things I'm Bad At Doing? Well, that list comprises pretty much everything else in life. But there's little on Earth I am worse at doing than home repairs. I am, perhaps, the least handy man on Earth. So when I woke up last Sunday to discover no hot water in my house, all I could do was scratch my head.

I'm fully aware there's a machine in my basement that takes cold water and makes it hot. I couldn't tell you how it works, but I know it's down there. But on Sunday, it wasn't as if cold water was coming out instead. No, when I switched the faucet to hot, NO water came out whatsoever anywhere in the house. The hot water heater was warm to the touch. It was doing its job. The water, however, was clearly on holiday.

Another Thing I'm Bad At Doing is taking cold showers. I steadfastly believe that showers should have a water temperature juuuust shy of skin-melting. I once dated a girl who took cold showers by choice. I'm still not entirely certain that she isn't a sociopath. Of course, I discovered this nifty quirk during an ill-fated attempt at spontaneous sexiness, when I thought I'd try to sneak in the shower with her all romantic-like. Instead, I ended up shrieking like a little girl and fleeing to the nearest towel yelling, "COLD! COLD! COLD!" Let's just add "spontaneous sexiness" to the Things I'm Bad At list. 

I had no idea what to do. Generally, when something's not working, my first instinct is to look for something broken. My second gut instinct is to poke it with a stick. Nothing seemed broken and I was fresh out of sticks. If the hot water wasn't coming out of the faucets, WHERE WAS IT GOING? I carefully perused the whole house and thankfully found none of it to be underwater. Beyond that, I was stumped. 

I needed an expert. Good thing I have one on retainer. His name is Dad.

My father built the home I grew up in from the ground up. When I bought this house, he finished my basement "for fun." He's a home improvement superstar and doesn't seem to mind that he raised a son who gets nauseous on the bottom rung of a ladder. I immediately called him for advice. "My advice," he replied, "is to sit tight. I'm on my way."

An hour later, Dad was up to save the day. If anyone could fix the situation, it was him. I watched as he confidently checked out the bathroom, the basement, the bathroom again, and the basement a second time. Eventually he came upstairs, looked me square in the eye, and said -- well, I can't tell you what he said, but I reckon you can guess how many letters it was. Not good.

After several phone calls, we landed on a plumber willing to give up his Sunday to stop by. For what it's worth, the guy was really nice and professional, and I know this because he stopped to put on little booties before walking across my carpet as if it were something far nicer than a destination for cat vomit. 

Plumber Guy wasn't as stumped as we were. He shut off the water, cut into the intake pipe, and ran a long pliable pipe cleaner down the line. In other words, he took a look at the problem -- and then proceeded to poke it with a stick. Perhaps my home improvement instincts aren't as terrible as I previously thought. It only took seconds before the pipe cleaner hit something that fell to the bottom of the water heater tank with a noticable "clank." Immediately, water started flowing again. A little soldering with a pocket blowtorch and I was back in business.

How LONG I'll be enjoying warm water remains up in the air. The hunk of ick that was clogging my line (which I am now simply referring to as "a piece of Rock Island goodness") is now enjoying a warm soak at the bottom of my hot water heater, and there's always a chance it'll get swept up in the outflow and get stuck someplace else. The only recourse other than hope is a new water heater, which, after hearing the cost of purchase and installation, I can only presume is made of solid gold with a lovely diamond inlay. I'll take my chances for now.

But I DID learn one fun thing this weekend: I can now add "EMPTYING ONE'S BANK ACCOUNT WITH AN EMERGENCY WEEKEND PLUMBER CALL" to the list of Things I'm Good At. It turns out I'm fairly skilled at handing all my money to strangers. In the meantime, if anyone needs me, I'm off to the showers.  

COLUMN: Swiftie

If you close your eyes and listen closely, you can probably STILL hear the internet talking about Taylor Swift this week.   

As you likely know, in an attempt to regain control of her master recordings, the world's most popular songstress has been painstakingly re-recording and reissuing her entire back catalog, album by album. These recreations have come with an arsenal of unreleased and bonus material that's proving to be a treasure trove for Swifties worldwide. 

This week, Taylor released the re-recorded version of her mega-selling album "Red," and the centerpiece is a new version of "All Too Well," perhaps the most biting of her famous break-up songs. Some call it the "You're So Vain" of the millennial generation. The original was already an emotional powerhouse, but this new version is a next-level gut-punch of seething vitriol that's been sending fans to their Kleenex boxes faster than anyone could possibly shake it off. Last weekend, she performed the entire ten-minute opus on Saturday Night Live.

Me? I'm just sad. Not for Taylor Swift. Not even for actor Jake Gyllenhall, long purported to be the villain of the song. No, I'm sad because that song could have been about ME. You see, Taylor and I once had a moment.

I've told this story before, but I don't care. I'll trod it out until my last day. It just gets better with time. I have but few great stories in my arsenal, and none shine so bright as The Time Taylor Swift And I Almost Became An Item. At least, that's the way I tell the story. Taylor might tell it differently.

Once upon a time, Taylor Swift played a concert in the Quad Cities, and yours truly was assigned by this very paper to review the gig. When I got to the arena and grabbed my review tickets, I was astonished to see a second ticket attached -- for a post-show meet-&-greet. From that point on, nothing else mattered. I don't remember a word I wrote about the show. It might not have even been in English. All I cared about was both meeting and greeting Taylor Swift.

Record company meet-and-greets aren't exactly the ideal settings to make a great first impression. They're less cozy and personal, and more akin to a cattle processional. You're lined up and paraded by the artist in quick succession. At best, you've usually got just enough time for a photo, an autograph, and about twenty seconds of small talk before you're shoved out the door. If I wanted Taylor Swift to fall in love with me, these were the most important twenty seconds of my life.

Now, I know what you're thinking. She's a celebrity music icon. I'm a fat, unkempt newspaper columnist twice her age. Don't worry, I was thinking the same thing. But after long analysis, I decided that maybe just this ONCE, I would be willing to lower my standards enough to date an international pop superstar half my age. These are the sacrifices I make in life.

We may seem like opposites, but I reckon Taylor Swift and I have plenty in common. She likes music. I like music. She likes performing concerts. I like attending concerts. Two-for-two so far. Let's see... she likes cats. I like SOME of my cats. She appears to breathe air. I, too, require air to function. Clearly, we are soulmates.

I had just had to convince her of this in twenty seconds. No problem. When it was finally my turn in line, I approached, looked up (she is TALL), said hi, and she said hi back. Got a quick pic and an autograph and I opened my mouth to commence the suave and charming small talk that would make her mine forever.

That was the precise moment when the little kid in line behind me passed out cold to the ground, in what could only be described as the most fortuitous loss of consciousness I've ever witnessed. Before I could even say, "I...," she pushed me aside and raced to his aid. The last thing I saw as I was being shoved out the door was Taylor Swift cradling this kid's head in her lap. I hate that kid.

If it hadn't been for him, I'm sure she would have been fallen for my eloquent charm and we would be together today, her wowing millions of fans and me DJing the afterparties. Or maybe we would break up and never ever get back together, in which case she'd be on Saturday Night Live singing ten-minute hate songs about ME and I could at least be the dude walking around going, "Why yes, the song 'Get Away From Me, Creepy Fat Newspaper Guy' IS about me, care for an autograph?"  

But alas, we will never know -- unless Taylor comes BACK to town for another concert and I am somehow able to score another meet-and-greet pass. Don't worry, if that happens, I've learned my lesson: I will DEFINITELY make sure that I'm first one to pass out.

 

COLUMN: Astroworld

As a lifelong music nerd and frequent concert-goer, I feel like we need to talk about Astroworld a little.

The tragedy that happened this weekend in Houston was horrific, appalling, and worst of all, entirely avoidable. A crowd surge during headliner Travis Scott's set left at least 8 dead and scores injured. It's an absolute nightmare. As such, people are eager to point blame. We naturally want someone to hate and accuse and focus our outrage towards. The answers might not be so simple.

I wasn't at the Astroworld festival. Neither were you, most likely. All we can do is watch the video footage and speculate from our armchairs. Investigators are trying to piece together how such a tragedy could've occurred. We may never have the complete answers. But let's look at how things unfolded from a few different perspectives.

Many folks are laying the blame squarely on Travis Scott himself. They're saying he ignored the obvious signs of trouble in the crowd. That he should have stopped the show early. A respected news site seriously ran a headline the other day that said, "THE DEVIL MADE HIM DO IT? BLOOD SACRIFICE."

Gimme a break. I'm not saying Travis Scott is completely without fault here. After all, this was HIS festival. He shares culpability for sure. But I don't think he was ignoring the pleas of the dying or hosting a Satanic ritual at an suburban theme park.

Travis Scott has all the subtlety of an MMA fighter. His shows and his crowds can get rough. He encourages his audience to "rage out" and he's gotten in trouble before for egging crowds to get unruly. He's not beyond being an occasional moron.

That said, from the clips I've seen, I don't think he knew how bad things were getting. There's an awful video someone shot of Scott on a riser, kicking off another song while EMTs below him are performing CPR on hapless victims and the crowd chants "stop the show." It's horrible to watch, and definitely makes it look like Scott couldn't care less about the crowd.

But if you watch that video closely (and you shouldn't, it's stomach-wrenching,) you can see Scott wearing noise-cancelling ear monitors - it's doubtful he could hear those chants at all. He also had a stage spotlight in his face, so he probably couldn't see much, either. That crowd was 50,000 deep - it'd be tough to make out events in there even without a blinding light in your eyes.

On three occasions that night, he DID stop the show and signalled for security when he saw someone in distress. And what if he HAD stopped the show altogether? Would that have fixed things? Just because an artist walks offstage doesn't mean 50,000 idiots will peacefully disperse. When Guns n' Roses famously cut a show short in St. Louis, it ended up causing a riot and millions in property damage. Idiots sardined together are still going to be idiots, music or no.

Was the staff to blame? After all, there's a video of a girl pleading with a cameraman to stop the show while he seemingly ignores her. But that cameraman isn't a concert organizer. He probably works for Apple Music, who were there filming the event. At best, the only person he reports to is a TV producer in a van somewhere with no control over the concert flow. Being mad that he didn't stop the show would be like blaming a hot dog vendor. 

That leaves the organizers, and you'd better believe they're going to be held responsible. Despite having over 500 police and 700 security guards onsite, there was an utter lack of crowd control at Astroworld. Fences were breached and hundreds of people snuck in. It was over-capacity, over-crowded, and there was nothing to stop the crowd from surging. 

But if you're truly looking for someone to blame, it's the crowd themselves. People are, by and large, idiots. In this case, many were DRUNKEN idiots desperately and pointessly trying to shove their way to the front when there was simply no room. When EMTs and ambulances tried to respond, people started dancing on top of them. Sometimes people just suck.

Maybe festival concerts with general admission need to go the way of the dodo. They can get really scary. I've never been in an incident like Astroworld, but I've been in a couple crowd surges and they're terrifying. At the very first Lollapalooza, I got into a surge when Jane's Addiction took the stage and I travelled about forty yards without my feet touching the ground. I've been front row at shows where I've worn criss-cross bruising on my chest for the next week from the fence I was shoved against.

Open festivals like Astroworld need to be quadranted into different sections where crowd control and capacity can be better policed. You can't trust people to NOT be stupid. Sure, Travis Scott's aggression didn't help matters, but he's far from the only artist who incites their crowds to freak out. Aggressive bands play live all the time without incident.

I love concerts. There's nothing like the excitement and passion of live music. But you shouldn't be putting your life in jeopardy just by attending. Instead of throwing around blame before the investigation concludes, maybe we should instead mourn the victims and focus on ways to improve safety to ensure live concerts are the magical and transformative experiences I've known them to be.

We owe it to ourselves. Life can occasionally be terrible, but it always needs a good soundtrack. 

COLUMN: Ewarto

Some of you probably think I applied to be a columnist out of a lifelong passion for writing and/or a desire to uplift our community.

Nope.

There's obviously two reasons why I wanted to be a columnist: (1) To score a hot babe, and (2) make gobs and gobs of money. I think I just did both.

If, that is, a certain message I just received on Facebook is true. And who can we trust if not a complete stranger on the internet? I've read it five times now, and it seems super legitimate:

"HI SEXY!"

(Already we're off to a rollicking and completely accurate start.)

"My name is Ewarto Sawadogo."

(Umm. Okay, I'll never fault anyone for the name they were given. That said, this is NOT the sexiest array of vowels and consonants I have ever come across.)

"And I believes you is my SOULMATE. I am 26 years old woman --"

(Folks, Ewarto is HOT. Based on her profile photo, she's a dead ringer for pop songstress Ariana Grande. In fact, I'm pretty sure the photo she provided IS Ariana Grande, especially given the fact that's she's standing on the red carpet at the Grammy Awards. Or perhaps this simply proves Ewarto is a fan of music like myself. Who am I to question my soulmate?) 

"-- from Moldova."

(Wait, is that a real place? Or is that the fake country from Dynasty where they shot up the royal wedding in that big cliffhanger finale? Hang on, I need to check... Okay, Moldova IS a real place. Moldavia is the one from Dynasty. Whew.)

"I have searched the internets for my one true love, and I have finally founded you."

(Took you long enough.)

"I can see from your recent posts that you are good handsome man of high virtue worthy of my affections."

(My last three Facebook posts: 1. a picture of my cat. 2. a review of the movie "Dune." 3. a post that says, and I quote, "I'm sooo bored. Anyone wanna hang out?")

"My father runs powerful candy company."

(Wait, IS YOUR DAD WILLY WONKA? Or Willy, umm, Sawadogo?)

"But he has been accused of crime he did not commit"

(Umm, just what kind of saga am I stepping into here? I'm down for the soulmate stuff, but I'm not looking to reenact "The Fugitive" here. Just my luck that I find my soulmate and she's, like, a member of the A-Team.)

"I am coming to America to escape jurisdiction of the World Police"

(Oh dear! Not the dreaded "World Police!" So wait, you're being chased by GLOBAL authorities? My soulmate is an international fugitive? And you want to come HERE? What about Candy Dad? Is he coming, too? There's only so much room in my house. I want to chew gum in peace without a dozen Oompa-Loompas popping out to sing me a lecture. We need to discuss logistics.)

"Please if you has love for me like I has love for you, help me. I need to protect father's 3.4 US MILLION DOLLARS in United States bank account where World Police cannot steal."

(I think I see where this is going. You look exactly like Ariana Grande, you're inexplicably in love with me despite having never met me, AND you're vastly wealthy with unlimited access to European candy? I'M THE LUCKIEST MAN ALIVE.)

"Do you has a bank account where we can put money and begin new life together?"

(Sure. In full disclosure, last week someone hacked my debit card and used it to rack up $124 in Amazon charges, but I'm pretty sure it's safe. We can probably fit an extra 3.4 US MILLION DOLLARS in there. No problem.)

"I am devoted to you and cannot wait to hold you in my arm."

(Note: Singular. "Arm.")

So, if you don't hear from me for awhile, please assume that I'm securing my future with my one-armed soulmate who may or may not be pop sensation Ariana Grande and possibly her fugitive candy baron father. So far, this is turning out to be a decent week. 

I tried writing her back, but her profile had strangely been deactivated (curse you, World Police!) But I trust that my sweet Ewarto and our 3.4 US MILLION DOLLARS are en route. You're all invited to the wedding. There will be candy.    

COLUMN: Morrissey

I've been amusing myself this week with "Locke and Key," a good Halloween popcorn show on Netflix. In the series, a widower moves her family into a creepy house where they discover magical keys. One key opens doors to anywhere. You just think of a place, put the key in a lock, open the door, and you're there.

This got me daydreaming: If I had a magic key that could teleport me anywhere, where would I go? Would I explore far-off lands? Pay Katie Holmes a visit? Or would I just use it as a faster way to get to Walgreens? 

I think my first stop might be a concert venue in England, in order to see what might be the best cover band of all time, fronted by the unlikeliest of heroes. None of knew we'd need him in 2021, but he might just be our saving grace. At the very least, he'll never give us up, let us down, or desert us.

When you were a kid, was there a musician you idolized? Someone whose lyrics spoke to you, whose music moved you in a way you barely understood? Maybe you liked the cut of Elvis' hips. Maybe you grew up with a Jimi Hendrix poster on your wall. Maybe you were a Deadhead or a Fanilow. Heck, maybe you're a Belieber or a member of the BTS Army right now.

For me, there was one singer who sat on a pedestal above most others.

If you were a smart, awkward loner growing up in the 1980s, there was one voice you could always turn to. His name was Steven Patrick Morrissey, and he fronted one of the most important bands in the world: The Smiths. If you're unfamiliar, don't worry. Casey Kasem never once uttered their name. The Smiths didn't live on the radio or in dance clubs. Most people had no clue they existed. They even named one of their albums "The World Won't Listen." But to their fans, The Smiths were everything.

If you were an indoor kid who preferred books to sports, suddenly there was a pop idol you could identify with. Your parents might not have understood you, but Morrissey did. With a sardonic wit and a catchy hook, he could sing your life. His lyrics were depressing, charming, achingly funny, and self-deprecating -- often all in the same verse.

Morrissey wasn't afraid to tell you that life sucked, people were stupid, and most things were hopeless -- not exactly your stereotypical pop anthems. But Morrissey fans weren't stereotypes. For a weird and awkward kid like me, he was a hero.

But a few years back, things went sideways. As the years have passed, Morrissey's become less of a truthsayer and more of a... terrible human being. In a misguided attempt to call out animal cruelty, Morrissey thought wise in a recent interview to declare, "You can't help but feel the Chinese are a subspecies." His anti-immigration rhetoric is troubling at best, downright racist at worst. He even voiced his support for Kevin Spacey and Harvey Weinstein, saying, "if you go through history, almost everyone is guilty of sleeping with minors. Why not throw everyone in jail right away?"

His fans are leaving by the droves. Even the Simpsons mocked him in a recent episode when Lisa meets a pretentious British singer named Quilloughby who sings a song called "Everyone is Horrid Except Me (And Possibly You.)" Any fleeting hopes of a Smiths reunion have forever been dashed -- the rest of the band want nothing to do with him.

I've stopped idolizing the guy, but I still love the music of The Smiths and those songs that helped me through adolescence -- songs that may have just been saved... by Rick Astley.

Yep, THAT Rick Astley. The corny radio-pop hero whose inescapable "Never Gonna Give You Up" has been Rick-rolling us on the interwebs for over a decade. As it turns out, Rick's actually a pretty cool guy. He's also one of those indoor kids who spent the 80s idolizing Morrissey. And he's got the pipes to match. 

So when Rick posted a short clip of himself belting out a Morrissey tune with the band Blossoms, Smiths fans around the world lost their collective minds. Now, he and Blossoms are actually playing a few select pop-up gigs as a proper Smiths tribute band. But instead of Morrissey's pomp and pretention, you get Rick Astley in a Hawaiian shirt pogoing around like your drunk uncle at a karaoke bar having a blast. The kind of blast I'd waste a magic key to witness.

I spent years hoping to see Morrissey. Now, I think I'd rather see Rick Astley onstage doing these brilliant songs justice in the least pretentious way possible. Or, as a rock critic at Vulture said last month, "It's settled. He's Morrissey now."

Anyone have a key I could borrow?

   

COLUMN: Battery

Last week, I wrote about heading down to the Spoon River Valley Scenic Drive. As it turns out, I narrowly avoided spending a whole lot of quality time with that scenery.

Over on TikTok, there's a 13-year-old pug named Noodle with over 2 million followers. Every morning, Noodle's owner Jonathan wakes the sleepy dog on camera and stands him upright. Sometimes Noodle stays aloft -- but more often than not, he collapses back into bed like he's made of Jell-O, leading Jonathan to declare it's a "no-bones day," where laziness and comfort win out over productivity and stress.

The other night, I left work after an exhausting day of professional newspaper-ing. I was dragging hard. My brain was mush, the yawns were plentiful, and I was utterly wiped. As I walked out the door, I thought to myself, "I should have listened to Noodle. Today is DEFINITELY a no-bones day."

I was right. I just didn't know my car thought the same thing.

I almost just typed "as I turned my key in the ignition," but that'd be a lie. I'm a modern, on-the-go guy with no time for the burden of inserting a key into an ignition and expending precious calories with all that cumbersome hand-turning. I now own a car with a button that says "START" on it. It turns out that button's occasionally a lie, too. 

I pressed START and my car just sort of... wheezed. CHUG... A... CHUG... A.  Uh oh. 

I suppose I should be grateful. Just days prior, I was in Fulton County, scenic-driving down roads less traveled on gravel paths a hundred miles from home. I should have been thankful my battery died in the office parking lot and not along the banks of the Spoon River. After all, roadside assistance can only assist when one knows WHICH roadside one is stranded upon. 

Yep, I was grateful that day. So grateful, in fact, that I decided to scream grateful profanities into the open air and slam my grateful head into the steering wheel for dramatically grateful effect. 

Strangely, it worked. Suddenly, my car started. It certainly didn't sound happy about it, but it started. While a rather loud voice in my head told me to go home and pretend it didn't happen, a louder voice in my head told me to go to a parts store right away and have them check my battery. That voice was my dad's, because I had him on hands-free speakerphone within seconds of getting the car started. I'm not sure why I called him for advice. I already knew what his advice would be, and I knew it wouldn't be to go home, eat a hot dog, and watch bad TV (which was MY plan.)

Instead, I wheeled into an auto parts store and had them check my battery.

"Oof," said the kid testing my battery. "It's not holding a charge at ALL. Game over."

He then recommended an expensive replacement battery they had in stock, but then told me I'd have to go to a mechanic to get it changed out. Apparently, my car puts the battery underneath some kind of hard-to-remove housing doohicky that's more than just an amateur swap-out. Great news.

Suddenly I worried that instead of needing a tow or a jumpstart from the parking lot at work, I might need one from the parking lot of an auto parts store. Thankfully, it started up again (barely,) and in desperation, I tried a different auto parts store down the street. Heard the same story from them - my battery was toast, but due to the housing, it would require a professional install. Noooo.

"Good thing I'm a professional," the guy said with perfect comic timing.

Huzzah! And that place just won ALL my future automotive business. A few minutes later, I left with a dented pocketbook but a shiny new battery and a fully-powered car that was no longer wheezing to life.

I wanted to go home and eat that hot dog. Instead, I sat in my driveway for 20 minutes on hold with the satellite radio people, trying to order a signal refresh. When my battery died, so too did all my radio presets. When it came back to life, the radio kicked on to Celine Dion -- and let's be honest, I'd rather walk home. But I eventually got sorted and was soon back to my usual playlist of Music To Irritate My Friends With.  

Still, the whole escapade has made me a little jealous of cars. Wouldn't it be nice if the next time it felt like a no-bones day, we could just walk into a store, change out our battery, and suddenly have a recharged lease on life? Unless, of course, we all started singing "My Heart Will Go On," in which I think I'll stick with no bones, thanks.

    

COLUMN: Scenic Drive

You'll never believe what happened to me the other day. Hard to believe, but I actually got to have a little bit of a weekend with my weekend.

More often than not, my weekends are just slightly discolored weekdays -- 48 hours when I get to take off my newspaper hat and instead put on my DJ hat. Any way you look at it, I'm still working. What little free time I have is often spent cleaning the house, doing laundry, buying groceries, and generally performing all those mundane responsible-adult tasks that may as well be considered work, just without that cumbersome burden of getting paid for any of it.

Sometimes, I don't want to wear the newspaper hat, the DJ hat, or the responsible adult hat. Sometimes I just wanna hang my hats up for a bit.

That's what I did last weekend. I went for a scenic drive. Specifically, a Spoon River Valley Scenic Drive.

Every year, Knox and Fulton Counties in Illinois hold a fall festival of beautiful vistas, scenic overlooks, harvest bounties, and a colorful spectacle of autumnal wonder and merriment. Or at least I bet that's what the brochures say.

In reality, it's pretty much just a yard sale. A really, really big yard sale. 

I grew up in Knox County, and Scenic Drive weekends were always a tradition in my family. In fact, outside of Christmas, the day we went Scenic Driving was usually my favorite day of the year. I'd stake my claim to the back seat of the mini-van, crank some roadtrip tunes on the headphones, and let the pavement -- or at least my dad -- guide us to wonder.

The main wonder, of course, being: "Who would buy any of this junk?"

I adore the Knox County and Spoon River Valley Scenic Drives, but let's be honest. There's not a whole lot of scenery along the main route, unless your idea of scenery is plastic tables and piles of rusty antiques. Basically, it's an excuse for everyone in Knox and Fulton Counties to go through their homes, find all the rusty garbage in their basements, and see if anyone's weird enough to pay money for it.

And I love it. I can waste an entire day wandering around amateur junk vendors, and if I can do so with an elephant ear and a lemon shake-up in my hands, all the better.

There's all kinds of different stuff to see, do, and buy along the Scenic Drive. There's crafters who must spend the rest of their year making stuff to sell just for this 4-day annual festival. There's a limitless supply of homemade jams, jellies, honey, and assorted things floating in vinegar and brine. There's antique dealers galore. There's people selling junk and people selling deep-fried junk. It's every Midwestern stereotype served up on a platter, often with powdered sugar sprinkled over the top. It's great.

I had limited time and limited objectives this year. I wanted apple cider, a hot donut, and a homemade pie to take home. All three of those were found in the tiny town of London Mills, a stop so popular on the Scenic Drive that it can back up traffic on the highway for over a mile. The vendors were on their A-game. There was a guy selling homemade root beer out of a barrel. There was a woman yelling "TAMALES! IF YOU DON'T LIKE THEM, YOU DON'T PAY!" In perhaps a sign of the changing times, there was more than one tent selling CBD oil and, umm, "decorative" glass pipes.

And there was junk. Oh, how there was junk. I fully appreciate the lure of food vendors and homemade jams, but I'll never wrap my head around table after after of rusty antiques in shoddy condition. I realize to some people it's a treasure trove, and I won't begin to argue the appeal of rusty antiques in the homeland of American Pickers, but I don't get it.

Case in point: At one stall this weekend, they were selling the beat-up remnants of a 1970's KerPlunk game for $8. Remember KerPlunk? Once upon a time, in the days before X-Box and Playstation, the height of gaming was pulling plastic straws from a transparent tube in hopes of not disloging the pile of marbles atop them. If you pulled the wrong straw, marbles would drop to the bottom of the tube, making a noise that sounded NOTHING like "ker-plunk."

It was, and still is, great fun. But THIS particular eight-dollar vintage Kerplunk game only had ONE remaining straw. Spoiler alert, but that's not going to stop too many marbles. That's okay, though, because the marbles were missing, too. Basically this guy was selling a plastic tube and a single piece of straw for eight bucks. Here's another spoiler alert: They still make KerPlunk. You can buy a brand new model at Wal-Mart for $14.95. I bet it has all the marbles, all the straws, and doesn't smell like it's been in someone's attic since 1963.

But again, I won't knock antique sellers. Maybe there's someone out there getting ready to open a board-game-themed microbrewery in need of a kitschy KerPlunk wall sconce (and if you're out there, hit me up -- I can cut you a deal on Broken Broken Hungry Hungry Hippo that's somewhere in my closet.) 

All told, the day made for a great escape. Pro tip: the main routes of the Spoon River Valley Scenic Drive might not be especially scenic, but the side roads ARE. We detoured off the main drag and got a fair share of fall foliage and fresh air. I even made a long-overdue detour to the rural cemetery where I could say hi to my grandparents and a good portion of my mom's family tree. It's a really nice place, except for the incessant barking dog in the distance that I reckon my grandpa routinely cusses out from the great beyond.

The world may change, but as long as the Spoon River continues to flow, so will the smell of fried food wafting up from Fulton County every fall. Here's hoping our children's children's children will enjoy the Knox County and Spoon River Valley Scenic Drives. They might even have a chance to buy that same KerPlunk tube. 

Enough talking. I have pie to eat. 

COLUMN: Outage

Congratulations, everybody. We made it.

There are times in life that try our souls. Events beyond our control can push us to the brink of oblivion. It's then and there we see our true selves and realize the fragility of mankind. But somehow, with persistance and fortitude, we manage to survive. Somehow, humanity musters the strength to soldier through suffering and adversity, and we live to fight another day. Proudly, we persevere.

That's right - we made it a whole five hours without Facebook.

On Monday, technical issues took down Facebook, Instagram, and Whatsapp for most of the afternoon. According to a headline in Tuesday's New York Times, "lives were disrupted." The world descended into madness. Chaos reigned supreme. Anarchy spilled into the streets. Pandemonium was everywhere.

Well, except MY office, apparently. I had no clue about the outage until I went to check a scheduled post on our newspaper's social media feed. Instead, I found myself staring at a white screen and an infinite hourglass icon. "Bummer," I said to myself. "Facebook must be down." By the time I got off work and checked again, everything was hunky-dory again. Clearly, my life had been irreparably and irreversibly disrupted.

Based on the news coverage of the outage, you'd think we were minutes away from the full collapse of Western civilization. Yes, life would forever be altered because for one brief afternoon, none of us could share pictures of our cats with people who Facebook calls our "friends" but in reality are more like "people we don't actively hate, whose existence we are somewhat aware of."

Once upon a time, we all got on fine without Facebook. You know, back in the olden days when you had to walk a mile through the snow if you wanted to show someone a photo of your cat.

I love aimless roadtrips, whether it's a vacation or a spontaneous escape where you end up in Beloit at 4 a.m. for no good reason. For decades, I would do this not just without Facebook, but without a cell phone altogether. I couldn't IMAGINE such a thing today. It seems completely insane and unsafe to travel even yards from your house without your phone. 

The other day, I went to work and forgot my phone on the kitchen counter. I could barely focus. Even though my phone seldom leaves my pocket when I'm at work, I couldn't stop thinking about it. On my first break, I had to run home and get it. Without it, I felt like a contestant on a reality survivalist show. 

I used to happily go about my business without a portable Facebook machine in my pocket. No one ever saw photos of my cats. I never felt the need to take glamour shots of my dinner. Twenty years later, we now live in a reality where Facebook and Instagram go down for an single afternoon and it makes national news. It was touch-and-go for a bit, but I somehow made it through the afternoon without a single status update from Kim Kardashian.

If I thought I had it bad, imagine my poor uncle down in Alabama. Somehow, he had to go five whole hours without sharing 72 different ways that Joe Biden's destroying the country. He spent an entire afternoon unable to call me a mask-wearing Communist snowflake even once. That poor guy.  

Don't get me wrong, I'm not anti-Facebook. I spend a ton of time on social media. I like silly memes, hearing from friends, and seeing the cool kids from my high school slowly turning old, fat, and bald. Sure, there's bad facets to social media, but blaming Facebook for its content would be like blaming the postal service whenever an annoying offer to extend my car's warranty shows up in the mail. 

I like Facebook just fine, but I don't think a five hour outage should "disrupt your life" in any meaningful way unless your last name's Zuckerberg. We're now 1.5 years into a pandemic that made us hide in our homes. We should be old hats at life disruptions by now.

If Facebook crashes again, I think I'll be okay. You see, I learned something Monday. You know that portable Facebook machine in your pocket? It turns out you can use that same machine to punch in some numbers and CALL those same friends and talk to them with that eating-hole thingamajig below your nose. I call it Facemouth.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to ring up 172 people and describe my cats to them in great detail.