Okay, I've been yelled at before for talking about TV shows without giving an official
SPOILER WARNING
so if you still haven't watched the last episode of the Sopranos, stop reading.
That said, HOW FREAKING BRILLIANT WAS THAT ENDING?
I havent been to any of the message boards yet, but something tells me they're completely off-the-chain with upset, irate fans wanting a concrete ending to the show.
Instead, I'm SO happy at the ending, and I'm not even that much of a fan of the show, really.
David Chase has spent most of the past decade building Tony into this near-mythological hero. A seriously flawed hero, sure, but still a guy who you bizarrely want to root for.
So what better end than to let his myth live on however his fans want to imagine it? To just *BOOM* stop the show cold turkey like that with no resolution? Genius.
Were the people in the restaurant loyalists to the late Phil who were there to off the whole Sopranos clan? Or were they cops there to finally hand down indictments and arrest Tony? Did Paulie turn sides and rat out his boss? (You gotta admit, those were some troubling looks he was giving at the end of every one of his scenes.) Will Sil pull through? Or did we just watch another Sopranos family dinner that went on without incident?
YOU get to make that call. Does the Sopranos end as a tragedy? Or as hope that the family lives on and prospers, problems and all?
It can be WHATEVER YOU WANT IT TO BE. And the legend of Tony Soprano can carry on however you want it to.
A BRILLIANT move on Chase's part. RIP Sopranos the Show, but maybe not the family?
(I DO want somebody to explain to me the symbolism of the cat, though. What was the deal with the cat & Christopher's pic?)
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
SPECIAL MID-WEEK COLUMN: Tornado
What is it that makes a catastrophe so perversely alluring? I mean, there must be a reason why crowds of onlookers gather at every house fire. Why TV shows with absurd titles like "World's Deadliest Animal Attacks" manage to attract viewers. Heck, why NASCAR even exists ("the thrill of competition," my fanny. Most of you are there to watch wrecks and you know it.)
I'm not immune to it, either. When the big flood of '93 broke, the news told us all to stay away. That served as the cue for me and my friends to pile in a car and go gawk at the chaos. In fact, we were the last car to cross Arsenal Island before it was closed for safety. We could have been swept away in that current, but we didn't care. We were high-fiving each other, living in the moment.
So when the news broke that a tornado had worked its way through Louisa & Muscatine counties, my friend and I decided to head out on Saturday to see the damage for ourselves. Besides, what better way to break in the new camera I'd just bought? Maybe I could get some good snapshots of upside-down cars or something. Little did I know we were en route to a life lesson.
We headed into Muscatine on Highway 22 and eagerly drove up to the lookout point by the bridge to Illinois. It looked like... well, downtown Muscatine. Seemingly unscathed. No upside-down cars, no paths of destruction. I'm ashamed to say we thought it was a let-down. Little did we know other parts of Muscatine were in tatters. We started driving south on back roads in search of Fruitland, the town that received the most damage.
I'm happy now that we didn't find it. Instead we got lost and sidetracked on a nice afternoon country drive. That's when we rounded the bend and stumbled into Grandview, IA.
The first thing you see when you drive into Grandview is an old farm school. Well, it SHOULD have been the first thing you see. Instead, we saw a brush pile almost three stories high in the school's parking lot. I didn't even have time to issue a token "what the...?" before we rounded the bend and saw the rest of town.
Well, what was left of it, anyways. This was the town that received the least amount of damage from the tornado. Coulda fooled me. It still looked like a bomb had gone off. I thought it would be exciting to see the aftermath of a tornado. I just never expected it to be so... real. A pile of rubble isn't so cool when you see the family who once lived in that pile, sifting through the remains for whatever possessions they could salvage. I was an idiot to think this would be some kind of pleasure sight-seeing expedition.
You could easily see the tornado's path through town. House on the left? Perfectly fine. House on the right? Rubble. In-between the destroyed homes was a clear trail of downed power lines, uprooted trees, and a stream of debris that I'm guessing stretches to Fruitland and beyond.
We drove by a house that looked like any other split-level home you've ever seen. Oh, except it was missing a roof. It wasn't like the roof had collapsed in on the house, or was lying near the house. It was just GONE, swept to Oz. In their lawn lay two mighty trees that once graced the front yard. Both had been plucked right out of the ground, roots and all, as if props in a model train set. Through the shattered windows, you could still see family photos hanging on the walls.
It was stomach-turning, heart-breaking, and mind-numbing all at once. It looked like a war zone. I didn't have the urge to gawk. I didn't have the urge to whip out my camera and start capturing it all on film. In fact, I didn't even think about the stupid camera. All I thought about was helping these people. This wasn't a tragedy worth remembering; it was a horror worth forgetting.
But therein lies the silver lining. In a tragedy, there's a doomed character destined to fail, you feel super sad, and then it's just over. In a horror, there's a bad guy, sure, but then you know what? They usually have happy endings. Jaws, Jason, Freddy... they all lose in the end. So, too, will this tornado.
In the chaos of Grandview was hope. Already trash was being hauled away, brush was being gathered. The Red Cross and Iowa Disaster Relief were already on hand, setting up tents with water and essentials for one and all. Neighbors whose homes were spared were in the yards of those less fortunate, lending hands of strength and support. As we navigated through the town, you could still hear children playing. You still saw people smiling through their tears. Grandview will recover. Fruitland will recover. Muscatine will recover. And we can help.
Today I called my friend Jamie Lange at the American Red Cross and donated my pay from this month's newspaper columns to the relief fund they've set up for the victims of Friday's tornado. I strongly urge you to give what you can. You can donate to the Red Cross by calling 1-800-HELP-NOW. You can even volunteer to lend a hand in the clean-up by calling 1-888-252-0260.
Iowa 1; Tornado 0. No need for a rematch.
I'm not immune to it, either. When the big flood of '93 broke, the news told us all to stay away. That served as the cue for me and my friends to pile in a car and go gawk at the chaos. In fact, we were the last car to cross Arsenal Island before it was closed for safety. We could have been swept away in that current, but we didn't care. We were high-fiving each other, living in the moment.
So when the news broke that a tornado had worked its way through Louisa & Muscatine counties, my friend and I decided to head out on Saturday to see the damage for ourselves. Besides, what better way to break in the new camera I'd just bought? Maybe I could get some good snapshots of upside-down cars or something. Little did I know we were en route to a life lesson.
We headed into Muscatine on Highway 22 and eagerly drove up to the lookout point by the bridge to Illinois. It looked like... well, downtown Muscatine. Seemingly unscathed. No upside-down cars, no paths of destruction. I'm ashamed to say we thought it was a let-down. Little did we know other parts of Muscatine were in tatters. We started driving south on back roads in search of Fruitland, the town that received the most damage.
I'm happy now that we didn't find it. Instead we got lost and sidetracked on a nice afternoon country drive. That's when we rounded the bend and stumbled into Grandview, IA.
The first thing you see when you drive into Grandview is an old farm school. Well, it SHOULD have been the first thing you see. Instead, we saw a brush pile almost three stories high in the school's parking lot. I didn't even have time to issue a token "what the...?" before we rounded the bend and saw the rest of town.
Well, what was left of it, anyways. This was the town that received the least amount of damage from the tornado. Coulda fooled me. It still looked like a bomb had gone off. I thought it would be exciting to see the aftermath of a tornado. I just never expected it to be so... real. A pile of rubble isn't so cool when you see the family who once lived in that pile, sifting through the remains for whatever possessions they could salvage. I was an idiot to think this would be some kind of pleasure sight-seeing expedition.
You could easily see the tornado's path through town. House on the left? Perfectly fine. House on the right? Rubble. In-between the destroyed homes was a clear trail of downed power lines, uprooted trees, and a stream of debris that I'm guessing stretches to Fruitland and beyond.
We drove by a house that looked like any other split-level home you've ever seen. Oh, except it was missing a roof. It wasn't like the roof had collapsed in on the house, or was lying near the house. It was just GONE, swept to Oz. In their lawn lay two mighty trees that once graced the front yard. Both had been plucked right out of the ground, roots and all, as if props in a model train set. Through the shattered windows, you could still see family photos hanging on the walls.
It was stomach-turning, heart-breaking, and mind-numbing all at once. It looked like a war zone. I didn't have the urge to gawk. I didn't have the urge to whip out my camera and start capturing it all on film. In fact, I didn't even think about the stupid camera. All I thought about was helping these people. This wasn't a tragedy worth remembering; it was a horror worth forgetting.
But therein lies the silver lining. In a tragedy, there's a doomed character destined to fail, you feel super sad, and then it's just over. In a horror, there's a bad guy, sure, but then you know what? They usually have happy endings. Jaws, Jason, Freddy... they all lose in the end. So, too, will this tornado.
In the chaos of Grandview was hope. Already trash was being hauled away, brush was being gathered. The Red Cross and Iowa Disaster Relief were already on hand, setting up tents with water and essentials for one and all. Neighbors whose homes were spared were in the yards of those less fortunate, lending hands of strength and support. As we navigated through the town, you could still hear children playing. You still saw people smiling through their tears. Grandview will recover. Fruitland will recover. Muscatine will recover. And we can help.
Today I called my friend Jamie Lange at the American Red Cross and donated my pay from this month's newspaper columns to the relief fund they've set up for the victims of Friday's tornado. I strongly urge you to give what you can. You can donate to the Red Cross by calling 1-800-HELP-NOW. You can even volunteer to lend a hand in the clean-up by calling 1-888-252-0260.
Iowa 1; Tornado 0. No need for a rematch.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
COLUMN: Graffiti
I love controversy. Well, at least the kind that doesn't directly involve me. But the best controversies that occur are the ones that are, at their core, completely pointless. I'm blessed to have an occupation that offers me a ringside seat to some of these scenarios.
It goes something like this: The media finds a hotbed topic. The media reports on said hotbed topic. Comments pour into the newspaper's message boards from people spitting such vitriolic nonsense that you'd think their entire lives were riding on the outcome. And then, if we're especially lucky, knee-jerk reaction editorials start appearing. Next thing you know, we're in a full-on state of higgeldy-piggeldy. And I just get to sit there in amazement and shake my head at the whole spectacle. Hey, there's worse ways to spend time.
A couple weeks ago, we ran a story that the city of Davenport, having shelled out a million bucks to create a downtown skate park, was shocked and dismayed to discover that kids using the park had vandalized the place from one side to the other in graffiti.
Gasp. Skaters and graffiti. I know, who'd'a thunk it?
Folks, building a skate park and being shocked that kids are tagging it with graffiti is tantamount to building a drive-in movie theatre and being shocked that kids are going there to make out in their cars. Tagging walls with graffiti is as much a part of skate culture as ice cream is to cherry pie. If you're going to cater to skaters, you need to cater to the graffiti they'll produce. It is, in the grand scheme of things, no big deal.
And here's where I give credit to Davenport officials. Rather than spend thousands more taxpayer dollars to constantly police the park for graffiti (which would mean not just clean-up, but also park fencing, regulating the hours, and installing cameras,) Davenport leaders instead brought up the idea of "managed graffiti." The idea here is to basically let the kids tag away to their heart's content while monitoring and cleaning up any offensive or gang-related graffiti.
This is a smart idea. Sad, then, that some people aren't buying into it.
Last week, we ran a guest column in our papers from former Davenport mayor Phil Yerington. This column is NOT an attack on Mr. Yerington. I know he's no stranger to controversy himself, but I kinda like the guy. Agree with him or no, Mayor Yerington made for some colorful TV back in his reign during the big flood. And hey, he even made a cameo appearance as a cop in the classic low-budget movie "Whiteboyz," and heck, from an entertainment columnist's perspective, that's pretty cool.
Odd, then, that a guy willing to participate in a movie glamorizing Midwestern hip-hop culture would write a rather harsh reactionary column assailing the spread of graffiti, an integral part of hip-hop culture. The term "hip-hop," in fact, was coined to signify the unification of urban dancers, rappers, DJ's, and graffiti artists into one massive zeitgeist.
Yerington, though, doesn't appear to grasp the cultural signifigance of graffiti art. He seems to think it's vandalism, pure and simple, and shouldn't be tolerated.
I'm not saying that graffiti ISN'T vandalism. The point of this column isn't to defend breaking the law. If you tag a wall that you don't have permission to, you SHOULD be subject to the law. I'm not condoning illegal graffiti or telling you to let kids spray paint up your neighborhood.
My concern, though, is the inference in Mr. Yerington's column that most urban graffiti is little more than thinly disguised turf markings and war cries for local thugs and gang members. With all due respect to the former mayor, this is a painfully naive and short-sighted way of looking at one of the most exciting and flourishing art forms of this generation.
Sure, gangs DO use graffiti as a way of marking turf and airing beefs. Police those tags, clean them up, and punish the offenders. But most serious graffiti art isn't being made by gang members -- it's being crafted by talented kids with an artistic flair and a rebellious streak for self-expression that you simply can't teach in an art class.
If graffiti is little more than vandalism, why are there art magazines devoted to the appreciation of it? Why are graffiti art exhibits endorsed by the Smithsonian? Why are historians constantly excited by the ancient graffiti found in the ruins of Pompeii?
Whether you like it or not, graffiti will always be around, from bland tags to full wall murals that are days in the making. It's a vibrant snapshot of the urban counter-culture. Sure, some of it's bound to be offensive and unwanted -- and when that happens, we clean it up. If you hate finding graffiti in your neighborhood, why not give the kids somewhere to LEGALLY show off their talents? Give them the managed freedom of the skate park.
It goes something like this: The media finds a hotbed topic. The media reports on said hotbed topic. Comments pour into the newspaper's message boards from people spitting such vitriolic nonsense that you'd think their entire lives were riding on the outcome. And then, if we're especially lucky, knee-jerk reaction editorials start appearing. Next thing you know, we're in a full-on state of higgeldy-piggeldy. And I just get to sit there in amazement and shake my head at the whole spectacle. Hey, there's worse ways to spend time.
A couple weeks ago, we ran a story that the city of Davenport, having shelled out a million bucks to create a downtown skate park, was shocked and dismayed to discover that kids using the park had vandalized the place from one side to the other in graffiti.
Gasp. Skaters and graffiti. I know, who'd'a thunk it?
Folks, building a skate park and being shocked that kids are tagging it with graffiti is tantamount to building a drive-in movie theatre and being shocked that kids are going there to make out in their cars. Tagging walls with graffiti is as much a part of skate culture as ice cream is to cherry pie. If you're going to cater to skaters, you need to cater to the graffiti they'll produce. It is, in the grand scheme of things, no big deal.
And here's where I give credit to Davenport officials. Rather than spend thousands more taxpayer dollars to constantly police the park for graffiti (which would mean not just clean-up, but also park fencing, regulating the hours, and installing cameras,) Davenport leaders instead brought up the idea of "managed graffiti." The idea here is to basically let the kids tag away to their heart's content while monitoring and cleaning up any offensive or gang-related graffiti.
This is a smart idea. Sad, then, that some people aren't buying into it.
Last week, we ran a guest column in our papers from former Davenport mayor Phil Yerington. This column is NOT an attack on Mr. Yerington. I know he's no stranger to controversy himself, but I kinda like the guy. Agree with him or no, Mayor Yerington made for some colorful TV back in his reign during the big flood. And hey, he even made a cameo appearance as a cop in the classic low-budget movie "Whiteboyz," and heck, from an entertainment columnist's perspective, that's pretty cool.
Odd, then, that a guy willing to participate in a movie glamorizing Midwestern hip-hop culture would write a rather harsh reactionary column assailing the spread of graffiti, an integral part of hip-hop culture. The term "hip-hop," in fact, was coined to signify the unification of urban dancers, rappers, DJ's, and graffiti artists into one massive zeitgeist.
Yerington, though, doesn't appear to grasp the cultural signifigance of graffiti art. He seems to think it's vandalism, pure and simple, and shouldn't be tolerated.
I'm not saying that graffiti ISN'T vandalism. The point of this column isn't to defend breaking the law. If you tag a wall that you don't have permission to, you SHOULD be subject to the law. I'm not condoning illegal graffiti or telling you to let kids spray paint up your neighborhood.
My concern, though, is the inference in Mr. Yerington's column that most urban graffiti is little more than thinly disguised turf markings and war cries for local thugs and gang members. With all due respect to the former mayor, this is a painfully naive and short-sighted way of looking at one of the most exciting and flourishing art forms of this generation.
Sure, gangs DO use graffiti as a way of marking turf and airing beefs. Police those tags, clean them up, and punish the offenders. But most serious graffiti art isn't being made by gang members -- it's being crafted by talented kids with an artistic flair and a rebellious streak for self-expression that you simply can't teach in an art class.
If graffiti is little more than vandalism, why are there art magazines devoted to the appreciation of it? Why are graffiti art exhibits endorsed by the Smithsonian? Why are historians constantly excited by the ancient graffiti found in the ruins of Pompeii?
Whether you like it or not, graffiti will always be around, from bland tags to full wall murals that are days in the making. It's a vibrant snapshot of the urban counter-culture. Sure, some of it's bound to be offensive and unwanted -- and when that happens, we clean it up. If you hate finding graffiti in your neighborhood, why not give the kids somewhere to LEGALLY show off their talents? Give them the managed freedom of the skate park.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
COLUMN: Blog Stats
It's been my long-standing cynical belief that nearly everyone on the planet -- barring, of course, me -- is a total nutbag. Finally I have proof.
If you may have noticed in the dealy at the bottom of each week's column (I believe the proper journalistic term is "dealymajig,") I maintain an online blog in association with the column. It's nothing fancy, just a repository archive for my writing, plus a handy outlet if anything amusing happens during the week.
Well, when I first started the blog up, I hooked it up to a stat tracker program. The tracker lets me know how many visitors I receive in a given time frame, what columns get the most reads, etc., etc. Mostly I forget it's even there and only remember to check it a couple of times a year. Well, the other night I was goofing around with it and realized that it also records some other pretty interesting stuff.
No, it doesn't give me anything useful like your credit card or social security numbers, so sadly I still can't steal your identities and start life anew on some tropical island with a staff of woman-servants. But it does show some unexpected details, such as what country you're from, what kind of computer you're using, your web browser of choice, etc., etc. Oh, and one other VERY interesting thing: keyword searches.
Let's say you're doing a Web search using a popular search engine like Yahoo or Google. If you search for a particular phrase that somehow pulls up MY blog as a result, my tracker lets me know what you searched for -- and what I found is proof positive that humanity is a very scary beast. Let me show you:
These are actual keyword phrases that folks have searched for online over the past 12 months, leading them to my blog:
• "MY KID IS HYPERTENSE" - When you type this exact phrase into Google, as 117 people this year have, my blog is the #1 link. Why? No clue. I must've used the words "my," "kid," and "hypertense" in close promixity to one another in a column sometime in the past 3 years. Just for the record, I don't know what to do if your kid is hypertense.
• "CHUBBY TONGUE" - Again, no clue why this phrase would pull up my blog. But even less clue why anyone would be searching for this in the first place.
• "OFFENSIVE JANITORS" - What? There's no OffensiveJanitors.com?
• "CHIPS AHOY USING RUBBER IN THEIR COOKIES" - Funny, but mildly frightening, as I'm a solid fan of Chips Ahoy. Am I ingesting rubber? Do we need to get our news dept. on top of this?
• "DARRELL WALTRIP THREE LEGGED DOG" - Boogity boogity boogity!
• "FAKE PEE PANTS" - Is this a real product? Is there a marketing guy out there somewhere going, "C'mon, it's hysterical, you can fake all your friends into thinking that you have bladder control issues! That's AWESOME. Why is no one buying a pair?"
• "PARANORMAL EXPERIENCE WITH HUMMING ECTOPLASM" - Impressively specific.
• "BAD STUFF ABOUT JAPAN" - Because, let's face it, all we hear about Japan is Hondas and Playstations and Jackie Chan. At least one person out there's concerned about the seedy underbelly of "bad stuff" occurring in the Land of the Rising Sun.
• "KATIE HOLMES NUDE" - Hey, if I had THAT, I'd have better things to do than write this column.
• "KIDNEY STONES THAT LOOK LIKE PINK CANDY" - If I emitted kidney stones that looked like pink candy, my first stop would NOT be the internet. It would be the emergency room.
• "NAKED GRANDMAS" - Great. About a year ago, I wrote a column about one of the most embarassing moments of my life: accidentally walking into the sight of my 100-year-old grandmother in mid-wardrobe change. As a result, I appear to now be disappointing scores of perverts. Oh, and speaking of perverts:
• "SEXUAL ORIENTATION OF QC WEATHERMEN" - You know, I watch a lotta TV. I've seen my fair share of weather forecasts. And not ONCE have I stopped and wondered what any of those folk do after dark. I only wonder if I'm gonna need a coat the next day. Maybe I'm missing out.
Which leaves my favorite:
• "IS MITCHUM DEODORANT MORE STICKY NOW" - Can't you just picture the guy who searched for this? Getting out of the shower, rolling on his trusty Mitchum when suddenly the painful reality sets in - "What the...," he says, incensed, "Is it me, or is this deodorant more sticky than I recall? I MUST RESEARCH THIS TROUBLING THEORY IMMEDIATELY!" Folks, if you've got time to investigate the stickiness of your preferred brand of deodorant online, you officially have less of a life than I do -- and that's sayin' something.
I'm starting to realize that I could become an internet sensation and the king of the cyberworld if I just start peppering my columns with popular search words. Of course, that would be pandering and I'm above that. So instead, I'll leave you with this humble nugget of wisdom:
Hot free nude Britney Justin. Truth Kennedy assassination aliens ghosts Star Trek. Free mp3 Harry Potter ending. Playstation X-Box pwned Warcraft Halo 3 cheats. Even more naked grandmas.
Yes, words to live by.
If you may have noticed in the dealy at the bottom of each week's column (I believe the proper journalistic term is "dealymajig,") I maintain an online blog in association with the column. It's nothing fancy, just a repository archive for my writing, plus a handy outlet if anything amusing happens during the week.
Well, when I first started the blog up, I hooked it up to a stat tracker program. The tracker lets me know how many visitors I receive in a given time frame, what columns get the most reads, etc., etc. Mostly I forget it's even there and only remember to check it a couple of times a year. Well, the other night I was goofing around with it and realized that it also records some other pretty interesting stuff.
No, it doesn't give me anything useful like your credit card or social security numbers, so sadly I still can't steal your identities and start life anew on some tropical island with a staff of woman-servants. But it does show some unexpected details, such as what country you're from, what kind of computer you're using, your web browser of choice, etc., etc. Oh, and one other VERY interesting thing: keyword searches.
Let's say you're doing a Web search using a popular search engine like Yahoo or Google. If you search for a particular phrase that somehow pulls up MY blog as a result, my tracker lets me know what you searched for -- and what I found is proof positive that humanity is a very scary beast. Let me show you:
These are actual keyword phrases that folks have searched for online over the past 12 months, leading them to my blog:
• "MY KID IS HYPERTENSE" - When you type this exact phrase into Google, as 117 people this year have, my blog is the #1 link. Why? No clue. I must've used the words "my," "kid," and "hypertense" in close promixity to one another in a column sometime in the past 3 years. Just for the record, I don't know what to do if your kid is hypertense.
• "CHUBBY TONGUE" - Again, no clue why this phrase would pull up my blog. But even less clue why anyone would be searching for this in the first place.
• "OFFENSIVE JANITORS" - What? There's no OffensiveJanitors.com?
• "CHIPS AHOY USING RUBBER IN THEIR COOKIES" - Funny, but mildly frightening, as I'm a solid fan of Chips Ahoy. Am I ingesting rubber? Do we need to get our news dept. on top of this?
• "DARRELL WALTRIP THREE LEGGED DOG" - Boogity boogity boogity!
• "FAKE PEE PANTS" - Is this a real product? Is there a marketing guy out there somewhere going, "C'mon, it's hysterical, you can fake all your friends into thinking that you have bladder control issues! That's AWESOME. Why is no one buying a pair?"
• "PARANORMAL EXPERIENCE WITH HUMMING ECTOPLASM" - Impressively specific.
• "BAD STUFF ABOUT JAPAN" - Because, let's face it, all we hear about Japan is Hondas and Playstations and Jackie Chan. At least one person out there's concerned about the seedy underbelly of "bad stuff" occurring in the Land of the Rising Sun.
• "KATIE HOLMES NUDE" - Hey, if I had THAT, I'd have better things to do than write this column.
• "KIDNEY STONES THAT LOOK LIKE PINK CANDY" - If I emitted kidney stones that looked like pink candy, my first stop would NOT be the internet. It would be the emergency room.
• "NAKED GRANDMAS" - Great. About a year ago, I wrote a column about one of the most embarassing moments of my life: accidentally walking into the sight of my 100-year-old grandmother in mid-wardrobe change. As a result, I appear to now be disappointing scores of perverts. Oh, and speaking of perverts:
• "SEXUAL ORIENTATION OF QC WEATHERMEN" - You know, I watch a lotta TV. I've seen my fair share of weather forecasts. And not ONCE have I stopped and wondered what any of those folk do after dark. I only wonder if I'm gonna need a coat the next day. Maybe I'm missing out.
Which leaves my favorite:
• "IS MITCHUM DEODORANT MORE STICKY NOW" - Can't you just picture the guy who searched for this? Getting out of the shower, rolling on his trusty Mitchum when suddenly the painful reality sets in - "What the...," he says, incensed, "Is it me, or is this deodorant more sticky than I recall? I MUST RESEARCH THIS TROUBLING THEORY IMMEDIATELY!" Folks, if you've got time to investigate the stickiness of your preferred brand of deodorant online, you officially have less of a life than I do -- and that's sayin' something.
I'm starting to realize that I could become an internet sensation and the king of the cyberworld if I just start peppering my columns with popular search words. Of course, that would be pandering and I'm above that. So instead, I'll leave you with this humble nugget of wisdom:
Hot free nude Britney Justin. Truth Kennedy assassination aliens ghosts Star Trek. Free mp3 Harry Potter ending. Playstation X-Box pwned Warcraft Halo 3 cheats. Even more naked grandmas.
Yes, words to live by.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
COLUMN: Spicy
A couple of weeks ago, I found myself at a casual business luncheon with some associates of the newspaper. We decided to go to a nearby Mexican restaurant that whips up a mean meal. When our food arrived, though, I couldn't help but notice how my dining companions eagerly grabbed the salsa and liberally doused their entrees.
Now, normally I play it safe when it comes to spicy foods, but hey, I just watched 3 people turn their meals into salsa soup, so it must not be too hot, right? I leaned in and dipped a chip in a healthy amount of salsa, put it in my mouth, and realized my error in roughly 2.4 seconds. This salsa wasn't just a little hot; it was a LOT hot.
In an attempt to escape my already-sealed fate, I decided it would be best to skip the whole "chewing" nonsense and swallow the chip and the rapidly-burning salsa as quickly as possible. This, of course, resulted in me giving myself a nacho tonsillectomy and a sore throat that lasted the better part of the week. Yay.
I do NOT understand the appeal of overly spicy foods. I mean, there are a few common-sense guidelines that I like to live by, and one of them is simply: "Food should not be painful." Yet I have masochistic friends who think that setting one's tongue on fire makes for a superb night out. Friends who buy hot sauce so nightmarish that merely one drop can turn a vat of chili into a gastro-intestinal abomination. Friends who are, clearly, idiots.
I'm not saying that I don't enjoy flavor to my meals. Flavor is nifty. But there's a difference between something being flavorful and something being downright death-hot. Take that salsa for instance. It didn't taste particularly salsa-y. It didn't taste like much of anything. It just tasted like BURNING.
Look, nature didn't make peppers hot for a taste sensation; they're hot in SELF-DEFENSE. That way, when Peter Cottontail goes hopping down the bunny trail in search of something to nibble on, he skips the jalopenos. Otherwise, Little Bunny Foo Foo learns an important life lesson in what to and to NOT gnaw on. That way, the peppers survive and make little baby peppers until one day we are ruled by a supreme race of habaneros. So, to that end, I suppose we should be grateful for those of us stupid enough to enjoy sticking the things in our mouths.
Perhaps some people are simply born lacking the taste buds required to go, "Hey, mouth on fire = bad." Me? I'll take the safe route, thanks.
In the decade that I've worked for our papers, the building across the street from our main office has seen many incarnations: antique shop, coffee shop, etc. But the weirdest was its short stint as a Mongolian barbecue joint. Now, I'm thinking "mmmmm, barbecue," right? Throw another pig on the spit and sign me up, I loves me a good barbecue.
And when some of the bigwigs here at the paper decided to go check it out, I invited myself right along. Back then, I was the new guy who nobody knew, and any opportunity to get a little face time with some of our more distinguished co-workers couldn't be a bad thing. This would be my time to shine, to schmooze it up, to make myself known, to climb the corporate ladder. Little did I know my plan would be stymied by the Mongols.
Wikipedia informs that the Mongols ruled over the largest continguous land empire in history, conquering and covering some 12 million square miles. They accomplished this task by obviously inviting their enemies over for some barbecue. Now, I can't say for certain what the primary ingredients in a Mongolian barbecue are, but if I had to guess, I would say: battery acid.
Within seconds of my first bite, I was red-faced, sweating, and drinking my body weight in water. My stomach, meanwhile, was expressing its displeasure via a series of well-timed grooooooooinks. So there I am -- all red, sweaty, and groinking -- trying my best to make impressive small talk while my lips melted off my face. My coworkers, meanwhile, just keep shoveling the stuff in their mouths happily.
"Hoo, this has a bit of a kick to it," one of them said. A BIT OF A KICK? I thought, trying desperately to fend off full-on systemic failure. I ate half of the bowl-o'-terror, excused myself, ran back to my office, drank our vending machine out of milk, and spent the rest of the day taking care of business (and I sadly don't mean working.) A good impression is exactly what I DIDN'T make that day.
But I don't care. I walked out of there with my mouth on fire but my sanity intact. Spicy food's for the birds. Well, no, I bet a bird would DIE if it had eaten that barbecue.
Maybe I'm just destined to be one of those old guys you see at the buffet restaurants every day -- you know, the places with no fewer than 200 exceptionally bland varities of food, all of which strangely taste like chicken? I'm not a fan of bland food, either, but with that I can at least guarantee the safety and well-being of the fragile ecosystem known as my lower intestine.
Now, normally I play it safe when it comes to spicy foods, but hey, I just watched 3 people turn their meals into salsa soup, so it must not be too hot, right? I leaned in and dipped a chip in a healthy amount of salsa, put it in my mouth, and realized my error in roughly 2.4 seconds. This salsa wasn't just a little hot; it was a LOT hot.
In an attempt to escape my already-sealed fate, I decided it would be best to skip the whole "chewing" nonsense and swallow the chip and the rapidly-burning salsa as quickly as possible. This, of course, resulted in me giving myself a nacho tonsillectomy and a sore throat that lasted the better part of the week. Yay.
I do NOT understand the appeal of overly spicy foods. I mean, there are a few common-sense guidelines that I like to live by, and one of them is simply: "Food should not be painful." Yet I have masochistic friends who think that setting one's tongue on fire makes for a superb night out. Friends who buy hot sauce so nightmarish that merely one drop can turn a vat of chili into a gastro-intestinal abomination. Friends who are, clearly, idiots.
I'm not saying that I don't enjoy flavor to my meals. Flavor is nifty. But there's a difference between something being flavorful and something being downright death-hot. Take that salsa for instance. It didn't taste particularly salsa-y. It didn't taste like much of anything. It just tasted like BURNING.
Look, nature didn't make peppers hot for a taste sensation; they're hot in SELF-DEFENSE. That way, when Peter Cottontail goes hopping down the bunny trail in search of something to nibble on, he skips the jalopenos. Otherwise, Little Bunny Foo Foo learns an important life lesson in what to and to NOT gnaw on. That way, the peppers survive and make little baby peppers until one day we are ruled by a supreme race of habaneros. So, to that end, I suppose we should be grateful for those of us stupid enough to enjoy sticking the things in our mouths.
Perhaps some people are simply born lacking the taste buds required to go, "Hey, mouth on fire = bad." Me? I'll take the safe route, thanks.
In the decade that I've worked for our papers, the building across the street from our main office has seen many incarnations: antique shop, coffee shop, etc. But the weirdest was its short stint as a Mongolian barbecue joint. Now, I'm thinking "mmmmm, barbecue," right? Throw another pig on the spit and sign me up, I loves me a good barbecue.
And when some of the bigwigs here at the paper decided to go check it out, I invited myself right along. Back then, I was the new guy who nobody knew, and any opportunity to get a little face time with some of our more distinguished co-workers couldn't be a bad thing. This would be my time to shine, to schmooze it up, to make myself known, to climb the corporate ladder. Little did I know my plan would be stymied by the Mongols.
Wikipedia informs that the Mongols ruled over the largest continguous land empire in history, conquering and covering some 12 million square miles. They accomplished this task by obviously inviting their enemies over for some barbecue. Now, I can't say for certain what the primary ingredients in a Mongolian barbecue are, but if I had to guess, I would say: battery acid.
Within seconds of my first bite, I was red-faced, sweating, and drinking my body weight in water. My stomach, meanwhile, was expressing its displeasure via a series of well-timed grooooooooinks. So there I am -- all red, sweaty, and groinking -- trying my best to make impressive small talk while my lips melted off my face. My coworkers, meanwhile, just keep shoveling the stuff in their mouths happily.
"Hoo, this has a bit of a kick to it," one of them said. A BIT OF A KICK? I thought, trying desperately to fend off full-on systemic failure. I ate half of the bowl-o'-terror, excused myself, ran back to my office, drank our vending machine out of milk, and spent the rest of the day taking care of business (and I sadly don't mean working.) A good impression is exactly what I DIDN'T make that day.
But I don't care. I walked out of there with my mouth on fire but my sanity intact. Spicy food's for the birds. Well, no, I bet a bird would DIE if it had eaten that barbecue.
Maybe I'm just destined to be one of those old guys you see at the buffet restaurants every day -- you know, the places with no fewer than 200 exceptionally bland varities of food, all of which strangely taste like chicken? I'm not a fan of bland food, either, but with that I can at least guarantee the safety and well-being of the fragile ecosystem known as my lower intestine.
RIP Charlie Pace
Godspeed, little Hobbit. We barely knew thee...
Thoughts on the season finale, anyone?
Thoughts on the season finale, anyone?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
COLUMN: Country
As a self-proclaimed elitist music nerd, there are a few simple rules to follow to remain cool:
1) Whenever possible, listen to bands that people around you have never heard of.
Ride, The Boo Radleys, Of Montreal, Belle & Sebastian... know 'em? No? Good. They're my 4 favorite bands. Another of my faves has NO name; they simply go by "!!!", which is super cool (until you're looking for them in a record store and you have NO idea how the clerk alphabetized them.) These bands don't get played on the radio. Why? Because you're cooler than radio.
2) If you can find it in a mall, don't buy it.
You're also cooler than chain stores. That's where your mom shops. Your elitist tastes deserve indie record stores. You go to Co-op. You hop online and visit Parasol.com & Tonevendor.com, the bibles of musical cool. The harder it is to find a release, the better it probably is. Don't stop until you find a band SO obscure that they only release albums on player piano reels during odd-numbered autumnal equinoxes. I guarantee they will rock.
3) Above all, don't ever -- EVER -- listen to country music.
Country music is the least hip, least cool music ever made, and you will be mocked by your elitist music nerd friends for liking it.* (*with the exception of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, & 70's era Glen Campbell. Those are all super cool. Probably because they're dead. Well, except Glen Campbell - but anybody with the guts to release "Rhinestone Cowboy" is inherently way cool.)
But I did it. I just broke Cardinal Music Rule #3. And I lived.
I volunteered to review the Brad Paisley gig at the Mark last week.
Why? Call it an experiment in open-mindedness. Call it a test of courage and willpower. Call it an unhealthy and borderline illegal obsession with opening act Taylor Swift, the current lolita goddess of country.
The point is: I went. Worse yet, if you read my glowing review in the paper the next day, I actually had a great time. I think I might even like a couple of Brad Paisley's songs now. I'm scared.
I DID, however, learn some interesting things about the previously unconquered world of country music that I didn't have space to squeeze into the review. Among them:
* It was a novel experience to be at a gig you could UNDERSTAND. At most rock shows, the sound is so jacked you're lucky to make out the obligatory "thankyougoodnight" at the end of the show, let alone ascertain any lyrics. My sincere kudos to the sound engineers, who made the vocals bright and the music powerful.
* Country music fans are really, really nice. I'm used to going to shows where people bump into you, where you're packed in like sardines, where no-one acknowledges one another in the crowd. Right off the bat, this was different. First off, I was totally worried that my new camera would get confiscated. Little did I know cameras are totally cool at country shows. I've been to hip-hop shows where the security frisk-down was more detailed than your average doctor visit. Friday night was pat-pat, come-on-in. Easy peasy. Bump into someone? THEY APOLOGIZE. After the show, I went onto Brad Paisley's website and looked at fans already trading pics, stories, and making meet-up plans for future gigs. The sense of community almost creeped me out.
* Country music STARS are also really, really nice. I'm used to shows where the crowd isn't even acknowledged by the band, or worse yet, gets berated by the band. I was at a show by the British band Suede once where the guitar player told us to "shut the (expletive) up" before he played a note. If Brad Paisley had tried that, he would've been lynched. Instead, the acts at the Mark that night thanked us profusely, looked embarassed when we cheered, kissed babies, threw guitar picks, and generally seemed grateful at the folks who spent money to come down. The opening acts made themselves available to sign autographs for anybody who wanted them. That's a whole lotta name signing. And that was ONE gig on a massive world tour. Frankly, I'd be worried about carpal tunnel come my 20,000th autograph.
* At the same time, though, there's an evil corporate streak to it all. I mean, there must have been at least 25 different t-shirts to buy. And hats, bracelets, photos, autographed CD's, you name it. I'm used to bands selling A t-shirt in order to make gas money to the next gig. Like I said, I went to Brad's website after the show, and when I saw people commenting about the Moline gig, I tried to post a reply. Sadly I had neither $19.99 nor a major credit card handy. They might be nice folk, but they sure know how to turn a buck.
All in all, it was a good night out. It was nice to be at a show where people (be it the crowd OR the band) weren't trying to perpetually out-weird one another. I'm not saying I'm a convert to country music or anything (though I admit, I listened to my fair share of WLLR over the weekend just to make sure,) but it was FAR from a bad time. I'm all for artsy music and challenging lyrics and what-not, but the simplicity and earnestness of country music just lets you switch your brain off for a while and relax and be entertained, and heck, that's what I want out of my Friday nights sometimes.
1) Whenever possible, listen to bands that people around you have never heard of.
Ride, The Boo Radleys, Of Montreal, Belle & Sebastian... know 'em? No? Good. They're my 4 favorite bands. Another of my faves has NO name; they simply go by "!!!", which is super cool (until you're looking for them in a record store and you have NO idea how the clerk alphabetized them.) These bands don't get played on the radio. Why? Because you're cooler than radio.
2) If you can find it in a mall, don't buy it.
You're also cooler than chain stores. That's where your mom shops. Your elitist tastes deserve indie record stores. You go to Co-op. You hop online and visit Parasol.com & Tonevendor.com, the bibles of musical cool. The harder it is to find a release, the better it probably is. Don't stop until you find a band SO obscure that they only release albums on player piano reels during odd-numbered autumnal equinoxes. I guarantee they will rock.
3) Above all, don't ever -- EVER -- listen to country music.
Country music is the least hip, least cool music ever made, and you will be mocked by your elitist music nerd friends for liking it.* (*with the exception of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, & 70's era Glen Campbell. Those are all super cool. Probably because they're dead. Well, except Glen Campbell - but anybody with the guts to release "Rhinestone Cowboy" is inherently way cool.)
But I did it. I just broke Cardinal Music Rule #3. And I lived.
I volunteered to review the Brad Paisley gig at the Mark last week.
Why? Call it an experiment in open-mindedness. Call it a test of courage and willpower. Call it an unhealthy and borderline illegal obsession with opening act Taylor Swift, the current lolita goddess of country.
The point is: I went. Worse yet, if you read my glowing review in the paper the next day, I actually had a great time. I think I might even like a couple of Brad Paisley's songs now. I'm scared.
I DID, however, learn some interesting things about the previously unconquered world of country music that I didn't have space to squeeze into the review. Among them:
* It was a novel experience to be at a gig you could UNDERSTAND. At most rock shows, the sound is so jacked you're lucky to make out the obligatory "thankyougoodnight" at the end of the show, let alone ascertain any lyrics. My sincere kudos to the sound engineers, who made the vocals bright and the music powerful.
* Country music fans are really, really nice. I'm used to going to shows where people bump into you, where you're packed in like sardines, where no-one acknowledges one another in the crowd. Right off the bat, this was different. First off, I was totally worried that my new camera would get confiscated. Little did I know cameras are totally cool at country shows. I've been to hip-hop shows where the security frisk-down was more detailed than your average doctor visit. Friday night was pat-pat, come-on-in. Easy peasy. Bump into someone? THEY APOLOGIZE. After the show, I went onto Brad Paisley's website and looked at fans already trading pics, stories, and making meet-up plans for future gigs. The sense of community almost creeped me out.
* Country music STARS are also really, really nice. I'm used to shows where the crowd isn't even acknowledged by the band, or worse yet, gets berated by the band. I was at a show by the British band Suede once where the guitar player told us to "shut the (expletive) up" before he played a note. If Brad Paisley had tried that, he would've been lynched. Instead, the acts at the Mark that night thanked us profusely, looked embarassed when we cheered, kissed babies, threw guitar picks, and generally seemed grateful at the folks who spent money to come down. The opening acts made themselves available to sign autographs for anybody who wanted them. That's a whole lotta name signing. And that was ONE gig on a massive world tour. Frankly, I'd be worried about carpal tunnel come my 20,000th autograph.
* At the same time, though, there's an evil corporate streak to it all. I mean, there must have been at least 25 different t-shirts to buy. And hats, bracelets, photos, autographed CD's, you name it. I'm used to bands selling A t-shirt in order to make gas money to the next gig. Like I said, I went to Brad's website after the show, and when I saw people commenting about the Moline gig, I tried to post a reply. Sadly I had neither $19.99 nor a major credit card handy. They might be nice folk, but they sure know how to turn a buck.
All in all, it was a good night out. It was nice to be at a show where people (be it the crowd OR the band) weren't trying to perpetually out-weird one another. I'm not saying I'm a convert to country music or anything (though I admit, I listened to my fair share of WLLR over the weekend just to make sure,) but it was FAR from a bad time. I'm all for artsy music and challenging lyrics and what-not, but the simplicity and earnestness of country music just lets you switch your brain off for a while and relax and be entertained, and heck, that's what I want out of my Friday nights sometimes.
Monday, May 07, 2007
COLUMN: Photography
"You can be anything you want to be, if you put your mind to it!" That over-used adage was a frequent flyer at the Brown household when I was growing up. And that sagely nugget of wisdom, alongside heaps of encouragement from the World's Greatest Parents, is probably the main reason why I can be a sales rep AND a columnist AND a club DJ at the same time. I DID put my mind to it, and I DID become whatever I wanted to be. What a great life lesson.
And that, kids, concludes the "Reading is Fundamental" portion of this week's column. Now hand the newspaper back to mom and dad and go wash up, alrighty?
Okay, parents. Have the kids stopped reading? Good, because now we can talk. We all know the "be-anything-you-want" bit is a giant load of hooey, right? Otherwise, I'd be Mr. Katie Holmes right about now and getting paid millions to sit and watch TV all day. The REAL phrase should be something like this:
"You can be anything you want to be* (*except for a bunch of stuff that you're bound to be totally inept at.)"
The truth has revealed itself harshly over the years. It started in middle school. It was band sign-up, and I wanted to play the trumpet. My mommy told me I can be whatever I want to be, and I want to be the guy who plays the horn so fierce that my cheeks poof out like Louie Armstrong. "Sorry," Mr. Band Nazi said, "your cheeks aren't poofy enough and your lips aren't shaped right to play a trumpet. Here, go bang on this drum instead."
And so it began. Can't be an astronaut 'coz I get sick on a Tilt-a-Whirl. Can't be a beekeeper 'coz I'm allergic. Can't be a supermodel coz... well, coz I'm SO painfully sexy that it would be unfair and cruel to all other aspiring male models. And now there's another one I can cross off the list:
I've always wanted to be a great photographer. Not gonna happen.
I have a friend who has the world's greatest eye behind a lens. Seriously. She can go on vacation and point-and-click a roll where EVERY shot could be an album cover. I, meanwhile, am the only photographer I know of capable of making the Rocky Mountains look UGLY.
My folks wanted to foster my early love for photography, so I was the first kid on our block to have my very own camera. I've still got some of those old pictures, too -- they're in an album I like to call "Gallery of the Headless." There I was, capturing on film every person who shaped my upbringing, and, without fail, chopping off their heads. It's a cavalcade of torsos. Actually, there's ONE picture in which I managed to fit in frame both the subject AND her head - it's one I like to call "7 Year Old Shane Surprises Mom on the Toilet."
Almost 30 years later, I'm still inept at taking pics. So what's a photo idiot like me to do? Take a class? Buy a book? Naw. If I stink at photography, it must be the CAMERA'S fault, right? That's why I blew my tax return on a fancy new digital SLR. Well, not a FANCY one, because I didn't realize how much cameras cost these days. Another photographer buddy of mine recommended a model, which sounded great -- until I went to the store and saw the $2200 price tag.
$2200? For a CAMERA? Are you KIDDING me? If I'm spending $2200 on a camera, I expect that camera to, at the very least, see through the clothing of attractive women. No X-ray powers? I'll take the basic model, then, thanks.
And with my new camera, soon all of you would be basking in the wonder of my artsy-ness. Too bad, then, that it then spent the entire week raining. Ergo, the debut of my wonderful new camera was spent taking exactly 187 pictures of my housecats, whose retinas may never be the same again.
Still, though, it's a start. When the rain cleared, my friend Jason and I took the camera out on a day-long test drive in the country. I took a LOT of pictures -- towns, rivers, flowers, nature, whatever -- and some of 'em are actually kinda good. I was almost getting confident about my photo-taking ability until Jason fixed that for me:
"Dude, why do you hold the camera so dorky?"
What? I can't even HOLD the camera right? Instead of looking through the viewfinder straight on, apparantly I turn my head to the left. To me it makes sense -- my nose doesn't get scrunched up against the back of the camera, and it affords my eye a perfect fit on the viewfinder. And, apparantly, looks super dorky.
But you know what? I don't care. I may not be Ansel Adams, but I still have fun trying. So I'm not giving up. Maybe I still CAN be whatever I want to be if I put my mind to it. Maybe I WILL go buy a book on photography and learn how to compose a decent pic. Keep your eyes on my blog - if I start taking masterful photos, I'll post them. Until then, SAY CHEESE.
And that, kids, concludes the "Reading is Fundamental" portion of this week's column. Now hand the newspaper back to mom and dad and go wash up, alrighty?
Okay, parents. Have the kids stopped reading? Good, because now we can talk. We all know the "be-anything-you-want" bit is a giant load of hooey, right? Otherwise, I'd be Mr. Katie Holmes right about now and getting paid millions to sit and watch TV all day. The REAL phrase should be something like this:
"You can be anything you want to be* (*except for a bunch of stuff that you're bound to be totally inept at.)"
The truth has revealed itself harshly over the years. It started in middle school. It was band sign-up, and I wanted to play the trumpet. My mommy told me I can be whatever I want to be, and I want to be the guy who plays the horn so fierce that my cheeks poof out like Louie Armstrong. "Sorry," Mr. Band Nazi said, "your cheeks aren't poofy enough and your lips aren't shaped right to play a trumpet. Here, go bang on this drum instead."
And so it began. Can't be an astronaut 'coz I get sick on a Tilt-a-Whirl. Can't be a beekeeper 'coz I'm allergic. Can't be a supermodel coz... well, coz I'm SO painfully sexy that it would be unfair and cruel to all other aspiring male models. And now there's another one I can cross off the list:
I've always wanted to be a great photographer. Not gonna happen.
I have a friend who has the world's greatest eye behind a lens. Seriously. She can go on vacation and point-and-click a roll where EVERY shot could be an album cover. I, meanwhile, am the only photographer I know of capable of making the Rocky Mountains look UGLY.
My folks wanted to foster my early love for photography, so I was the first kid on our block to have my very own camera. I've still got some of those old pictures, too -- they're in an album I like to call "Gallery of the Headless." There I was, capturing on film every person who shaped my upbringing, and, without fail, chopping off their heads. It's a cavalcade of torsos. Actually, there's ONE picture in which I managed to fit in frame both the subject AND her head - it's one I like to call "7 Year Old Shane Surprises Mom on the Toilet."
Almost 30 years later, I'm still inept at taking pics. So what's a photo idiot like me to do? Take a class? Buy a book? Naw. If I stink at photography, it must be the CAMERA'S fault, right? That's why I blew my tax return on a fancy new digital SLR. Well, not a FANCY one, because I didn't realize how much cameras cost these days. Another photographer buddy of mine recommended a model, which sounded great -- until I went to the store and saw the $2200 price tag.
$2200? For a CAMERA? Are you KIDDING me? If I'm spending $2200 on a camera, I expect that camera to, at the very least, see through the clothing of attractive women. No X-ray powers? I'll take the basic model, then, thanks.
And with my new camera, soon all of you would be basking in the wonder of my artsy-ness. Too bad, then, that it then spent the entire week raining. Ergo, the debut of my wonderful new camera was spent taking exactly 187 pictures of my housecats, whose retinas may never be the same again.
Still, though, it's a start. When the rain cleared, my friend Jason and I took the camera out on a day-long test drive in the country. I took a LOT of pictures -- towns, rivers, flowers, nature, whatever -- and some of 'em are actually kinda good. I was almost getting confident about my photo-taking ability until Jason fixed that for me:
"Dude, why do you hold the camera so dorky?"
What? I can't even HOLD the camera right? Instead of looking through the viewfinder straight on, apparantly I turn my head to the left. To me it makes sense -- my nose doesn't get scrunched up against the back of the camera, and it affords my eye a perfect fit on the viewfinder. And, apparantly, looks super dorky.
But you know what? I don't care. I may not be Ansel Adams, but I still have fun trying. So I'm not giving up. Maybe I still CAN be whatever I want to be if I put my mind to it. Maybe I WILL go buy a book on photography and learn how to compose a decent pic. Keep your eyes on my blog - if I start taking masterful photos, I'll post them. Until then, SAY CHEESE.
COLUMN: Breaking News
Long ago when I had a dream of someday having my own weekly niche in the newspaper, I never expected that I would use said niche to compare the Cable News Network to Bobcat Goldthwait. But hey, weirder things have happened, I suppose.
A few years back, a friend and I went to see Bobcat perform live at a local comedy club. It was a REALLY funny gig, but it got awkward at the end. As the show was concluding, it became painfully evident that Goldthwait had used up most of his planned material. However, the wait staff hadn't finished closing out tabs and seeing people off. This left Goldthwait in the unenviable position of having to kill time until the wait staff sorted out everyone's bills. While he did a decent job ad-libbing a few extra minutes, it was QUITE obvious to those of us in the crowd that the material Goldthwait was offering was filler at best.
This past week, I was on vacation. Well, no -- vacation implies that I was somewhere fun doing something fun. I simply was being paid to NOT be at work. Rather than use my vacation time to tour some exotic land, I chose to stay at home, recharge the batteries, and watch a remarkably unhealthy amount of TV.
Little did I know that I picked a doozy of a week to sit glued in front of the TV. What I thought would end up being a week's worth of television comedy at its finest turned into a week-long telethon of tragedy. Between the horrors at Virginia Tech, the senseless workplace shooting at NASA, and the sad loss of a Navy Blue Angel, I spent a LOT of my vacation staring at CNN with my head shaking.
But as much as I appreciate the instant coverage that the TV news channels provide, I realized this week just why I love newspapers as much as I do: newspapers give you news -- on paper. In one glance, you can read all there is to know about a major news event. No hubbub, no spectacle, just the facts as we know them prior to that issue's deadline.
I'm a here-and-now kinda guy. I realize that today's society lives as mere rest stops on the information superhighway. I respect and admire the fact that, like what happened numerous times last week, someone can call me and go, "Dude, are you watching this? Turn on the TV right now," and within seconds, I'm up to pace. But that right there is also the problem of cable news: It DOES take mere seconds to get up to speed on a breaking news story... yet the networks give these stories hours and hours of coverage, some of which is crucial and informative, but most is just pure filler.
When the tragedy at Virginia Tech occurred last week, all the major networks broke in immediately with all-day coverage. CNN quickly procured a video filmed on a cell phone by a VT student. The video showed the exterior of Norris Hall. Inside of that building, unspeakable horror was being played out, yet outside all you saw was a building, the awful sound of gunfire, and then audio of someone yelling.
In other words, the video served little purpose as to coverage of the event. It wasn't news; it was shock-and-awful. I stopped counting after CNN replayed that video 45 times that afternoon. Not only replayed it, but interviewed the student who shot the video three times. Each interview, they asked the student what the yelling at the end of the tape was. Was it students? The gunman? No, it was a police officer yelling at the amateur documentarian to get away from the building.
When the Blue Angel pilot was sadly killed at the air show this past weekend, once again the networks rolled into wall-to-wall Breaking News mode. Problem was, other than waiting for the Navy press conference, there really wasn't much to talk about.
Yet we were subject to hours of the news networks riffing about the Blue Angels, the Carolina coastline, airplanes in general, etc., etc. At one point, CNN contacted one of their reporters embedded in the Middle East and woke her up in the middle of the night to put her on air. Why? Because years prior, this reporter had flown with the Blue Angels in a fluff piece. Her much-needed international insight? "Those planes travel fast." Meanwhile, on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, it's mentioned in passing that a charter plane crashed in the Florida Keys killing 3. Why does THAT tragedy merit only a crawl?
The cable networks aren't dumb - they know that breaking news equals viewers. It doesn't matter if it's O.J.'s car chase, Anna Nicole's kid, or one of the greatest tragedies to ever strike our nation -- the news networks will be there, looping film footage, over-analyzing, talking to witnesses who witnessed nothing, and covering stories when the stories themselves haven't been written yet.
At some point, the cable channels need to know when Breaking News becomes Broken News. If you want to survive in the business of information, you need to inform -- NOT mindlessly riff and kill time like a comedian struggling to get offstage.
A few years back, a friend and I went to see Bobcat perform live at a local comedy club. It was a REALLY funny gig, but it got awkward at the end. As the show was concluding, it became painfully evident that Goldthwait had used up most of his planned material. However, the wait staff hadn't finished closing out tabs and seeing people off. This left Goldthwait in the unenviable position of having to kill time until the wait staff sorted out everyone's bills. While he did a decent job ad-libbing a few extra minutes, it was QUITE obvious to those of us in the crowd that the material Goldthwait was offering was filler at best.
This past week, I was on vacation. Well, no -- vacation implies that I was somewhere fun doing something fun. I simply was being paid to NOT be at work. Rather than use my vacation time to tour some exotic land, I chose to stay at home, recharge the batteries, and watch a remarkably unhealthy amount of TV.
Little did I know that I picked a doozy of a week to sit glued in front of the TV. What I thought would end up being a week's worth of television comedy at its finest turned into a week-long telethon of tragedy. Between the horrors at Virginia Tech, the senseless workplace shooting at NASA, and the sad loss of a Navy Blue Angel, I spent a LOT of my vacation staring at CNN with my head shaking.
But as much as I appreciate the instant coverage that the TV news channels provide, I realized this week just why I love newspapers as much as I do: newspapers give you news -- on paper. In one glance, you can read all there is to know about a major news event. No hubbub, no spectacle, just the facts as we know them prior to that issue's deadline.
I'm a here-and-now kinda guy. I realize that today's society lives as mere rest stops on the information superhighway. I respect and admire the fact that, like what happened numerous times last week, someone can call me and go, "Dude, are you watching this? Turn on the TV right now," and within seconds, I'm up to pace. But that right there is also the problem of cable news: It DOES take mere seconds to get up to speed on a breaking news story... yet the networks give these stories hours and hours of coverage, some of which is crucial and informative, but most is just pure filler.
When the tragedy at Virginia Tech occurred last week, all the major networks broke in immediately with all-day coverage. CNN quickly procured a video filmed on a cell phone by a VT student. The video showed the exterior of Norris Hall. Inside of that building, unspeakable horror was being played out, yet outside all you saw was a building, the awful sound of gunfire, and then audio of someone yelling.
In other words, the video served little purpose as to coverage of the event. It wasn't news; it was shock-and-awful. I stopped counting after CNN replayed that video 45 times that afternoon. Not only replayed it, but interviewed the student who shot the video three times. Each interview, they asked the student what the yelling at the end of the tape was. Was it students? The gunman? No, it was a police officer yelling at the amateur documentarian to get away from the building.
When the Blue Angel pilot was sadly killed at the air show this past weekend, once again the networks rolled into wall-to-wall Breaking News mode. Problem was, other than waiting for the Navy press conference, there really wasn't much to talk about.
Yet we were subject to hours of the news networks riffing about the Blue Angels, the Carolina coastline, airplanes in general, etc., etc. At one point, CNN contacted one of their reporters embedded in the Middle East and woke her up in the middle of the night to put her on air. Why? Because years prior, this reporter had flown with the Blue Angels in a fluff piece. Her much-needed international insight? "Those planes travel fast." Meanwhile, on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, it's mentioned in passing that a charter plane crashed in the Florida Keys killing 3. Why does THAT tragedy merit only a crawl?
The cable networks aren't dumb - they know that breaking news equals viewers. It doesn't matter if it's O.J.'s car chase, Anna Nicole's kid, or one of the greatest tragedies to ever strike our nation -- the news networks will be there, looping film footage, over-analyzing, talking to witnesses who witnessed nothing, and covering stories when the stories themselves haven't been written yet.
At some point, the cable channels need to know when Breaking News becomes Broken News. If you want to survive in the business of information, you need to inform -- NOT mindlessly riff and kill time like a comedian struggling to get offstage.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Brad Paisley pics
So for those of you who actually READ our papers, you might have noticed that lil' ol' me got to review the Brad Paisley show at the Mark on Friday night... Well, or as I like to call it, the Taylor Swift show at the Mark on Friday night that Brad Paisley also happened to be at ;)
I'm kidding. They were all good. And, coming from indie rock ME talking about a country gig, that's sayin' something.
Anyways, it was a good chance to test out the new camera some more. Here's some pics from the gig:
Here's the awesome stage set-up:
Taylor Swift:
Kellie Pickler:
Brad Paisley:
And yes, one chubby and exceptionally dorky columnist/dirty-old-man in one of the most awkward moments of his life:
And, yes, I bet that's the only time Taylor Swift has been photographed next to someone in a Belle & Sebastian t-shirt.
I'm kidding. They were all good. And, coming from indie rock ME talking about a country gig, that's sayin' something.
Anyways, it was a good chance to test out the new camera some more. Here's some pics from the gig:
Here's the awesome stage set-up:
Taylor Swift:
Kellie Pickler:
Brad Paisley:
And yes, one chubby and exceptionally dorky columnist/dirty-old-man in one of the most awkward moments of his life:
And, yes, I bet that's the only time Taylor Swift has been photographed next to someone in a Belle & Sebastian t-shirt.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
Just Some Random Sunday Thoughts...
Okay, so...
(1) I feel absolutely horrible about the wreck on the Centennial Bridge this weekend that, from what I gather, killed two innocents. I hope to God that none of the parties involved were coming to, or leaving from, the club I DJ at on the weekends. PLEASE be careful when you're out on the weekends, all, PLEASE. And not just YOU - watch out for other idiots who might be LESS careful.
(2) So some guy decided to joy-climb the Channel 4 tower in downtown Rock Island earlier today. In a weird, sick way -- I'm jealous. I don't know why, but I've always loved that particular tower. For one, it's old school looking - you don't see too many of those triangular towers any more. Most aerial towers are slender, sleek things held aloft with a bevy of those God-awful support guidewire things (if you don't believe me, go to Bettendorf and check out that housing subdivision due west of the giant KWQC tower -- the big one with the strobe lights. That neighborhood has countless backyards that are totally ruined by the obnoxious support lines to that behemoth.) But I think I like the Channel 4 tower there in Rock Island mostly because of the way that it's lit. I don't know if it's the lights ON the tower, the lights illuminating the tower, or the way that the tower reflects the general light of downtown Rock Island, but the end effect is that the tower looks completely unreal -- almost as if it's made of Legos or some random kid's toy. A lot of weekends in the summer, I hang out on the back patio of 2nd Ave. just staring up at that beast. I don't know why, but it's always been one of my favorite things in the Quad Cities. Part of me wants to be that dude who climbed it today. I'm happy nobody was hurt and the situation was resolved, tho.
(3) Maybe I'm just fascinated by aerial towers as a rule. I try my best to remember the locations of towers in and around the Quad Cities. If you're ever bombing around in the country at night joyriding and get lost, you can fairly easily find your way if you learn to recognize those towers. That monster strobe tower in Bettendorf can be seen 10 miles away on a clear night... outside of Orion, there's a series of towers (also Channel 4 I think?) that are easily identifiable... in Galesburg, the radio stations out there are all bundled together in a 3-tower chain that's easy to spot... Yeah, so maybe I'm a loser. It DOES make you think about just what all's floating through the air, though, doesn't it? Between radio waves, microwaves, cell phone signals, ground-to-air communication... we've come a looong way from two soup cans and a string, eh?
Anyways, have a great week, all -- I'll get my new column up soon.
(1) I feel absolutely horrible about the wreck on the Centennial Bridge this weekend that, from what I gather, killed two innocents. I hope to God that none of the parties involved were coming to, or leaving from, the club I DJ at on the weekends. PLEASE be careful when you're out on the weekends, all, PLEASE. And not just YOU - watch out for other idiots who might be LESS careful.
(2) So some guy decided to joy-climb the Channel 4 tower in downtown Rock Island earlier today. In a weird, sick way -- I'm jealous. I don't know why, but I've always loved that particular tower. For one, it's old school looking - you don't see too many of those triangular towers any more. Most aerial towers are slender, sleek things held aloft with a bevy of those God-awful support guidewire things (if you don't believe me, go to Bettendorf and check out that housing subdivision due west of the giant KWQC tower -- the big one with the strobe lights. That neighborhood has countless backyards that are totally ruined by the obnoxious support lines to that behemoth.) But I think I like the Channel 4 tower there in Rock Island mostly because of the way that it's lit. I don't know if it's the lights ON the tower, the lights illuminating the tower, or the way that the tower reflects the general light of downtown Rock Island, but the end effect is that the tower looks completely unreal -- almost as if it's made of Legos or some random kid's toy. A lot of weekends in the summer, I hang out on the back patio of 2nd Ave. just staring up at that beast. I don't know why, but it's always been one of my favorite things in the Quad Cities. Part of me wants to be that dude who climbed it today. I'm happy nobody was hurt and the situation was resolved, tho.
(3) Maybe I'm just fascinated by aerial towers as a rule. I try my best to remember the locations of towers in and around the Quad Cities. If you're ever bombing around in the country at night joyriding and get lost, you can fairly easily find your way if you learn to recognize those towers. That monster strobe tower in Bettendorf can be seen 10 miles away on a clear night... outside of Orion, there's a series of towers (also Channel 4 I think?) that are easily identifiable... in Galesburg, the radio stations out there are all bundled together in a 3-tower chain that's easy to spot... Yeah, so maybe I'm a loser. It DOES make you think about just what all's floating through the air, though, doesn't it? Between radio waves, microwaves, cell phone signals, ground-to-air communication... we've come a looong way from two soup cans and a string, eh?
Anyways, have a great week, all -- I'll get my new column up soon.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
COLUMN: Independence
I'm an independent person. Well, either that or it's what I say to defend my long stretches of bachelorhood.
But I AM an only child, and an only child who grew up out in the sticks. There were no kids my age within walking distance to my house. My parents were great companions, but, y'know, they're PARENTS. Parents aren't into D&D or rock music or video games or kid stuff. This meant that from a young age, I had to become fairly adept at keeping myself company.
Nowadays, the independence that I cultivated as a kid still comes in handy. I've got a great set of friends, but they live their own lives. I'm seeing a girl now, but she's all the way up in Chicago and about to leave on a mission to Africa for most of the summer. This kind of relationship would probably make the average mortal's head snap, but I'm kind of okay with it. I mean, I want to see her 24/7, but if I can't, I can deal with it. I'm used to flying solo.
And who better to be my friend than myself? We share the same sense of humor, we always show up places at the same time, and we never quibble over what radio station to listen to. (Actually, I often DO get in fights with myself over radio stations. This will probably prove important in a therapy session one day.)
The point is, most of the time I'm perfectly okay with hanging out by myself. Some folks out there can't seem to exist on their own. I relish it. I've known people too self-conscious to walk into a restaurant by themselves; I eat out almost every day, and usually by myself. To me, it's no big deal. I've gone to clubs by myself, concerts by myself. Heck, once I even went to Colorado by myself.
But there's one thing that freaks even ME out. One place where I have a HUGE problem going by myself: the movies. For some reason, I can't imagine strutting into a cinema with a party of one. But for the sake of journalism -- well, and boredom -- I'm going for it.
As I type this, I'm on vacation from work. By the time you read this, they'll have found me and re-chained me to my desk, but for the time being, I'm a free man.
Problem is, my friends aren't. They didn't have the common courtesy to vacate en masse with me. I'm not at work, but all my friends ARE. Besides, most of my friends are into more highbrow ways to spend the day. In fact, one of my best friends has plans tonight to go see a lecture by a survivor of the Holocaust. That's an admirable event to attend, and certain to be a rare emotional glimpse into one of the most horrific moments of humanity.
I, meanwhile, have opted for flatulence jokes. Sadly, that's MY infantile brain's idea of a well-spent night out. So I'm off to conquer my fear of seeing movies solo by checking out the new Will Ferrell flick, "Blades of Glory." And I'm bringing my notebook to record it all.
- Gulp. Well, I did it. I marched right in the front door of the theatre, went up to the booth, and confidently announced, "One, please." In a swift glance, the ticket girl knew. Her mouth might have said, "There you go, enjoy the show," but I KNOW her brain was pointing and laughing.
- The theatre-plex is nearly empty except for lots of employees and some stragglers, all of whom are likely pointing and laughing at me in their brains. Inspiration hits: I take out my notepad. Now it looks as if I'm a Very Important Movie Critic. I'm not here alone because I'm a loser, I'm here because it's my JOB! Of course, why would a critic be writing in said notepad BEFORE the movie starts? This won't work.
- A better plan is formulated. Before I go to into the movie, I will stand in the lobby and make a big production of looking at my watch, seemingly frustrated. This way I will not appear to be by myself, I will simply be the responsible guy irked at his late slacker buddies. Wait, no. That looks more like the pathetic guy who's getting stood up for a matinee. That's worse than coming in by yourself to begin with.
- Joy! I have slunk into the theatre to find it COMPLETELY EMPTY. Will I have a private screening of the movie? Grrr, no. Just before the movie's scheduled start, a high school couple comes in, heads to the back of the theatre, and giggles. Probably because they're cool and I'm not. I bet they're gonna make out, too. Just two hormonal high schoolers and ME, the de facto lonely pervert. Please let the trailers start soon so I can melt into darkness.
- Trailers. Well, first an ad for Pepsi. And then Hot Pockets. They're not dimming the lights. And then a PSA telling you not to smoke pot, which is pretty pointless in front of a Will Ferrell flick. The lights stay on. And a trailer. And another trailer. Still lights. I bet they're snickering at me. A third trailer. A fourth. Now I'm self-conscious, awkward, AND all I can think about is how badly I want a Hot Pocket.
Finally, the lights dim and the movie starts. Soon, my awkward fears dissipate in a sea of figure skating, bad jokes, and that hot girl from "The Office." I did it. I conquered my Everest. I went to a movie by myself, and I had fun. Granted, I picked an aisle seat 2 steps away from the door, and by the time the closing music swelled, I was already a dust trail making a leap for the exit.
Still, it was one giant leap for Shanekind. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a vacation to attend to.
But I AM an only child, and an only child who grew up out in the sticks. There were no kids my age within walking distance to my house. My parents were great companions, but, y'know, they're PARENTS. Parents aren't into D&D or rock music or video games or kid stuff. This meant that from a young age, I had to become fairly adept at keeping myself company.
Nowadays, the independence that I cultivated as a kid still comes in handy. I've got a great set of friends, but they live their own lives. I'm seeing a girl now, but she's all the way up in Chicago and about to leave on a mission to Africa for most of the summer. This kind of relationship would probably make the average mortal's head snap, but I'm kind of okay with it. I mean, I want to see her 24/7, but if I can't, I can deal with it. I'm used to flying solo.
And who better to be my friend than myself? We share the same sense of humor, we always show up places at the same time, and we never quibble over what radio station to listen to. (Actually, I often DO get in fights with myself over radio stations. This will probably prove important in a therapy session one day.)
The point is, most of the time I'm perfectly okay with hanging out by myself. Some folks out there can't seem to exist on their own. I relish it. I've known people too self-conscious to walk into a restaurant by themselves; I eat out almost every day, and usually by myself. To me, it's no big deal. I've gone to clubs by myself, concerts by myself. Heck, once I even went to Colorado by myself.
But there's one thing that freaks even ME out. One place where I have a HUGE problem going by myself: the movies. For some reason, I can't imagine strutting into a cinema with a party of one. But for the sake of journalism -- well, and boredom -- I'm going for it.
As I type this, I'm on vacation from work. By the time you read this, they'll have found me and re-chained me to my desk, but for the time being, I'm a free man.
Problem is, my friends aren't. They didn't have the common courtesy to vacate en masse with me. I'm not at work, but all my friends ARE. Besides, most of my friends are into more highbrow ways to spend the day. In fact, one of my best friends has plans tonight to go see a lecture by a survivor of the Holocaust. That's an admirable event to attend, and certain to be a rare emotional glimpse into one of the most horrific moments of humanity.
I, meanwhile, have opted for flatulence jokes. Sadly, that's MY infantile brain's idea of a well-spent night out. So I'm off to conquer my fear of seeing movies solo by checking out the new Will Ferrell flick, "Blades of Glory." And I'm bringing my notebook to record it all.
- Gulp. Well, I did it. I marched right in the front door of the theatre, went up to the booth, and confidently announced, "One, please." In a swift glance, the ticket girl knew. Her mouth might have said, "There you go, enjoy the show," but I KNOW her brain was pointing and laughing.
- The theatre-plex is nearly empty except for lots of employees and some stragglers, all of whom are likely pointing and laughing at me in their brains. Inspiration hits: I take out my notepad. Now it looks as if I'm a Very Important Movie Critic. I'm not here alone because I'm a loser, I'm here because it's my JOB! Of course, why would a critic be writing in said notepad BEFORE the movie starts? This won't work.
- A better plan is formulated. Before I go to into the movie, I will stand in the lobby and make a big production of looking at my watch, seemingly frustrated. This way I will not appear to be by myself, I will simply be the responsible guy irked at his late slacker buddies. Wait, no. That looks more like the pathetic guy who's getting stood up for a matinee. That's worse than coming in by yourself to begin with.
- Joy! I have slunk into the theatre to find it COMPLETELY EMPTY. Will I have a private screening of the movie? Grrr, no. Just before the movie's scheduled start, a high school couple comes in, heads to the back of the theatre, and giggles. Probably because they're cool and I'm not. I bet they're gonna make out, too. Just two hormonal high schoolers and ME, the de facto lonely pervert. Please let the trailers start soon so I can melt into darkness.
- Trailers. Well, first an ad for Pepsi. And then Hot Pockets. They're not dimming the lights. And then a PSA telling you not to smoke pot, which is pretty pointless in front of a Will Ferrell flick. The lights stay on. And a trailer. And another trailer. Still lights. I bet they're snickering at me. A third trailer. A fourth. Now I'm self-conscious, awkward, AND all I can think about is how badly I want a Hot Pocket.
Finally, the lights dim and the movie starts. Soon, my awkward fears dissipate in a sea of figure skating, bad jokes, and that hot girl from "The Office." I did it. I conquered my Everest. I went to a movie by myself, and I had fun. Granted, I picked an aisle seat 2 steps away from the door, and by the time the closing music swelled, I was already a dust trail making a leap for the exit.
Still, it was one giant leap for Shanekind. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a vacation to attend to.
Friday, April 13, 2007
COLUMN: Angels?
"There's a feelin' in the air that you can't get anywhere except the Quad Cities... where the rivers flow through the hometowns we know/Friends and neighbors building pride."
Unless you live under a rock, you know those lyrics. They're part of the jingle that local station KWQC uses in their ads and the TV news. Yes, it's super cheezy, and yes, the same jingle is probably employed in twenty other markets around the country ("...that you can't get anywhere except [insert town name here].")
But, in a corny way, I've always kinda liked that tune. There really IS a feelin' in the air that you can't get anywhere but here. We're big city enough to have thriving commerce and a fun nightlife, but we're also small-town enough to be able to stop and watch the river float by. We've got industry and big buildings and multi-lane roads, but we're also less than a five minute drive to a cornfield when the need to escape hits.
And it's this occasional small-town mindframe, rare in a city this size, that makes the Quad Cities twinkle. From trivia fundraisers where total strangers come up and share food... to waiting in line at a gas station and sparking up a temporary friendship with the person next to you... to a show at Music Guild where you can experience a community supporting the arts. Folks, it's the closest this columnist ever gets to warm fuzzies.
But those fuzzies shriveled up in a heartbeat a couple weekends ago. I was on my way to one of those trivia nights in Davenport and had just crossed the Arsenal bridge headed to Brady Street. That was when I saw them: the red berets of the Guardian Angels.
This is one of those subjects that drives people to, at the very least, write very nasty things in the forums of QCOnline. The Guardian Angels have come to Davenport. The streets will soon be patrolled by a batallion of volunteers who have submitted to the Angels' intensive training sessions of martial arts, CPR, self-defense, and First Aid. Vigilante justice, right here in River City.
"No-o-o," say the group's members and supporters, "The Guardian Angels are NOT vigilantes."
Vig•i•lan•te (n.) A member of a volunteer committee organized to suppress and punish crime summarily, as when the processes of law are viewed as inadequate.
That's what Webster's has to say about vigilantes. Sorry, Angels, but what are you if not that?
I remember the first time I ever saw a Guardian Angel. I was fresh out of high school, and a carload of my friends and I decided to drive up and explore Chicago. I've been to the Windy City a jillion times since, but I'll never forget that first trip sans parents. We saw things young Galesburgers hadn't been exposed to outside of cop shows: Projects. Burning cars. Subway rats. And, yes, a Guardian Angel riding in our train.
And what feeling came over me when I first noticed the Angel? A feeling of peace, safety, and security knowing that this guy had our back if something went down? Nope. I thought this: I am in a very, very dangerous place right now. If this subway car needs a beefy dude in a beret to protect its occupants, this is NOT a place for 17-year-old me right now.
Is that the impression we want to make of our communities? What's our new tourism motto to be? "Welcome to the Quad Cities. Don't worry, we have people who can protect you!"
Look, you don't have to tell me that our cities have problems. I work at a newspaper, and I read the headlines for myself. But has it come to THIS? Are our police so ill-prepared and unrespected that we need a volunteer army to wander around and make downtown Davenport look like its under martial law?
The answers shouldn't have to come from the public. They should come from those employed to enforce the law, and THEIR bosses -- our elected officials. We need more police on the streets, we need concentrated social programs to uplift impoverished areas, we need economic development to bring jobs to town. Kids need options OTHER than drugs and guns. It's not an easy road, but it's a road worth walking. As long as we've got brains in our heads, we shouldn't have to fight fire with fire.
I'm not trying to disrespect the guys who have heeded the Angels' call for volunteers. In fact, I applaud them. These are dudes who are SO concerned about their community that they're willing to risk their necks for it. That's commendable. It has to take some serious guts to put one of those berets on. But it shouldn't have to come to this. Not here, not where the rivers flow through the hometowns we know.
I'm not the guy with the answers. I'm just one voice that happens to have a newspaper column that I can occasionally turn into a soapbox. We DO desperately need to curb violent crime, but by turning our problems over to the Angels, we're no longer friends and neighbors building pride, we're just people building anxiety, paranoia, and consternation. And those are some pretty sucky words to have to rhyme a new jingle to.
Unless you live under a rock, you know those lyrics. They're part of the jingle that local station KWQC uses in their ads and the TV news. Yes, it's super cheezy, and yes, the same jingle is probably employed in twenty other markets around the country ("...that you can't get anywhere except [insert town name here].")
But, in a corny way, I've always kinda liked that tune. There really IS a feelin' in the air that you can't get anywhere but here. We're big city enough to have thriving commerce and a fun nightlife, but we're also small-town enough to be able to stop and watch the river float by. We've got industry and big buildings and multi-lane roads, but we're also less than a five minute drive to a cornfield when the need to escape hits.
And it's this occasional small-town mindframe, rare in a city this size, that makes the Quad Cities twinkle. From trivia fundraisers where total strangers come up and share food... to waiting in line at a gas station and sparking up a temporary friendship with the person next to you... to a show at Music Guild where you can experience a community supporting the arts. Folks, it's the closest this columnist ever gets to warm fuzzies.
But those fuzzies shriveled up in a heartbeat a couple weekends ago. I was on my way to one of those trivia nights in Davenport and had just crossed the Arsenal bridge headed to Brady Street. That was when I saw them: the red berets of the Guardian Angels.
This is one of those subjects that drives people to, at the very least, write very nasty things in the forums of QCOnline. The Guardian Angels have come to Davenport. The streets will soon be patrolled by a batallion of volunteers who have submitted to the Angels' intensive training sessions of martial arts, CPR, self-defense, and First Aid. Vigilante justice, right here in River City.
"No-o-o," say the group's members and supporters, "The Guardian Angels are NOT vigilantes."
Vig•i•lan•te (n.) A member of a volunteer committee organized to suppress and punish crime summarily, as when the processes of law are viewed as inadequate.
That's what Webster's has to say about vigilantes. Sorry, Angels, but what are you if not that?
I remember the first time I ever saw a Guardian Angel. I was fresh out of high school, and a carload of my friends and I decided to drive up and explore Chicago. I've been to the Windy City a jillion times since, but I'll never forget that first trip sans parents. We saw things young Galesburgers hadn't been exposed to outside of cop shows: Projects. Burning cars. Subway rats. And, yes, a Guardian Angel riding in our train.
And what feeling came over me when I first noticed the Angel? A feeling of peace, safety, and security knowing that this guy had our back if something went down? Nope. I thought this: I am in a very, very dangerous place right now. If this subway car needs a beefy dude in a beret to protect its occupants, this is NOT a place for 17-year-old me right now.
Is that the impression we want to make of our communities? What's our new tourism motto to be? "Welcome to the Quad Cities. Don't worry, we have people who can protect you!"
Look, you don't have to tell me that our cities have problems. I work at a newspaper, and I read the headlines for myself. But has it come to THIS? Are our police so ill-prepared and unrespected that we need a volunteer army to wander around and make downtown Davenport look like its under martial law?
The answers shouldn't have to come from the public. They should come from those employed to enforce the law, and THEIR bosses -- our elected officials. We need more police on the streets, we need concentrated social programs to uplift impoverished areas, we need economic development to bring jobs to town. Kids need options OTHER than drugs and guns. It's not an easy road, but it's a road worth walking. As long as we've got brains in our heads, we shouldn't have to fight fire with fire.
I'm not trying to disrespect the guys who have heeded the Angels' call for volunteers. In fact, I applaud them. These are dudes who are SO concerned about their community that they're willing to risk their necks for it. That's commendable. It has to take some serious guts to put one of those berets on. But it shouldn't have to come to this. Not here, not where the rivers flow through the hometowns we know.
I'm not the guy with the answers. I'm just one voice that happens to have a newspaper column that I can occasionally turn into a soapbox. We DO desperately need to curb violent crime, but by turning our problems over to the Angels, we're no longer friends and neighbors building pride, we're just people building anxiety, paranoia, and consternation. And those are some pretty sucky words to have to rhyme a new jingle to.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
The Music Nerd in Me Requires Your Attention
So if you're a regular fan of my column/blog, you should know that I'm a huge music nerd and often try to push bands on you guys that you've probably never heard of before. You might even recall that my favorite underground band still making music is a poptastic little combo from Athens, GA who go by the name OF MONTREAL.
Well, if you've ever wanted to know more about the crazy world of Shane, you've got your chance. THURSDAY NIGHT -- that's TODAY for most of you -- Of Montreal will be making their national television debut on Late Night with Conan O'Brien.
This is a MUST-WATCH EVENT. This band will NOT let this opportunity pass without some sincere weirdness.
Don't believe me? Check out their new video:
Well, if you've ever wanted to know more about the crazy world of Shane, you've got your chance. THURSDAY NIGHT -- that's TODAY for most of you -- Of Montreal will be making their national television debut on Late Night with Conan O'Brien.
This is a MUST-WATCH EVENT. This band will NOT let this opportunity pass without some sincere weirdness.
Don't believe me? Check out their new video:
COLUMN: Dreams
As the owner of a fairly uneventful and boring life, it's good to have a sub-conscious that keeps things interesting.
I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis. There are some seriously accredited psychologist types out there convinced that dreams can be the key to unlocking one's hidden innermost thoughts and desires. Of course, in order to accomplish said unlocking, you usually need to buy the seriously accredited and seriously overpriced book that can tell you, without hesitation, that the dream you had last week about the giant killer platypus is, actually, a sign that you dwell on your emotions too much.
Think I'm kidding? That really IS what dreaming of a platypus is supposed to mean. I looked it up on the Web. Me, I can barely think of what a platypus LOOKS like, let alone cast one in a starring role in my midnight hallucinations. Like I said, I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis, because it's one of the silliest and most pointless sciences out there.
The same website that tells us of the emotion-dwelling platypus also shares that dreaming of mashed potatoes is simply your subconscious expressing concern over financial matters. Me, I just thought it was my subconscious getting hungry. Apparantly not. Truth be told, I hit that website up because I need answers to the recurring dream I'VE been having for the last week:
In this dream, I still live in my apartment, except it now has a second bedroom, and I find myself with a fictional roommate named Tony. In some of the dreams, Tony is a guy; in others, Tony is a girl. But Tony is always named Tony, and weirder still, Tony is always a contestant on my least favorite TV show EVER, "Dancing With The Stars."
I accompany Tony to a taping of the show, and all goes well until Tony realizes that he/she has left the required costume at home, and I am sent on an errand to retrieve it. And invariably, when I re-enter the apartment, John Ratzenberger is stealing my TV.
Yes, THAT John Ratzenerger -- Cliffy from "Cheers" and one of the stars of this season's "Dancing With the Stars." Stealing my TV. This begs several questions, among them:
• Why John Ratzenberger?
• Doesn't he have a TV of his own?
• If he's ON "Dancing With the Stars," and if I've just left a taping of the show, shouldn't he be there?
• What HAVE I been eating before bed, and isn't it time to stop it?
But those questions can wait, because now I have a robbery to foil. As I enter the apartment and startle John Ratzenberger, he, naturally, drops the TV and engages me in melee combat.
You might have seen John Ratzenberger on "Cheers" or doing the cha-cha on "Dancing With the Stars," but what you might not know is that, at least in MY dreams, he's also quite adept at hand-to-hand combat -- and proceeds to mercilessly pummel me until I invariably wake up in a cold sweat. The end. Analyze THAT.
The first time I had this dream, I laughed. A lot. The SECOND time I had this dream, I was less amused. By the THIRD time, I was questioning my sanity. However, it must be said that my subconscious DOES like to even the odds a little bit. In the third dream, I once again catch him stealing the TV, and he once again rushes at me. HOWEVER this time, I calmly reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of NUNCHUCKS -- as though it's perfectly natural for me to wander around at all times with ninja weaponry in my pockets -- and we proceed to beat EACH OTHER mercilessly until I wake up.
Now, my extensive background training in martial arts consists of exactly: one day in college, when my friend and I decided it would be good fun to waste a gym credit on a Tae Kwon Do class. Or maybe it was Kuk Sool Won. Truth is, it was so long ago, it could have been anything, but from what I recall, it was really called Intro to Vomit 101. We showed up on the first day of class after an ill-advised long night at the frat house. All I remember is the instructor making us do a flip of some kind, me landing Homer Simpson-style (Tae-Kwon-D'oh!), and I was outta there within 5 minutes.
Yet this five minutes of ninja training was enough to at least give Cliff Clavin a taste of his own medicine in my dream, so there's something to be said for those 5 minutes, apparantly. I can now defend myself against subconscious evil-doers.
The whole thing scares me a bit, though. Mostly in the realization that part of my subconscious is SO impacted by "Dancing With the Stars" -- THE worst show on television since the one where people battled each other with giant Q-Tips -- that it's now invading my dreams. If you've got ANY clue how to analyze this one, I'm all ears. Personally, I'm hoping this column will exorcise this dream from my inner psyche. If not, your faithful columnist may seek professional help.
I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis. There are some seriously accredited psychologist types out there convinced that dreams can be the key to unlocking one's hidden innermost thoughts and desires. Of course, in order to accomplish said unlocking, you usually need to buy the seriously accredited and seriously overpriced book that can tell you, without hesitation, that the dream you had last week about the giant killer platypus is, actually, a sign that you dwell on your emotions too much.
Think I'm kidding? That really IS what dreaming of a platypus is supposed to mean. I looked it up on the Web. Me, I can barely think of what a platypus LOOKS like, let alone cast one in a starring role in my midnight hallucinations. Like I said, I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis, because it's one of the silliest and most pointless sciences out there.
The same website that tells us of the emotion-dwelling platypus also shares that dreaming of mashed potatoes is simply your subconscious expressing concern over financial matters. Me, I just thought it was my subconscious getting hungry. Apparantly not. Truth be told, I hit that website up because I need answers to the recurring dream I'VE been having for the last week:
In this dream, I still live in my apartment, except it now has a second bedroom, and I find myself with a fictional roommate named Tony. In some of the dreams, Tony is a guy; in others, Tony is a girl. But Tony is always named Tony, and weirder still, Tony is always a contestant on my least favorite TV show EVER, "Dancing With The Stars."
I accompany Tony to a taping of the show, and all goes well until Tony realizes that he/she has left the required costume at home, and I am sent on an errand to retrieve it. And invariably, when I re-enter the apartment, John Ratzenberger is stealing my TV.
Yes, THAT John Ratzenerger -- Cliffy from "Cheers" and one of the stars of this season's "Dancing With the Stars." Stealing my TV. This begs several questions, among them:
• Why John Ratzenberger?
• Doesn't he have a TV of his own?
• If he's ON "Dancing With the Stars," and if I've just left a taping of the show, shouldn't he be there?
• What HAVE I been eating before bed, and isn't it time to stop it?
But those questions can wait, because now I have a robbery to foil. As I enter the apartment and startle John Ratzenberger, he, naturally, drops the TV and engages me in melee combat.
You might have seen John Ratzenberger on "Cheers" or doing the cha-cha on "Dancing With the Stars," but what you might not know is that, at least in MY dreams, he's also quite adept at hand-to-hand combat -- and proceeds to mercilessly pummel me until I invariably wake up in a cold sweat. The end. Analyze THAT.
The first time I had this dream, I laughed. A lot. The SECOND time I had this dream, I was less amused. By the THIRD time, I was questioning my sanity. However, it must be said that my subconscious DOES like to even the odds a little bit. In the third dream, I once again catch him stealing the TV, and he once again rushes at me. HOWEVER this time, I calmly reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of NUNCHUCKS -- as though it's perfectly natural for me to wander around at all times with ninja weaponry in my pockets -- and we proceed to beat EACH OTHER mercilessly until I wake up.
Now, my extensive background training in martial arts consists of exactly: one day in college, when my friend and I decided it would be good fun to waste a gym credit on a Tae Kwon Do class. Or maybe it was Kuk Sool Won. Truth is, it was so long ago, it could have been anything, but from what I recall, it was really called Intro to Vomit 101. We showed up on the first day of class after an ill-advised long night at the frat house. All I remember is the instructor making us do a flip of some kind, me landing Homer Simpson-style (Tae-Kwon-D'oh!), and I was outta there within 5 minutes.
Yet this five minutes of ninja training was enough to at least give Cliff Clavin a taste of his own medicine in my dream, so there's something to be said for those 5 minutes, apparantly. I can now defend myself against subconscious evil-doers.
The whole thing scares me a bit, though. Mostly in the realization that part of my subconscious is SO impacted by "Dancing With the Stars" -- THE worst show on television since the one where people battled each other with giant Q-Tips -- that it's now invading my dreams. If you've got ANY clue how to analyze this one, I'm all ears. Personally, I'm hoping this column will exorcise this dream from my inner psyche. If not, your faithful columnist may seek professional help.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Sucks to be Imus
I never thought I'd feel bad for Don Imus.
If you've been under a rock, here's the story thus far: The other day, Don Imus, one of the true legends of syndicated radio, whose show is not just aired nationwide but also broadcast on MSNBC TV every morning, made a colossal screw up.
During a riff while he and his sportscaster were talking about the Rutgers-Tennessee women's basketball final, Imus was trying to make a point about how -- well, heck, let's just say it -- how butch & bad-a** the Rutgers team looked compared to the more, err, lady-like Tennessee Lady Vols. Imus picked the wrong words to use.
"Those are some nappy-headed ho's."
Famous last words, indeed. LAST words because Imus is presently being crucified by every African-American rights group on planet Earth. LAST words because Imus just got suspended for 2 weeks.
And -- I can't believe I'm saying this, because I really, really, REALLY can't stand Imus -- but I'm taking his side on this one.
I'm taking his side not in saying that there was nothing wrong with his choice of words, because there certainly WAS. There are some things that we pigmentally-challenged of the world simply can't say -- the "n" word obviously being the Big Bad Daddy of them all -- and calling ANYONE "nappy-headed", let alone an innocent girl's basketball team, is pretty offensive.
But now you've got Al Sharpton demanding that Imus be fired for his blatantly racist attack... and that's a joke.
Folks, Imus wasn't being racist, and he wasn't making an attack, other than making fun of how macho and athletic the Rutgers team was. The problem, I think, is simply that Imus is an old, out-of-touch dude.
He was trying to be cute on the air. You could tell. He was trying to adapt street lingo in order to seem a little bit cooler when talking about basketball.
It was a case of simple ignorance, not unlike something I saw on TV the other day. It was the story of some black student who took great offense when one of his white teachers called him THE N-WORD. Whoa. Big no-no on that guy's part.
But then they let the teacher on to defend himself. And this teacher proceeded to attempt to explain that he didn't say the dreaded N-word... but instead said the word "nigga," which the teacher took to be a common colloquialization of less offense, used in the same context as I would if I were to call you "dude" or "brother."
Of course, the teacher looked even more and more like a jackass every time he used the "nigga" variant on the show - it was one of the most cringe-worthy things I had ever seen.
But the point is: the teacher really didn't think he was doing anything wrong. Not because he was racist -- a dictionary doesn't make you racist -- but because he was so chronically un-hip that he didn't even register the offensive context of the word.
Deplorable? Heck yes. Stupid? Arguably. But RACIST? Naw.
I've never understood racism. Not even slightly. And I'm HORRIBLY aghast and offended when a white person within earshot cracks a racist joke. But... at the same time... I'm equally offended when Al Sharpton and his cronies assume that every white guy on the planet is out to oppress the black race.
Mr. Imus works in radio. Radio requires you to think on your feet, and think fast. For years and years, Imus has existed on the air without offending anyone more than your token shock-jock does. But now, after one poor vocabulary choice, you're demanding that his career be ruined? RIDICULOUS.
Look, I feel for Imus. I was once kinda sorta in his shoes. No, I've never said anything (to my knowledge) that someone took to be racist. But one time, I DID speak before thinking on the radio.
It was back in Galesburg, when I used to work for a Top 40 station, Q-93. It was a Saturday morning, the 4th of July in fact. The year prior, Galesburg's 4th of July celebrations were marred by the death of a girl. I can't remember now what even happened - if she drowned or was murdered or her body washed up onshore or what - but it was a Big News Story the year before.
So a year later, I'm on the air and riffing with our morning news girl. "How's your 4th of July, Shane?" she asked.
"Pretty good," I said, "so far, nobody's dead for a change."
Which is probably quite innocent for someone like Imus or Howard Stern. And I thought then (and still do today) that it was kinda funny. But in a small town like Galesburg, and on a cheezy Top 40 station that pretty much everybody in town listened to, it's probably not best to make a flippant comment about tragedy.
The news girl did her job and quickly got us off-topic, and never said anything to me about it. When I got home, my mom (who had been listening) asked if I still had a job. Until that moment, I didn't even realize that what I'd said might have offended some people.
Happily, no one ever said a THING to me about it. I bet my bosses were dead asleep - it WAS a Saturday and it was like 8 a.m. But -- as hokey and innocent as it sounds -- I bet if my bosses WERE listening, or if anyone had called in and complained, I might HAVE been fired.
The point is this: it's easy to slip up and say the wrong thing in radio. And once it's out there, it's out there. It's not like my column where I can hit the backspace key and no one realizes what an idiot I really AM.
Imus wasn't trying to be racist. He was trying to be cool. He failed miserably at both. But he shouldn't be fired, and I bet even ol' Al Sharpton believes that, too. But Sharpton will use ANY vehicle to bring the black struggle to the headlines, and it doesn't matter how many innocents are left in his wake.
You know who I'm starting to gain a newfound respect for? WHITE RAPPERS. Seriously. Imagine how tough it must be for dudes like Paul Wall & Bubba Sparxxx who have to do raps -- a lot of them freestyle and off the top of their heads -- that appeal to black culture WITHOUT accidentally slipping up and offending somebody. Honestly, in this crazy P.C. world, it's gotta be tough.
It's one thing to be racist, and altogether another thing to SCREW UP ROYALLY and say something stupid. THAT'S Imus' crime. Don't slaughter the guy for it. He's apologizing left and right. We need to forgive him and move on.
If you've been under a rock, here's the story thus far: The other day, Don Imus, one of the true legends of syndicated radio, whose show is not just aired nationwide but also broadcast on MSNBC TV every morning, made a colossal screw up.
During a riff while he and his sportscaster were talking about the Rutgers-Tennessee women's basketball final, Imus was trying to make a point about how -- well, heck, let's just say it -- how butch & bad-a** the Rutgers team looked compared to the more, err, lady-like Tennessee Lady Vols. Imus picked the wrong words to use.
"Those are some nappy-headed ho's."
Famous last words, indeed. LAST words because Imus is presently being crucified by every African-American rights group on planet Earth. LAST words because Imus just got suspended for 2 weeks.
And -- I can't believe I'm saying this, because I really, really, REALLY can't stand Imus -- but I'm taking his side on this one.
I'm taking his side not in saying that there was nothing wrong with his choice of words, because there certainly WAS. There are some things that we pigmentally-challenged of the world simply can't say -- the "n" word obviously being the Big Bad Daddy of them all -- and calling ANYONE "nappy-headed", let alone an innocent girl's basketball team, is pretty offensive.
But now you've got Al Sharpton demanding that Imus be fired for his blatantly racist attack... and that's a joke.
Folks, Imus wasn't being racist, and he wasn't making an attack, other than making fun of how macho and athletic the Rutgers team was. The problem, I think, is simply that Imus is an old, out-of-touch dude.
He was trying to be cute on the air. You could tell. He was trying to adapt street lingo in order to seem a little bit cooler when talking about basketball.
It was a case of simple ignorance, not unlike something I saw on TV the other day. It was the story of some black student who took great offense when one of his white teachers called him THE N-WORD. Whoa. Big no-no on that guy's part.
But then they let the teacher on to defend himself. And this teacher proceeded to attempt to explain that he didn't say the dreaded N-word... but instead said the word "nigga," which the teacher took to be a common colloquialization of less offense, used in the same context as I would if I were to call you "dude" or "brother."
Of course, the teacher looked even more and more like a jackass every time he used the "nigga" variant on the show - it was one of the most cringe-worthy things I had ever seen.
But the point is: the teacher really didn't think he was doing anything wrong. Not because he was racist -- a dictionary doesn't make you racist -- but because he was so chronically un-hip that he didn't even register the offensive context of the word.
Deplorable? Heck yes. Stupid? Arguably. But RACIST? Naw.
I've never understood racism. Not even slightly. And I'm HORRIBLY aghast and offended when a white person within earshot cracks a racist joke. But... at the same time... I'm equally offended when Al Sharpton and his cronies assume that every white guy on the planet is out to oppress the black race.
Mr. Imus works in radio. Radio requires you to think on your feet, and think fast. For years and years, Imus has existed on the air without offending anyone more than your token shock-jock does. But now, after one poor vocabulary choice, you're demanding that his career be ruined? RIDICULOUS.
Look, I feel for Imus. I was once kinda sorta in his shoes. No, I've never said anything (to my knowledge) that someone took to be racist. But one time, I DID speak before thinking on the radio.
It was back in Galesburg, when I used to work for a Top 40 station, Q-93. It was a Saturday morning, the 4th of July in fact. The year prior, Galesburg's 4th of July celebrations were marred by the death of a girl. I can't remember now what even happened - if she drowned or was murdered or her body washed up onshore or what - but it was a Big News Story the year before.
So a year later, I'm on the air and riffing with our morning news girl. "How's your 4th of July, Shane?" she asked.
"Pretty good," I said, "so far, nobody's dead for a change."
Which is probably quite innocent for someone like Imus or Howard Stern. And I thought then (and still do today) that it was kinda funny. But in a small town like Galesburg, and on a cheezy Top 40 station that pretty much everybody in town listened to, it's probably not best to make a flippant comment about tragedy.
The news girl did her job and quickly got us off-topic, and never said anything to me about it. When I got home, my mom (who had been listening) asked if I still had a job. Until that moment, I didn't even realize that what I'd said might have offended some people.
Happily, no one ever said a THING to me about it. I bet my bosses were dead asleep - it WAS a Saturday and it was like 8 a.m. But -- as hokey and innocent as it sounds -- I bet if my bosses WERE listening, or if anyone had called in and complained, I might HAVE been fired.
The point is this: it's easy to slip up and say the wrong thing in radio. And once it's out there, it's out there. It's not like my column where I can hit the backspace key and no one realizes what an idiot I really AM.
Imus wasn't trying to be racist. He was trying to be cool. He failed miserably at both. But he shouldn't be fired, and I bet even ol' Al Sharpton believes that, too. But Sharpton will use ANY vehicle to bring the black struggle to the headlines, and it doesn't matter how many innocents are left in his wake.
You know who I'm starting to gain a newfound respect for? WHITE RAPPERS. Seriously. Imagine how tough it must be for dudes like Paul Wall & Bubba Sparxxx who have to do raps -- a lot of them freestyle and off the top of their heads -- that appeal to black culture WITHOUT accidentally slipping up and offending somebody. Honestly, in this crazy P.C. world, it's gotta be tough.
It's one thing to be racist, and altogether another thing to SCREW UP ROYALLY and say something stupid. THAT'S Imus' crime. Don't slaughter the guy for it. He's apologizing left and right. We need to forgive him and move on.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
COLUMN: Stiff Neck
My life has sadly turned into a routine: Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat until dead.
Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. Sometimes I squeeze "play with cats" or "defeat alien menace on PS3" in there. I'm becoming a tad over-complacent with reality lately. I need to spice things up a bit. Kick caution to the wind. Do the Dew.
I decided to start this little rebellious phase with an interesting proposition: What would happen if I were to accidentally fall asleep NOT on the bed (no, no -- beds are for boring, normal people), but instead accidentally fall asleep on my couch with my head tilted at approximately a 90 degree angle to the rest of my body?
Answer: Nothing good.
Yes, it's always a true joy when your first conscious thought of the day is "OW!" I'm pretty sure that while I was asleep, a team of highly skilled ninjas had broken into my apartment and tied every muscle in my neck into a Windsor knot.
You would think that a smart brain would have the sense to wake itself up in the middle of the night and go, "Umm, hey, just so you know, you're doing some serious damage to your neck laying like this." My brain? Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Until, that is, I woke up with the mobility of a statue.
Now, I've had stiff necks in the past, but this one was epic. I tried my usual Shane-tested method: pop a couple Advil and get under a hot shower. But an hour later, I was at work and still stiff as a board, and a painful board at that. I begged a massage out of one of my co-workers, but somehow that just made it worse. I had no choice but to shift into Phase 2 of my coping mechanism:
WHINE. Incessantly. All day long. "Wow, does my neck hurt!" "I'm not kidding, my neck sure does hurt!" "Necks are WEIRD, aren't they?" "Ow!"
By the end of the day, I could at least take comfort in knowing that I wasn't the only one who had to work all day with a pain in the neck. Yet as much as my co-workers wanted to kill me, they also offered a slew of advice. It went a little like this:
"Put ice on it!" "No, use heat!" "No, use ice!" "Heat!" "Ice!" "Less filling!" "Tastes great!"
I wanted an answer, so I called one of those nurse helplines to solve the heat/cold dilemma. "You could try either way and see what works best," the nurse said. Hrm, helpful. Of course, she DID add to the fun of the afternoon by reminding me that stiff necks are often an early sign of meningitis. Now THERE'S something to tell a neurotic like me. Within an hour, I was pretty sure I was developing both sensitivity to light and lockjaw. Were it not for the sanity of my co-workers, I would have talked my way into meningitis within an hour.
Instead, one of my co-workers said the words I knew were coming but dreaded to hear regardless:
"You should go see a chiro."
Gulp. I've gotta be honest on this one, folks: Chiropractors scare the bejeebies out of me.
And yes, I realize that them's fightin' words in the ol' QCA. Chiropractic medicine was INVENTED here, and if you don't believe me, you can drive to downtown Davenport and see the sign on the sidewalk commemorating the spot of the world's first chiropractic adjustment. I know what a fantastic legacy ol' Doc Palmer brought to Davenport, but whenever I see that sign, I can't help but envision a cloak-clad Doc Palmer sneaking up on some hapless pedestrian on that street corner, grabbing them from the back, and -- CRACK! -- science is born.
Thanks to Palmer College, every third person roaming the Quad City streets is a licensed chiropractor. And before each one of you writes in to chew me out, let me be clear: I believe in chiropractic medicine. I really do. I just also happen to believe that it's not for me.
There's just something a little barbaric about the whole process. I don't care if there are X-rays and textbooks and years of science to support it -- at the end of the day, it's still someone grabbing your spine and going CRACK. Well, no thanks. It's just a tad too violent for me. I get nauseous when I accidentally crack a knuckle; if my whole back got popped, it'd be last train to Pukesville for THIS wussyboy.
But the stiff neck I had last week made me finally walk through the doors of the chiro across the street from work. And he was nice, and he understood my terror. He told me what to do (ice, not heat.) He sold me a bottle of Biofreeze, which is basically menthol at a heavenly nuclear dosage. He showed me exercises to do. And he didn't try to sneak up behind me and crack my back, not even once.
Within a couple days, I could move my neck. Within a week, the pain was gone. Finally I could get back to what I do best: Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. Sometimes I squeeze "play with cats" or "defeat alien menace on PS3" in there. I'm becoming a tad over-complacent with reality lately. I need to spice things up a bit. Kick caution to the wind. Do the Dew.
I decided to start this little rebellious phase with an interesting proposition: What would happen if I were to accidentally fall asleep NOT on the bed (no, no -- beds are for boring, normal people), but instead accidentally fall asleep on my couch with my head tilted at approximately a 90 degree angle to the rest of my body?
Answer: Nothing good.
Yes, it's always a true joy when your first conscious thought of the day is "OW!" I'm pretty sure that while I was asleep, a team of highly skilled ninjas had broken into my apartment and tied every muscle in my neck into a Windsor knot.
You would think that a smart brain would have the sense to wake itself up in the middle of the night and go, "Umm, hey, just so you know, you're doing some serious damage to your neck laying like this." My brain? Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Until, that is, I woke up with the mobility of a statue.
Now, I've had stiff necks in the past, but this one was epic. I tried my usual Shane-tested method: pop a couple Advil and get under a hot shower. But an hour later, I was at work and still stiff as a board, and a painful board at that. I begged a massage out of one of my co-workers, but somehow that just made it worse. I had no choice but to shift into Phase 2 of my coping mechanism:
WHINE. Incessantly. All day long. "Wow, does my neck hurt!" "I'm not kidding, my neck sure does hurt!" "Necks are WEIRD, aren't they?" "Ow!"
By the end of the day, I could at least take comfort in knowing that I wasn't the only one who had to work all day with a pain in the neck. Yet as much as my co-workers wanted to kill me, they also offered a slew of advice. It went a little like this:
"Put ice on it!" "No, use heat!" "No, use ice!" "Heat!" "Ice!" "Less filling!" "Tastes great!"
I wanted an answer, so I called one of those nurse helplines to solve the heat/cold dilemma. "You could try either way and see what works best," the nurse said. Hrm, helpful. Of course, she DID add to the fun of the afternoon by reminding me that stiff necks are often an early sign of meningitis. Now THERE'S something to tell a neurotic like me. Within an hour, I was pretty sure I was developing both sensitivity to light and lockjaw. Were it not for the sanity of my co-workers, I would have talked my way into meningitis within an hour.
Instead, one of my co-workers said the words I knew were coming but dreaded to hear regardless:
"You should go see a chiro."
Gulp. I've gotta be honest on this one, folks: Chiropractors scare the bejeebies out of me.
And yes, I realize that them's fightin' words in the ol' QCA. Chiropractic medicine was INVENTED here, and if you don't believe me, you can drive to downtown Davenport and see the sign on the sidewalk commemorating the spot of the world's first chiropractic adjustment. I know what a fantastic legacy ol' Doc Palmer brought to Davenport, but whenever I see that sign, I can't help but envision a cloak-clad Doc Palmer sneaking up on some hapless pedestrian on that street corner, grabbing them from the back, and -- CRACK! -- science is born.
Thanks to Palmer College, every third person roaming the Quad City streets is a licensed chiropractor. And before each one of you writes in to chew me out, let me be clear: I believe in chiropractic medicine. I really do. I just also happen to believe that it's not for me.
There's just something a little barbaric about the whole process. I don't care if there are X-rays and textbooks and years of science to support it -- at the end of the day, it's still someone grabbing your spine and going CRACK. Well, no thanks. It's just a tad too violent for me. I get nauseous when I accidentally crack a knuckle; if my whole back got popped, it'd be last train to Pukesville for THIS wussyboy.
But the stiff neck I had last week made me finally walk through the doors of the chiro across the street from work. And he was nice, and he understood my terror. He told me what to do (ice, not heat.) He sold me a bottle of Biofreeze, which is basically menthol at a heavenly nuclear dosage. He showed me exercises to do. And he didn't try to sneak up behind me and crack my back, not even once.
Within a couple days, I could move my neck. Within a week, the pain was gone. Finally I could get back to what I do best: Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Things That Make Me A Happy Shane
(1) You know it's my pick for the funniest place on Earth: TACO BELL. Once again, the Bell never fails to make me smile, visit after visit. I just noticed tonight when I breezed thru for some tacos that the poor folks working the drive-thru aren't just employees... they aren't crew members... they aren't Sandwich Artists... According to the name-tag on the dude working the drive-thru tonight, they are...
FOOD CHAMPIONS!
That's right, I was waited on tonight by DOUG, FOOD CHAMPION.
I wanna be a champion of food!
Taco Bell, I don't wanna make fun of you incessantly because I love your tacos. But you just make it sooooo darn easy.
(2) If anybody's in the neighborhood of the Mother Hubbard's Cupboard on 18th Ave. in Rock Island over by Longview Park, check out the front counter. They're now selling stylish DO-RAGS at the counter. Classy, eh? But it gets better. When you think do-rags, you usually think: Gangsta. Thug. Rebel. Dangerous. If I was running Acme Do-Rag Inc., I'd probably try and capitalize on that theme for marketing purposes, right? At least to a tactful degree. Well then, explain to me WHY the do-rags on sale at MoHu's come with the picture they do on the cover. I can't... words just can't describe it, you've gotta stop in and see it for yourself. But the dude on the front of the package looks like... ummm... he's really excited because tickets for Cher just went on sale. Or perhaps he's auditioning for La Cage Aux Falles. It is, without doubt, THE most inappropriate picture imaginable to sell do-rags to wayward Rock Islanders. You've just got to see it.
ADDENDUM: In fact, here it is:
It makes me want to write a musical, "I've Got a Spanky New Du-Rag!"
FOOD CHAMPIONS!
That's right, I was waited on tonight by DOUG, FOOD CHAMPION.
I wanna be a champion of food!
Taco Bell, I don't wanna make fun of you incessantly because I love your tacos. But you just make it sooooo darn easy.
(2) If anybody's in the neighborhood of the Mother Hubbard's Cupboard on 18th Ave. in Rock Island over by Longview Park, check out the front counter. They're now selling stylish DO-RAGS at the counter. Classy, eh? But it gets better. When you think do-rags, you usually think: Gangsta. Thug. Rebel. Dangerous. If I was running Acme Do-Rag Inc., I'd probably try and capitalize on that theme for marketing purposes, right? At least to a tactful degree. Well then, explain to me WHY the do-rags on sale at MoHu's come with the picture they do on the cover. I can't... words just can't describe it, you've gotta stop in and see it for yourself. But the dude on the front of the package looks like... ummm... he's really excited because tickets for Cher just went on sale. Or perhaps he's auditioning for La Cage Aux Falles. It is, without doubt, THE most inappropriate picture imaginable to sell do-rags to wayward Rock Islanders. You've just got to see it.
ADDENDUM: In fact, here it is:
It makes me want to write a musical, "I've Got a Spanky New Du-Rag!"
Saturday, March 24, 2007
No column this week.
Heya guys... just wanted to let ya know in case you were missing my incredibly down-trodden face in the paper this week... I took this weekend off from the column for a battery recharge. In the past 2 weeks I've had to deal with a nasty cold, a crippling stiff neck, and the passing of my grandmother, so it's been a bit hairy lately. Don't worry, tho -- I'll be back next week, and if anything amusing happens between now & then, I'll post it here...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)