...will not be found on this site.
But hey, since the entire male population is scouring the internet this weekend looking for her nudie pics, maybe it'll help my blog get some more hits. Yes, Virginia, I WILL sink to that level.
What IS this affliction plaguing young starlets of the world that compels them to think, "Hey, I know, why don't I get naked and take some embarassing sexy pics that would easily result in a career catastrophe were they to get in the wrong hands! [Insert temporary skeevy boyfriend here] would NEVER make those pictures public! He, like, totally loves me!"
And, more to the point, why has this affliction never touched Katie Holmes?
(Psst... besides, those pics of Vanessa Hudgens naked? They're totally crap.)
Friday, September 07, 2007
Thursday, September 06, 2007
COLUMN: Weekly World News
I love our newspapers, I really do -- and in more than an it-puts-food-on-the-table kind of way. It consistently blows my mind that I'm allowed to write about pretty much whatever suits my fancy every week -- and equally mind-blowing that occasionally you folks care enough to read it. Over the years, you've come to trust our company to provide you with the best daily news that our rag-tag team can muster, and I, for one, am humbled beyond words at the opportunity.
Too bad, then, that it's all a load of hooey.
As hard as we try, we're obviously lacking when it comes to the big picture. Sure, we bring you news, but it's usually just filler gobbeldygook. You know, insignifigant stuff like floods and murders and government and hog plants, yada yada. As well-intentioned as our newspapers may be, we just don't have the backbone to bring you the information that REALLY matters. Is it a conspiracy? Perhaps. After all, the Quad Cities DOES have its share of grassy knolls. But perhaps not -- because the same yellow-bellied fate befalls nearly every newspaper in the country.
Every newspaper, that is, except one. One publication out there with the guts to bring you the REAL news. The news that affects our lives on a cosmic scale. The news that no other paper has the guts to print. The news that could save your very life, especially if you're planning a vacation to the yeti-infested mountains of Nepal.
What, you ask, is this paper that puts us to shame? This bastion of knowledge, defender of truth, hope for the masses, and all-encompassing guide to the REAL whereabouts of Elvis? (Answer: Pluto.)
I speak, of course, of the heroic pinnacle of journalism known as The Weekly World News.
And, dear readers, it is with profound soundness and regret that I must inform you of its passing. Yes, last week marked the very last issue of the Weekly World News that you'll ever find in newsstands, bookstores, and -- most importantly -- next to the Wint-O-Green gum in checkout aisle #11.
I know what you're thinking. Some of you are probably convinced that The Weekly World News is nothing but a supermarket tabloid full of bogus stories and Photoshopped images dreamt up by a pack of punks that excelled in their college Creative Writing courses.
Well, THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT THE GOVERNMENT WANTS YOU TO BELIEVE. If you were a true reader of the Weekly World News, you would realize that, were EVERYONE to know that a race of alien vampire ninjas was thiiiis close to launching an attack, society would be crippled in fear. If you were to understand that the government was REALLY being run by a very-much-alive-thank-you John F. Kennedy and his close advisor, "slain" rapper Tupac Shakur, your faith in our nation would crumble.
And now, somehow, Someone (with a capital s) has seen to it that The Weekly World News is silenced forever.
My only advice to you brave souls? RUN. Run like the wind and be very, very afriad of EVERYTHING. The true horror is that -- without the trusty reporting of the Weekly World News -- by now, Bat-Boy could be anywhere.
It was in 1992 that the Weekly World News first discovered the half-human, half-bat hybrid living in an underground lair in Virginia. Despite the hubbub that must go hand-in-hand with Bat-Boy leading the police on a three-state car chase, the WWN was the ONLY press on top of the situation, as well as their crack team of investigative reporters who found out that Bat-Boy had enrolled in a small liberal arts college in upstate New York under the pseudonym Guy Fledermaus. In October of 2006, Bat-Boy was captured on film (by the Weekly World News reporters, natch) riding atop a New York City subway car.
Today? Without the keen reporting of the WWN, Bat-Boy could be anywhere. He could be right here in the Quad Cities. Wait -- what was that? Odd, I could swear I just heard flapping outside my window. Ah well, it's probably... nothing. OR WAS IT?
When I was a kid, my mom used to snag the WWN from my grandmother's coffeetable every week. And then like clockwork, I'd go in and snag it off my mom's nightstand a few days later. Why Mom didn't grab it off the rack and proudly present it to the supermarket cashier is beyond me. Well, she probably didn't want to tip off the government (or at least Tupac and JFK) that she was an Informed Reader. Too much knowledge can be dangerous. That's why she faked that she was embarassed to be seen with the WWN in her house every week - it was for MY SAFETY! Thanks, Mom!
And now, with the demise of the WWN -- officially attributed to a decline in circulation but we all who's really responsible (Bigfoot, and maybe Elvis) -- we now live in an uncertain time. Bat-Boys and yetis could be running around willy-nilly without a trace of documentation.
So, dear friends, I vow that at least one humor-columnist-who-likes-to-pretend-he's-a-reporter will remain vigilant. Sleep easy, Quad Cities, for I will maintain a constant journalistic lookout for Bat-Boys and assorted Elvi aplenty. The Weekly World News may be gone, but true journalism remains. Well, at least until the vampire alien ninja uprising begins.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
I haven't disappeared. Promise.
So I've been fielding a few phone calls and e-mails this week from Leader readers wondering what's up with my column, or lack thereof, in a couple of recent issues. Don't worry, it's no big deal.
With all the headaches that come with putting together The Leader every week in its awesome new format, it's easy to accidentally omit something... and twice this month, my column was the accidental forgotten victim.
I'm told that this week's issue will contain both last week's omitted column AND this week's brand new one. So hey, a double dose of yours truly awaits.
With all the headaches that come with putting together The Leader every week in its awesome new format, it's easy to accidentally omit something... and twice this month, my column was the accidental forgotten victim.
I'm told that this week's issue will contain both last week's omitted column AND this week's brand new one. So hey, a double dose of yours truly awaits.
COLUMN: Comments
I remember the first time I got on the internet. All at once, it was the gateway to a new dawn, an exciting future opening up over the horizon, and at least three or four other equally corny phrases.
Where would it all lead? Perhaps a portal for commerce. Maybe a way to communicate with people on the other side of the globe. A design to bring humanity together, to strengthen the bonds of man, to unite us all as one.
Or maybe, just maybe, it would be an easier way for a random stranger to call me a jerk and an idiot.
I love our newspaper's website, but I'll tell you what, I sure loved it more when you couldn't anonymously comment on every story. Actually, I don't mind the occasional criticism -- I'd just prefer it came from RATIONAL human beings, and rationality doesn't come easy on the internet.
In a way, it's karmic retribution. When I first got online, one of the first places I hung out at was a site for like-minded pop culture nerds such as myself. The premise was that it'd be a super-neat way to meet people from around the world and have thoughtful discussions and discourse about the state of popular entertainment. The reality was that it was a super-neat way to meet people from around the world and insult them mercilessly. You don't like this band? Then you CERTAINLY must be stupid. Oh, yeah? Well, YOU'RE stupid, stupid! Ad infinitum.
I know what it's like to get burned by somebody online, so I shouldn't take anonymous criticism too seriously. Yet every time I see a negative comment on one of my columns, I have to forcibly stop my competitive side from yelling "Game On!" and writing an equally pointless vitriolic rebuttal. Every week, the ritual goes something like this:
(1) I write a column. I try to be funny. Sometimes it works, sometimes not so much.
(2) The first online comment that always appears is something along the lines of: "Is this what passes for news nowadays?" NO. IT'S NOT. I'm a columnist, not a reporter. The day I break a news story will be the day you realize that something has gone horribly, horribly amiss at the paper. Not every iota of a newspaper is devoted to hard news. You'll find as much news in my columns as you'll find in one of our cookie recipes or an average strip of Nancy (Newsflash: Aunt Fritzi is still hot. Nancy is still creepy.)
(3) Another anonymous post will usually say something like: "I woke up today and I ate some cereal for breakfast. Then I took a shower. Can I get a job as a writer now, too?" I like this guy's style, I do. And once, just to get his goat, I tried to write an entire column about eating cereal. Sadly, that one out-mundaned even me. (Though, for the record, I once threw up after being force-fed shredded wheat by a slightly off-kilter 3rd grade teacher. But that's the extent of my breakfast material, sorry.)
From there, it devolves into an I-like-Shane, I-hate-Shane comment war that lasts until the next column pops up and people forget about the old one. Last week, though, I was especially scared.
There's a chance that my last column may have caused some controversy within the quaint town of Welton, IA. It may have stemmed from my opening line, which read, "Dear residents of Welton, IA: I hate you all, and I hate your stupid little town." You see, my car chose Welton, IA as the perfect place to break down on me recently. Ergo, via simple logic, Welton must be to blame, right? Okay, sure, I was overdue for an oil change and maybe I skipped the last 2 or 3 check-up appointments, but that's beside the point. Every story needs a villain, and in this one, it's clearly the humble (yet evil) village of Welton.
When the story ran, I was a bit ancy. Something told me that maybe some Weltonians might not get the joke. Sure enough, a couple comments popped up online from folks a bit miffed that I chose their town to have some fun with. The "is this news" guy showed up. Even the cereal guy made an appearance. But, for the most part, the comments were positive. Heck, I even got phone calls from a couple people in Welton who got a kick out of the column, one who shared a laugh because he saw me out there with my hood up waiting for a tow. Not to sound like Sally Field winning an Oscar, but hey, YOU LIKE ME! YOU REALLY LIKE ME!
Well, some of you do. Others? Well, I'll imagine the online comments will continue to flow. And I'll remain humbled by the good ones & neurotic over the bad ones. This week, I asked a few of my fellow columnists how they dealt with negative comments. Most told me to ignore them. Our own Johnny Marx, though, reminded me that -- good or bad -- the comments mean that you guys are reading our papers, caring about what we say, and paying our bills. When you think about it, what better compliment could a guy ask for?
Where would it all lead? Perhaps a portal for commerce. Maybe a way to communicate with people on the other side of the globe. A design to bring humanity together, to strengthen the bonds of man, to unite us all as one.
Or maybe, just maybe, it would be an easier way for a random stranger to call me a jerk and an idiot.
I love our newspaper's website, but I'll tell you what, I sure loved it more when you couldn't anonymously comment on every story. Actually, I don't mind the occasional criticism -- I'd just prefer it came from RATIONAL human beings, and rationality doesn't come easy on the internet.
In a way, it's karmic retribution. When I first got online, one of the first places I hung out at was a site for like-minded pop culture nerds such as myself. The premise was that it'd be a super-neat way to meet people from around the world and have thoughtful discussions and discourse about the state of popular entertainment. The reality was that it was a super-neat way to meet people from around the world and insult them mercilessly. You don't like this band? Then you CERTAINLY must be stupid. Oh, yeah? Well, YOU'RE stupid, stupid! Ad infinitum.
I know what it's like to get burned by somebody online, so I shouldn't take anonymous criticism too seriously. Yet every time I see a negative comment on one of my columns, I have to forcibly stop my competitive side from yelling "Game On!" and writing an equally pointless vitriolic rebuttal. Every week, the ritual goes something like this:
(1) I write a column. I try to be funny. Sometimes it works, sometimes not so much.
(2) The first online comment that always appears is something along the lines of: "Is this what passes for news nowadays?" NO. IT'S NOT. I'm a columnist, not a reporter. The day I break a news story will be the day you realize that something has gone horribly, horribly amiss at the paper. Not every iota of a newspaper is devoted to hard news. You'll find as much news in my columns as you'll find in one of our cookie recipes or an average strip of Nancy (Newsflash: Aunt Fritzi is still hot. Nancy is still creepy.)
(3) Another anonymous post will usually say something like: "I woke up today and I ate some cereal for breakfast. Then I took a shower. Can I get a job as a writer now, too?" I like this guy's style, I do. And once, just to get his goat, I tried to write an entire column about eating cereal. Sadly, that one out-mundaned even me. (Though, for the record, I once threw up after being force-fed shredded wheat by a slightly off-kilter 3rd grade teacher. But that's the extent of my breakfast material, sorry.)
From there, it devolves into an I-like-Shane, I-hate-Shane comment war that lasts until the next column pops up and people forget about the old one. Last week, though, I was especially scared.
There's a chance that my last column may have caused some controversy within the quaint town of Welton, IA. It may have stemmed from my opening line, which read, "Dear residents of Welton, IA: I hate you all, and I hate your stupid little town." You see, my car chose Welton, IA as the perfect place to break down on me recently. Ergo, via simple logic, Welton must be to blame, right? Okay, sure, I was overdue for an oil change and maybe I skipped the last 2 or 3 check-up appointments, but that's beside the point. Every story needs a villain, and in this one, it's clearly the humble (yet evil) village of Welton.
When the story ran, I was a bit ancy. Something told me that maybe some Weltonians might not get the joke. Sure enough, a couple comments popped up online from folks a bit miffed that I chose their town to have some fun with. The "is this news" guy showed up. Even the cereal guy made an appearance. But, for the most part, the comments were positive. Heck, I even got phone calls from a couple people in Welton who got a kick out of the column, one who shared a laugh because he saw me out there with my hood up waiting for a tow. Not to sound like Sally Field winning an Oscar, but hey, YOU LIKE ME! YOU REALLY LIKE ME!
Well, some of you do. Others? Well, I'll imagine the online comments will continue to flow. And I'll remain humbled by the good ones & neurotic over the bad ones. This week, I asked a few of my fellow columnists how they dealt with negative comments. Most told me to ignore them. Our own Johnny Marx, though, reminded me that -- good or bad -- the comments mean that you guys are reading our papers, caring about what we say, and paying our bills. When you think about it, what better compliment could a guy ask for?
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
COLUMN: Breakdown
Dear Residents of Welton, Iowa:
I hate you all, and I hate your stupid little town.
Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. I'm sure that Welton's a fine little community full of good folk who live in harmony. Truth be told, prior to last weekend, I had never even heard of Welton, Iowa. More truth be told, though, I wish I were still unaware of its existence.
The afternoon started off peachy. I decided to go for a drive with a friend of mine of the female persuasion. It was one of those aimless, Al-Gore-would-not-be-amused afternoon pleasure cruises with no particular destination in mind.
My car had other plans, though, as indicated by the temperature alarm and red lights of the not-good-at-all variety popping up on my dashboard. We were 40 miles away from home.
"Gee, golly," I said in the imaginary family-friendly-newspaper world where I never swear in real life, "This is certainly a pickle."
Happily, less than a mile away I could see a gas station. By the time I got there, though, the Beetle was making a scream under the hood not unlike the sound my cat made the other day when I accidentally rolled my desk chair over her tail. This was NOT good.
See, I've mentioned a billion times in print by now that I'm kind of a weenie, right? And most definitely, one of the chapters of "How To Be A Super Awesome Macho Dude" that I managed to skip in life was the one about automotive maintenance. I know where the gas goes, I know where the oil goes, I know where the key goes. For anything else, I know where my credit card goes.
But that repair shop was 40+ miles away. It's 1000 degrees outside, I'm trying desperately to impress a girl in my car, and I'm effectively nowhere. Excuse me, no, I'm effectively in Welton, Iowa. Ever wonder where Welton, Iowa, is? Answer: It's in NOWHERE.
I opened the hood. There's no discernable reason why I did this, because a car engine makes as much sense to me as a book written in Swahili, but I did it anyways. I checked the oil -- yep, I had oil. I checked the coolant -- yep, I had coolant. In fact, I learned that I had coolant because the moment I broke the air lock on the cap, it all boiled up and all over the engine and onto the pavement. Indeed I HAD coolant. Now the parking lot had it instead. Many apologies to the Welton townsfolk for turning your gas station into a miniature biohazard.
I went into the gas station, added some water, and tried to fire the car back up. It was not amused, and responded by squealing and bleeding all that water right out onto the ground. So I thought for a couple seconds. I needed a plan of action. A plan that would somehow allow us to be rescued, and me to save face in front of the travelling companion. I needed help, but I didn't want to LOOK like I needed help. There was one person I could call.
"Umm, hi, mom," I sheepishly said into the cell phone. "I've got a problem..." That's right. I'm man enough to admit it. My mom knows more about cars than me. It's okay, really, it is. I know more about working at a newspaper and DJing at a dance club than she does, so there. Not that my mom could do a whole heck of a lot, because my car was completely jacked. But trust me, when you're in the middle of nowhere and totally frazzled, your mom's voice can be a good one to hear.
I called a tow truck. I called a friend to come rescue us. Then I waited. And spent more time in Welton than I ever care to. (To add insult to injury, a sign informed us that Friday was "Halibut Day" at that gas station. Curses, missed it by only one day!)
Our crisis was averted. My friend showed up in record time, and, eventually, so did the tow truck. My poor car got hauled back to Moline where I learned that both my water pump and timing belt had gone ker-blooey. Also ker-blooeyed? My checking account, once I paid for the repairs AND the cross-country tow. All told, it was certainly the most expensive daytrip I'd ever taken.
In retrospect, I don't feel so bad that I'm an idiot when it comes to car repair. I mean, even if I HAD known what I was doing under the hood, it wasn't like I could've MacGyvered up a new timing belt with some paper clips and chewing gum. Even if Jeff Gordon had been in the car, we still would've been standing around waiting for that tow truck.
So good people of Welton, I apologize for my earlier outburst. I'm sure your car-eating town is a pleasant place to be. In fact, some of you stopped to see if I needed a hand, and that was pretty cool (though if I had a nickel for every time I heard, "I thought the engine was in the BACK har har," I'd totally have 35 cents by now.) Just forgive me if I'm not exactly in a rush to return to your neck of the woods (Halibut Day notwithstanding.)
I hate you all, and I hate your stupid little town.
Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. I'm sure that Welton's a fine little community full of good folk who live in harmony. Truth be told, prior to last weekend, I had never even heard of Welton, Iowa. More truth be told, though, I wish I were still unaware of its existence.
The afternoon started off peachy. I decided to go for a drive with a friend of mine of the female persuasion. It was one of those aimless, Al-Gore-would-not-be-amused afternoon pleasure cruises with no particular destination in mind.
My car had other plans, though, as indicated by the temperature alarm and red lights of the not-good-at-all variety popping up on my dashboard. We were 40 miles away from home.
"Gee, golly," I said in the imaginary family-friendly-newspaper world where I never swear in real life, "This is certainly a pickle."
Happily, less than a mile away I could see a gas station. By the time I got there, though, the Beetle was making a scream under the hood not unlike the sound my cat made the other day when I accidentally rolled my desk chair over her tail. This was NOT good.
See, I've mentioned a billion times in print by now that I'm kind of a weenie, right? And most definitely, one of the chapters of "How To Be A Super Awesome Macho Dude" that I managed to skip in life was the one about automotive maintenance. I know where the gas goes, I know where the oil goes, I know where the key goes. For anything else, I know where my credit card goes.
But that repair shop was 40+ miles away. It's 1000 degrees outside, I'm trying desperately to impress a girl in my car, and I'm effectively nowhere. Excuse me, no, I'm effectively in Welton, Iowa. Ever wonder where Welton, Iowa, is? Answer: It's in NOWHERE.
I opened the hood. There's no discernable reason why I did this, because a car engine makes as much sense to me as a book written in Swahili, but I did it anyways. I checked the oil -- yep, I had oil. I checked the coolant -- yep, I had coolant. In fact, I learned that I had coolant because the moment I broke the air lock on the cap, it all boiled up and all over the engine and onto the pavement. Indeed I HAD coolant. Now the parking lot had it instead. Many apologies to the Welton townsfolk for turning your gas station into a miniature biohazard.
I went into the gas station, added some water, and tried to fire the car back up. It was not amused, and responded by squealing and bleeding all that water right out onto the ground. So I thought for a couple seconds. I needed a plan of action. A plan that would somehow allow us to be rescued, and me to save face in front of the travelling companion. I needed help, but I didn't want to LOOK like I needed help. There was one person I could call.
"Umm, hi, mom," I sheepishly said into the cell phone. "I've got a problem..." That's right. I'm man enough to admit it. My mom knows more about cars than me. It's okay, really, it is. I know more about working at a newspaper and DJing at a dance club than she does, so there. Not that my mom could do a whole heck of a lot, because my car was completely jacked. But trust me, when you're in the middle of nowhere and totally frazzled, your mom's voice can be a good one to hear.
I called a tow truck. I called a friend to come rescue us. Then I waited. And spent more time in Welton than I ever care to. (To add insult to injury, a sign informed us that Friday was "Halibut Day" at that gas station. Curses, missed it by only one day!)
Our crisis was averted. My friend showed up in record time, and, eventually, so did the tow truck. My poor car got hauled back to Moline where I learned that both my water pump and timing belt had gone ker-blooey. Also ker-blooeyed? My checking account, once I paid for the repairs AND the cross-country tow. All told, it was certainly the most expensive daytrip I'd ever taken.
In retrospect, I don't feel so bad that I'm an idiot when it comes to car repair. I mean, even if I HAD known what I was doing under the hood, it wasn't like I could've MacGyvered up a new timing belt with some paper clips and chewing gum. Even if Jeff Gordon had been in the car, we still would've been standing around waiting for that tow truck.
So good people of Welton, I apologize for my earlier outburst. I'm sure your car-eating town is a pleasant place to be. In fact, some of you stopped to see if I needed a hand, and that was pretty cool (though if I had a nickel for every time I heard, "I thought the engine was in the BACK har har," I'd totally have 35 cents by now.) Just forgive me if I'm not exactly in a rush to return to your neck of the woods (Halibut Day notwithstanding.)
John From Cincinatti RIP
Well, it's happened to me again.
I get all into a show and the sucker dies a quick death.
Hollywood Reporter is confirming today that HBO has pulled the plug on "John From Cincinatti," a mere two days after its first season finale. Ten episodes is all we're gonna get.
I wish I could explain why I fell for this show. It was, at its core, an exercise in "artsy for the sake of being artsy," but I was still compelled. When, occasionally, 10 minute scenes would drone on without making hardly ANY sense, I was still compelled. When every third word of the dialogue became "f***," I was still compelled.
It was a show that occasionally made me bristle in its badness. Yet I'm still convinced that the creators were shooting for a really big and powerful message in it somewhere. Redemption... salvation... hope where there should be none... theology... capitalism.
Somewhere in there it all makes sense. And I sincerely hope that there's gonna be a DVD release with some SERIOUS creator commentary.
I get all into a show and the sucker dies a quick death.
Hollywood Reporter is confirming today that HBO has pulled the plug on "John From Cincinatti," a mere two days after its first season finale. Ten episodes is all we're gonna get.
I wish I could explain why I fell for this show. It was, at its core, an exercise in "artsy for the sake of being artsy," but I was still compelled. When, occasionally, 10 minute scenes would drone on without making hardly ANY sense, I was still compelled. When every third word of the dialogue became "f***," I was still compelled.
It was a show that occasionally made me bristle in its badness. Yet I'm still convinced that the creators were shooting for a really big and powerful message in it somewhere. Redemption... salvation... hope where there should be none... theology... capitalism.
Somewhere in there it all makes sense. And I sincerely hope that there's gonna be a DVD release with some SERIOUS creator commentary.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Uncensored Idol!
So one of my worst traits as a newspaper writer is that I can never seem to write within the size constraints of our paper. This especially sucks when you're writing entertainment articles to run during the week. You see, quite often the available amount of space for non-news stuff fluctuates wildly from day to day and is dictated by the news of the day, the ads that are sold, etc. In other words, if you're writing a fluff piece, you're the first thing to go if something needs to get munched.
I spent most of today in a total American Idol whirlwind. Not only did I get to review the show tonight at the Mark (and hey, it's my blog, I can call the venue whatever I want. I can call it the Doug of the Quad Cities if I want,) but I also got to spend the afternoon interviewing several of the finalists, which was pretty sweet.
As a result, I got two articles in the paper today, which is pretty sweet. Sadly, though -- because every time they send me out to do a story, I return with a non-abridged version of "War and Peace" -- my articles (especially my review of the show itself) got munched pretty hard by our over-worked and incredibly awesome copy editors. Hence, this being my blog, I thought I'd share with you the articles in their full glory as they were intended:
What's in a name?
Well, if that name is American Idol, your answer is: one of the largest commercial juggernauts in the history of pop culture.
If that name is the newly christened i wireless center, the answer Wednesday night was: an almost capacity crowd for the Moline stop of the Idols Live tour. Frankly, I don't care what they call the venue. All I know is that the building's commitment to drawing top talent will forever be a mark of the Quad Cities.
If that name is Sanjaya Malakar, your answer is: one of my favorite anti-heroes of all time. The oft-criticized Idol finalist of the sixth season was welcomed by the crowd as heartily as the rest of the ensemble.
This was my second trip to Idols Live; I also had the pleasure of reviewing the tour the year Fantasia rolled through town. And, once again, I find myself in a bit of a professional conundrum.
As a music critic, I am pre-disposed to applaud originality, creativity, and performers that reach to great lengths to propel their art to new and exciting levels.
Idols Live does none of that, nor does it pretend to. This is pre-fabricated, wholly commercial pop-by-numbers at its finest. At its core, this is -- by its definition -- the greatest karaoke night in the nation.
By all points, I should sincerely hate this show. Then why do I love it so stinkin' much? Easy -- because American Idol knows how to throw a party.
I've got to give them kudos for the intro alone. With house lights still raised and the crowd distracted by giant walking Pop-Tarts (don't ask,) one of the random roadies onstage ripped off his fake beard and wig to reveal himself as Blake Lewis, Idol runner-up and fan favorite. With one scream, the place erupted as the idols stormed the stage to a roaring version of "Let's Get It Started."
Cover versions were definitely the name of the game, but the idols did their best to put their unique stamp on the 30+ songs chosen for the tour. Thanks to the Idol TV show itself, Lewis' version of "You Give Love a Bad Name" is probably more recognizable to the teen crowd than the Bon Jovi original.
Some of the performances literally had the hairs on the back of my neck standing. Idol winner Jordin Sparks could sing the alphabet and have the crowd in a rapture, and Melinda Doolittle's take on "(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman" was my highlight of the night.
"I Will Always Love You," a song I thought I'd already heard about 2,304 times too many in my lifetime, was given new life by Lakisha Jones and brought the crowd to its feet.
As for Malakar, the kid held his own. When the opening bars of "Thriller" struck, there was no one else I wanted to see rise from the stage floor than Sanjaya, and hey, he rocked it out, moonwalk and all. In fact, I'd say his live vocal chops overall were better than those of his fellow finalists Chris Sligh or Haley Scarnato.
Gina Glockson, the closest thing we've got to a hometown Idol hero (she's from Naperville), was greeted warmly by the crowd, some of whom had obviously made the trek from Chicago-land. Glockson, who hours earlier had gotten engaged live on stage at the tour's Chicago stop, had a natural ease onstage that harkened back to her appearances over the past few years at RIBCO with her old group Catfight.
And, you know what? I take back what I said earlier about a lack of creativity. Lewis' beatboxing skills aren't just a novelty -- he's honestly one of the best in the business at rockin' the box, as he proved time and again throughout the night. If he's a one-trick pony as some might suspect, I don't care -- it's a great trick.
At the end of the day, it's amazing how quickly the American Idol machine can turn a motley crew of talented kids into bona fide world class entertainers. Whether this season's crop of finalsts are destined for the charts or destined for obscurity is up to time and perseverence, but Wednesday night definitely proved one thing: they've got talent on their side.
And my interview piece also got edited a little bit, here's the original version of THAT:
You're in a large window-less room. You've only been awake for a few hours, but you find yourself being shuffled from one table of strangers to the next. At each table, someone points cameras and microphones at your face and asks you 10 different versions of essentially the same question. It is your job to be charming. For me, that would be the definition of impossible. For the finalists of the sixth season of "American Idol," it's just another Wednesday afternoon.
"It's pretty crazy," admitted Idol finalist Phil Stacey prior to last night's show at the i wireless center, "Being on the road, you're really, really tired all the time. But at the same time that it's putting stress onto your physical body and everything, we're having THE absolute time of our lives."
"The tour is a blast," echoed finalist Melinda Doolittle, "A sleepy blast."
The Idols tour is the culmination of a whirlwind year of auditions, TV shows, and a struggle to parlay sudden fame into a professional career. It's a challenge the finalists say they're up for.
"Here's the thing," explained Stacey. "We're living out our dreams right now. I'm not foolish. I know where this leads. Maybe two of us will come back to venues this size ever again. This may be the last chance I've got to step out in an auditorium and sing, and I'm taking advantage of it. I'm having a blast."
"This whole thing is fantastic," said finalist Chris Sligh, "Every day it just kind of reiterates to me why I got into this in the first place."
Sligh came into Idol with a background in Christian music, and took some heat from conservatives for performing secular music on the show.
"Anybody who knows me for more than fifteen minutes knows that I'm a Christ follower," he explained. "But American Idol's not the place to get up and preach. If you're a Christian plumber, you're not going to preach while you're cleaning a toilet. If you're a Christian lawyer, your opening argument isn't going to start with 'So let me tell you about Jesus.' There's a professionalism to it that gets lost."
One person taking full advantage of the tour is Season 6 winner Jordin Sparks, who, at 17 years of age, still requires a guardian to accompany her on the road.
"It's fun to have family with," Sparks said with a huge smile, "because I get to have a little piece of home with me. It sounds horrible, but I'm not homesick. People ask me all the time, 'Can't you wait to get home?' And I say, actually I CAN wait -- I love travelling and I love what I'm doing right now."
Sparks is one of the busiest of all, as her off time is spent laying down tracks for her debut record.
"I got to go in the studio and hear what she's done so far," gushed Doolittle of her friend. "And oh my gosh. Normally in a studio, it's hard to convey your feelings through a song. But this chick? She's like a seasoned pro!"
Arguably the star of the show is a most unlikely fellow -- Sanjaya Malakar. Normally someone who ends up in 7th place on American Idol isn't exactly a mega-star, but unless you live under a rock, you know all about Sanjaya. Whether it was the constant berating of judge Simon Cowell or the constant support from Idol saboteurs like VoteForTheWorst.com and Howard Stern, Malakar found his name in the press nearly every day -- and not for the best of reasons.
"It's awkward," said Malakar with a grin that was, well, awkward. "People can think what they want to think. I'm just going out there every day and having fun."
All of the finalists are eager to talk about their plans following the tour. On the busses, they've been writing for each other's records. Stacey is prepping a country disc, while Sligh hopes to release an album to appeal to both mainstream and Christian audiences. Idol finalist Gina Glockson is preparing for more than an album - during this week's show in Chicago, she was proposed to onstage by her boyfriend -- and accepted. When I brought up the surprise engagement, Sparks and Doolittle exploded.
"Did you see the ring?" they asked in unison.
"Red with black diamonds! It's really shiny!" added Sparks.
"It's really GINA," Doolittle clarified with a grin.
Like the other finalists, Sanjaya, too, is already looking ahead to the post-Idol future.
"I'm definitely doing an album," he said. "My message is that music is music, regardless of genre. I want to fuse jazz emotion and rock energy with a world music vibe and make it work."
For now, though, first thing's first.
"When this tour is done," said Doolittle, "my immediate plans are to take a nap."
I spent most of today in a total American Idol whirlwind. Not only did I get to review the show tonight at the Mark (and hey, it's my blog, I can call the venue whatever I want. I can call it the Doug of the Quad Cities if I want,) but I also got to spend the afternoon interviewing several of the finalists, which was pretty sweet.
As a result, I got two articles in the paper today, which is pretty sweet. Sadly, though -- because every time they send me out to do a story, I return with a non-abridged version of "War and Peace" -- my articles (especially my review of the show itself) got munched pretty hard by our over-worked and incredibly awesome copy editors. Hence, this being my blog, I thought I'd share with you the articles in their full glory as they were intended:
What's in a name?
Well, if that name is American Idol, your answer is: one of the largest commercial juggernauts in the history of pop culture.
If that name is the newly christened i wireless center, the answer Wednesday night was: an almost capacity crowd for the Moline stop of the Idols Live tour. Frankly, I don't care what they call the venue. All I know is that the building's commitment to drawing top talent will forever be a mark of the Quad Cities.
If that name is Sanjaya Malakar, your answer is: one of my favorite anti-heroes of all time. The oft-criticized Idol finalist of the sixth season was welcomed by the crowd as heartily as the rest of the ensemble.
This was my second trip to Idols Live; I also had the pleasure of reviewing the tour the year Fantasia rolled through town. And, once again, I find myself in a bit of a professional conundrum.
As a music critic, I am pre-disposed to applaud originality, creativity, and performers that reach to great lengths to propel their art to new and exciting levels.
Idols Live does none of that, nor does it pretend to. This is pre-fabricated, wholly commercial pop-by-numbers at its finest. At its core, this is -- by its definition -- the greatest karaoke night in the nation.
By all points, I should sincerely hate this show. Then why do I love it so stinkin' much? Easy -- because American Idol knows how to throw a party.
I've got to give them kudos for the intro alone. With house lights still raised and the crowd distracted by giant walking Pop-Tarts (don't ask,) one of the random roadies onstage ripped off his fake beard and wig to reveal himself as Blake Lewis, Idol runner-up and fan favorite. With one scream, the place erupted as the idols stormed the stage to a roaring version of "Let's Get It Started."
Cover versions were definitely the name of the game, but the idols did their best to put their unique stamp on the 30+ songs chosen for the tour. Thanks to the Idol TV show itself, Lewis' version of "You Give Love a Bad Name" is probably more recognizable to the teen crowd than the Bon Jovi original.
Some of the performances literally had the hairs on the back of my neck standing. Idol winner Jordin Sparks could sing the alphabet and have the crowd in a rapture, and Melinda Doolittle's take on "(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman" was my highlight of the night.
"I Will Always Love You," a song I thought I'd already heard about 2,304 times too many in my lifetime, was given new life by Lakisha Jones and brought the crowd to its feet.
As for Malakar, the kid held his own. When the opening bars of "Thriller" struck, there was no one else I wanted to see rise from the stage floor than Sanjaya, and hey, he rocked it out, moonwalk and all. In fact, I'd say his live vocal chops overall were better than those of his fellow finalists Chris Sligh or Haley Scarnato.
Gina Glockson, the closest thing we've got to a hometown Idol hero (she's from Naperville), was greeted warmly by the crowd, some of whom had obviously made the trek from Chicago-land. Glockson, who hours earlier had gotten engaged live on stage at the tour's Chicago stop, had a natural ease onstage that harkened back to her appearances over the past few years at RIBCO with her old group Catfight.
And, you know what? I take back what I said earlier about a lack of creativity. Lewis' beatboxing skills aren't just a novelty -- he's honestly one of the best in the business at rockin' the box, as he proved time and again throughout the night. If he's a one-trick pony as some might suspect, I don't care -- it's a great trick.
At the end of the day, it's amazing how quickly the American Idol machine can turn a motley crew of talented kids into bona fide world class entertainers. Whether this season's crop of finalsts are destined for the charts or destined for obscurity is up to time and perseverence, but Wednesday night definitely proved one thing: they've got talent on their side.
And my interview piece also got edited a little bit, here's the original version of THAT:
You're in a large window-less room. You've only been awake for a few hours, but you find yourself being shuffled from one table of strangers to the next. At each table, someone points cameras and microphones at your face and asks you 10 different versions of essentially the same question. It is your job to be charming. For me, that would be the definition of impossible. For the finalists of the sixth season of "American Idol," it's just another Wednesday afternoon.
"It's pretty crazy," admitted Idol finalist Phil Stacey prior to last night's show at the i wireless center, "Being on the road, you're really, really tired all the time. But at the same time that it's putting stress onto your physical body and everything, we're having THE absolute time of our lives."
"The tour is a blast," echoed finalist Melinda Doolittle, "A sleepy blast."
The Idols tour is the culmination of a whirlwind year of auditions, TV shows, and a struggle to parlay sudden fame into a professional career. It's a challenge the finalists say they're up for.
"Here's the thing," explained Stacey. "We're living out our dreams right now. I'm not foolish. I know where this leads. Maybe two of us will come back to venues this size ever again. This may be the last chance I've got to step out in an auditorium and sing, and I'm taking advantage of it. I'm having a blast."
"This whole thing is fantastic," said finalist Chris Sligh, "Every day it just kind of reiterates to me why I got into this in the first place."
Sligh came into Idol with a background in Christian music, and took some heat from conservatives for performing secular music on the show.
"Anybody who knows me for more than fifteen minutes knows that I'm a Christ follower," he explained. "But American Idol's not the place to get up and preach. If you're a Christian plumber, you're not going to preach while you're cleaning a toilet. If you're a Christian lawyer, your opening argument isn't going to start with 'So let me tell you about Jesus.' There's a professionalism to it that gets lost."
One person taking full advantage of the tour is Season 6 winner Jordin Sparks, who, at 17 years of age, still requires a guardian to accompany her on the road.
"It's fun to have family with," Sparks said with a huge smile, "because I get to have a little piece of home with me. It sounds horrible, but I'm not homesick. People ask me all the time, 'Can't you wait to get home?' And I say, actually I CAN wait -- I love travelling and I love what I'm doing right now."
Sparks is one of the busiest of all, as her off time is spent laying down tracks for her debut record.
"I got to go in the studio and hear what she's done so far," gushed Doolittle of her friend. "And oh my gosh. Normally in a studio, it's hard to convey your feelings through a song. But this chick? She's like a seasoned pro!"
Arguably the star of the show is a most unlikely fellow -- Sanjaya Malakar. Normally someone who ends up in 7th place on American Idol isn't exactly a mega-star, but unless you live under a rock, you know all about Sanjaya. Whether it was the constant berating of judge Simon Cowell or the constant support from Idol saboteurs like VoteForTheWorst.com and Howard Stern, Malakar found his name in the press nearly every day -- and not for the best of reasons.
"It's awkward," said Malakar with a grin that was, well, awkward. "People can think what they want to think. I'm just going out there every day and having fun."
All of the finalists are eager to talk about their plans following the tour. On the busses, they've been writing for each other's records. Stacey is prepping a country disc, while Sligh hopes to release an album to appeal to both mainstream and Christian audiences. Idol finalist Gina Glockson is preparing for more than an album - during this week's show in Chicago, she was proposed to onstage by her boyfriend -- and accepted. When I brought up the surprise engagement, Sparks and Doolittle exploded.
"Did you see the ring?" they asked in unison.
"Red with black diamonds! It's really shiny!" added Sparks.
"It's really GINA," Doolittle clarified with a grin.
Like the other finalists, Sanjaya, too, is already looking ahead to the post-Idol future.
"I'm definitely doing an album," he said. "My message is that music is music, regardless of genre. I want to fuse jazz emotion and rock energy with a world music vibe and make it work."
For now, though, first thing's first.
"When this tour is done," said Doolittle, "my immediate plans are to take a nap."
Monday, August 06, 2007
COLUMN: Accessories
I never thought I'd reach a point in my life where I would rather deal with machines instead of people.
I've realized lately, though, that my current preferred mode of shopping is in front of a computer with credit card in hand. No people, no muss, no fuss. There was a time when this was a decidedly anti-Shane way of thinking. Once upon a teenage, I LOVED going to the mall. Walking through those mighty doors with an allowance burning a hole in my pocket was a feeling of genuine empowerment. The world -- or at least the mall -- was my oyster.
But the oyster's gone bad. Nowadays, it's a triumph if I make it out of the mall with my sanity intact. Last week, I wrote about an excursion in search of some replacement undergarments of the hole-free variety. This was a trip born of necessity, as are most of my shopping trips these days. Ergo, to make my future retail nightmares as minimal as possible, I spelunked around the mall that day wondering if I could kill any more birds with this shopping stone.
That's when I remembered: I could stand a new watch and a new wallet. I gulped and headed for one of my least favorite parts of the mall department stores.
You know what I'm talking about -- those glass counters of doom. You female types probably think nothing of it, but for those of us estrogenally-challenged, glass counters are unnatural places. Usually the only items guys buy out of a glass case are either (a) weapons, or (b) valuable and important baseball cards. In a department store, I don't even know what the glass-case-area is actually called -- Accessories? Jewelry? The Wayward Home for Over-Achieving Aggressive Salespeople? All I know is that I've now got a few NEW names for the department, but this being a family newspaper, I'll spare those suggestions.
Just walking up to those counters is intimidating enough. First off, from a distance, you have to use your sixth sense to figure out which counter has manly guy stuff and which one has foofy girlie junk. I approached with trepidation and sighed with relief when I spotted guy-sized watches at the far counter. I trotted that-a-way, but I didn't make it that far.
"CANIHELPYOUFINDAFRAGRANCE?" blurted a voice that very well could have been from Mars.
"Eh?" I muttered, desperately attempting to hit the space bar in my brain and turn the babble into words.
It turns out that I had ventured too close to the cologne counter, and I had fallen prey to the tractor beam of the World's Most Overly-Enthusiastic Sales Guy, who now stood alarmingly close, beaming at me with his phony, tooth-filled smile.
"Errr," I barely got out when he cut me off with what would turn out to be the second most ridiculous question I would hear that day:
"Sir, what would you say is your defining scent?"
I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Truth be told, my "defining scent" is probably a mixture of stale air, Tide with Bleach Alternative, Doritos, and -- depending on the state of the litterbox -- perhaps a subtle hint of cat pee. Please, humanity, never define me by a scent. I shrugged and laughed at the inanity of it all. That's when I got to hear the winning most ridiculous question of the day:
"Do you consider yourself a... musky man?"
I started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. In all of the soul-searching I could possibly do in my entire life, of every moment of personal enlightenment that I could possibly hope to attain, I had better not come to a universal truth that I am a musky man.
"Dude," I attempted to reply between chortles, "I barely consider myself a MAN, let alone a musky one."
I mean, come on, is there ANY word out there grosser than MUSK? Mirriam-Webster tells me that the word musk is derived from the Sanskrit "muska," which, of course, is Sanskrit for TESTICLE. And the definition? "A substance with a penetrating persistent odor obtained from a sac beneath the abdominal skin of the male musk deer."
Sexy, eh? To me, the word musk should only be used by guys who come in their front door every night saying, "Wife, I have returned home with dinner which I have shot and skinned for us all. Now I must go clean the blood from my all-terrain vehicle... but first, come, woman, and smell of my musk!"
Musk is for manly men -- NOT chubby, nerdy, man-boys such as myself. You people can have all the deer sac juice you want. I, meanwhile, have only found 3 colognes in my life that I deem worth wearing. Drakkar, which reminds me of teen dance clubs and bad 80's music; some Estee Lauder stuff called JHL that I only wore at the insistence of my college girlfriend (she found it sexy while I found it not unlike dish soap); and a cologne called BLV For Men that I can usually only find in Chicago.
I made the mistake of asking the guy if they stocked BLV. "It's a blue bottle," I attempted to elaborate. He didn't have BLV, but quickly started pulling out every blue-bottled cologne he had, as though I shopped for scents on the basis of color coordination. Eventually I escaped, but not before I had a pocket full of little cards, each having been spritzed with a different blue-bottled aroma. I swear my pants are still infused with notes of sandalwood and jasmine to this day.
In the meantime, I need to go. I've got to go shopping for a new wallet. On Amazon.com.
I've realized lately, though, that my current preferred mode of shopping is in front of a computer with credit card in hand. No people, no muss, no fuss. There was a time when this was a decidedly anti-Shane way of thinking. Once upon a teenage, I LOVED going to the mall. Walking through those mighty doors with an allowance burning a hole in my pocket was a feeling of genuine empowerment. The world -- or at least the mall -- was my oyster.
But the oyster's gone bad. Nowadays, it's a triumph if I make it out of the mall with my sanity intact. Last week, I wrote about an excursion in search of some replacement undergarments of the hole-free variety. This was a trip born of necessity, as are most of my shopping trips these days. Ergo, to make my future retail nightmares as minimal as possible, I spelunked around the mall that day wondering if I could kill any more birds with this shopping stone.
That's when I remembered: I could stand a new watch and a new wallet. I gulped and headed for one of my least favorite parts of the mall department stores.
You know what I'm talking about -- those glass counters of doom. You female types probably think nothing of it, but for those of us estrogenally-challenged, glass counters are unnatural places. Usually the only items guys buy out of a glass case are either (a) weapons, or (b) valuable and important baseball cards. In a department store, I don't even know what the glass-case-area is actually called -- Accessories? Jewelry? The Wayward Home for Over-Achieving Aggressive Salespeople? All I know is that I've now got a few NEW names for the department, but this being a family newspaper, I'll spare those suggestions.
Just walking up to those counters is intimidating enough. First off, from a distance, you have to use your sixth sense to figure out which counter has manly guy stuff and which one has foofy girlie junk. I approached with trepidation and sighed with relief when I spotted guy-sized watches at the far counter. I trotted that-a-way, but I didn't make it that far.
"CANIHELPYOUFINDAFRAGRANCE?" blurted a voice that very well could have been from Mars.
"Eh?" I muttered, desperately attempting to hit the space bar in my brain and turn the babble into words.
It turns out that I had ventured too close to the cologne counter, and I had fallen prey to the tractor beam of the World's Most Overly-Enthusiastic Sales Guy, who now stood alarmingly close, beaming at me with his phony, tooth-filled smile.
"Errr," I barely got out when he cut me off with what would turn out to be the second most ridiculous question I would hear that day:
"Sir, what would you say is your defining scent?"
I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Truth be told, my "defining scent" is probably a mixture of stale air, Tide with Bleach Alternative, Doritos, and -- depending on the state of the litterbox -- perhaps a subtle hint of cat pee. Please, humanity, never define me by a scent. I shrugged and laughed at the inanity of it all. That's when I got to hear the winning most ridiculous question of the day:
"Do you consider yourself a... musky man?"
I started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. In all of the soul-searching I could possibly do in my entire life, of every moment of personal enlightenment that I could possibly hope to attain, I had better not come to a universal truth that I am a musky man.
"Dude," I attempted to reply between chortles, "I barely consider myself a MAN, let alone a musky one."
I mean, come on, is there ANY word out there grosser than MUSK? Mirriam-Webster tells me that the word musk is derived from the Sanskrit "muska," which, of course, is Sanskrit for TESTICLE. And the definition? "A substance with a penetrating persistent odor obtained from a sac beneath the abdominal skin of the male musk deer."
Sexy, eh? To me, the word musk should only be used by guys who come in their front door every night saying, "Wife, I have returned home with dinner which I have shot and skinned for us all. Now I must go clean the blood from my all-terrain vehicle... but first, come, woman, and smell of my musk!"
Musk is for manly men -- NOT chubby, nerdy, man-boys such as myself. You people can have all the deer sac juice you want. I, meanwhile, have only found 3 colognes in my life that I deem worth wearing. Drakkar, which reminds me of teen dance clubs and bad 80's music; some Estee Lauder stuff called JHL that I only wore at the insistence of my college girlfriend (she found it sexy while I found it not unlike dish soap); and a cologne called BLV For Men that I can usually only find in Chicago.
I made the mistake of asking the guy if they stocked BLV. "It's a blue bottle," I attempted to elaborate. He didn't have BLV, but quickly started pulling out every blue-bottled cologne he had, as though I shopped for scents on the basis of color coordination. Eventually I escaped, but not before I had a pocket full of little cards, each having been spritzed with a different blue-bottled aroma. I swear my pants are still infused with notes of sandalwood and jasmine to this day.
In the meantime, I need to go. I've got to go shopping for a new wallet. On Amazon.com.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Leader Party TONITE!
If you're looking for a low-key way to start off your weekend, we're celebrating the kick-off of the new and improved Leader TONIGHT at the River Music Experience, with an early shindig starting tonight at 5 p.m. Some country band will be there (umm, not my doing) and you can meet all the peeps who've worked so hard on the new paper. And you might even get to hang with me if'n you feel like it.
So yeah, start your weekend at the RME then cruise over to Ave. with me at 10:30 to close out your night District-style.
So yeah, start your weekend at the RME then cruise over to Ave. with me at 10:30 to close out your night District-style.
COLUJMN: Undies
There are, I have found in life, many advantages to being a guy.
Chief among them is man's innate ability to somehow NOT care about fashion. (Unless, of course, aforementioned fashion is attached to a leggy supermodel. Then I might perk up a bit.) A lot of times here at work, my break coincides with a pack of co-workers I like to call the "girl gaggle." And quite often, due to promixity alone, I get to eavesdrop on their conversations. A lot of them go something like this:
"Shoes purses mall money. Prada leather Paris handbag?"
"Necklace! Mall blouse stylist fabulous!"
"Trendy. Shopping bargain, hairdo Chanel, discount Abercrombie!"
Or something like that. Maybe there were some verbs in there somewhere, too, I forget. Point is, to us guys, it's a totally foreign language. How shopping requires planning and forethought, let alone conversation, is beyond me. When I need something, I run out and get it, usually as quickly and affordably as possible. I mean, I'm not so clueless as to just pull whatever off the racks, but I'm certainly not walking needless miles through mall corridors in search of the perfect fashion statement.
This week, though, I was on a mission. A mission, in fact, inspired by my mother. My mom's sagely advice to me upon leaving home always included this gem: "Make sure you don't have holes in your underwear! What if you were in a car wreck and they took you to the ER and had to cut your clothes off?!"
Yes, never mind the fact that there might be a steering wheel sticking out of my spleen, surely the doctors and nurses would allow me to perish in favor of gathering around to mock and point at my worn britches. Still, advice is advice, and when I took my laundry out of the hamper last week and saw a couple of those dreaded holes, it was time for action.
That explains why I found myself inside the mall store that fittingly rhymes with "Bonkers" last week, perusing a wall of skivvies while desperately attempting to remember my waist size. That was when I saw them. A product that had never registered on my radar: designer undies for men. Calvin Klein, in fact.
"Ooh," said my brain, "I'll look just like Marky Mark." I mean, each pair was individually boxed, so they MUST be something special, right? So on a lark, in addition to the pack of cheap ones I found, I brought home one pair of Calvin Klein briefs.
I threw everything into the wash and tried them on the very next morning. For the amount of money they cost, I was expecting to feel like my southern hemisphere was being hugged by an angel. No dice - they felt like any ol' pair of britches. Still, I walked around that day like a king. I might be your run-of-the-mill nerd, but little did everyone know that underneath, I was, quite literally, Mr. Fancy-Pants.
Until that afternoon. It was a busy day at work and I had been running all over the office when I felt the, err, call of nature, shall we say. I had a spare second, so I ducked into the restroom. Now, another advantage to being a guy is that we can accomplish this task from the standing position, so I sidled on up to do my business... but... umm...
"What the...?" I said under my breath. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong. That's when it dawned on me -- my new undies were of the NON-fly variety. Now call me sheltered or stupid if you'd like, but in 36 years of living, I had somehow managed to never run into this problem before. I was in a rush and had no time to dally about with my dilemma, so I did what comes naturally: I giggled, backed away, and walked away like a fool, mission most definitely unaccomplished.
This wouldn't be particularly noteworthy were it not for the fact that said restroom was teeming with co-workers at that moment. Co-workers who just watched me walk in, examine my nether-region, say "What the...?", GIGGLE, and leave. This is decidedly NOT the way to make a good impression at work, unless your place of employment is perhaps Neverland Ranch.
The moral of the story is simple: For the amount of money I paid for these fancy duds, the very least I expected was, oh, FUNCTIONALITY. Even though I despise supporting them for their inane TV ads alone, a cheap pair of Fruit of the Looms would never cause me technical difficulties in a moment of need.
You girls out there can have your high fashion -- I'm done with it. There will be no Parisian catwalks in THIS nerd's future. Still, I can now appreciate better the sacrifice those of you obsessed with pret-a-porter make for those of us whose job is to sit in the waiting chairs at boutiques and go, "That one looks nice, too, honey."
Chief among them is man's innate ability to somehow NOT care about fashion. (Unless, of course, aforementioned fashion is attached to a leggy supermodel. Then I might perk up a bit.) A lot of times here at work, my break coincides with a pack of co-workers I like to call the "girl gaggle." And quite often, due to promixity alone, I get to eavesdrop on their conversations. A lot of them go something like this:
"Shoes purses mall money. Prada leather Paris handbag?"
"Necklace! Mall blouse stylist fabulous!"
"Trendy. Shopping bargain, hairdo Chanel, discount Abercrombie!"
Or something like that. Maybe there were some verbs in there somewhere, too, I forget. Point is, to us guys, it's a totally foreign language. How shopping requires planning and forethought, let alone conversation, is beyond me. When I need something, I run out and get it, usually as quickly and affordably as possible. I mean, I'm not so clueless as to just pull whatever off the racks, but I'm certainly not walking needless miles through mall corridors in search of the perfect fashion statement.
This week, though, I was on a mission. A mission, in fact, inspired by my mother. My mom's sagely advice to me upon leaving home always included this gem: "Make sure you don't have holes in your underwear! What if you were in a car wreck and they took you to the ER and had to cut your clothes off?!"
Yes, never mind the fact that there might be a steering wheel sticking out of my spleen, surely the doctors and nurses would allow me to perish in favor of gathering around to mock and point at my worn britches. Still, advice is advice, and when I took my laundry out of the hamper last week and saw a couple of those dreaded holes, it was time for action.
That explains why I found myself inside the mall store that fittingly rhymes with "Bonkers" last week, perusing a wall of skivvies while desperately attempting to remember my waist size. That was when I saw them. A product that had never registered on my radar: designer undies for men. Calvin Klein, in fact.
"Ooh," said my brain, "I'll look just like Marky Mark." I mean, each pair was individually boxed, so they MUST be something special, right? So on a lark, in addition to the pack of cheap ones I found, I brought home one pair of Calvin Klein briefs.
I threw everything into the wash and tried them on the very next morning. For the amount of money they cost, I was expecting to feel like my southern hemisphere was being hugged by an angel. No dice - they felt like any ol' pair of britches. Still, I walked around that day like a king. I might be your run-of-the-mill nerd, but little did everyone know that underneath, I was, quite literally, Mr. Fancy-Pants.
Until that afternoon. It was a busy day at work and I had been running all over the office when I felt the, err, call of nature, shall we say. I had a spare second, so I ducked into the restroom. Now, another advantage to being a guy is that we can accomplish this task from the standing position, so I sidled on up to do my business... but... umm...
"What the...?" I said under my breath. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong. That's when it dawned on me -- my new undies were of the NON-fly variety. Now call me sheltered or stupid if you'd like, but in 36 years of living, I had somehow managed to never run into this problem before. I was in a rush and had no time to dally about with my dilemma, so I did what comes naturally: I giggled, backed away, and walked away like a fool, mission most definitely unaccomplished.
This wouldn't be particularly noteworthy were it not for the fact that said restroom was teeming with co-workers at that moment. Co-workers who just watched me walk in, examine my nether-region, say "What the...?", GIGGLE, and leave. This is decidedly NOT the way to make a good impression at work, unless your place of employment is perhaps Neverland Ranch.
The moral of the story is simple: For the amount of money I paid for these fancy duds, the very least I expected was, oh, FUNCTIONALITY. Even though I despise supporting them for their inane TV ads alone, a cheap pair of Fruit of the Looms would never cause me technical difficulties in a moment of need.
You girls out there can have your high fashion -- I'm done with it. There will be no Parisian catwalks in THIS nerd's future. Still, I can now appreciate better the sacrifice those of you obsessed with pret-a-porter make for those of us whose job is to sit in the waiting chairs at boutiques and go, "That one looks nice, too, honey."
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Radio Ga-Ga
Yes, to everyone who's been e-mailing and calling and laughing and asking...
That IS me on the radio right now in spots promoting the Leader. The editors asked if I could lend a hand and write some funny radio ads, so I gave it a shot. The ads were produced up at the Rock & Roll Mansion with the assistance of the best radio DJ in town (and one of my good friends in real life,) Jeff James from Star 93.5. There's 4 of 'em on rotation right now on nearly every QC radio station. So feel free to point and laugh at my funny voice.
In all honesty, though, go out of your way to grab a copy of The Leader this week... you won't BELIEVE the paper's new look, new size, new attitude. It's not often I tow the company line mercilessly, but this relaunch really DOES have us all excited.
It's only 2 days away.
Oh, there's also some official kick-off shindig at the River Music Experience soon (next week, maybe?) for the public to come mingle with the Leader staff... and it's looking like I'll be there, so you can even save the pointing and laughing for in person should you wish.
That IS me on the radio right now in spots promoting the Leader. The editors asked if I could lend a hand and write some funny radio ads, so I gave it a shot. The ads were produced up at the Rock & Roll Mansion with the assistance of the best radio DJ in town (and one of my good friends in real life,) Jeff James from Star 93.5. There's 4 of 'em on rotation right now on nearly every QC radio station. So feel free to point and laugh at my funny voice.
In all honesty, though, go out of your way to grab a copy of The Leader this week... you won't BELIEVE the paper's new look, new size, new attitude. It's not often I tow the company line mercilessly, but this relaunch really DOES have us all excited.
It's only 2 days away.
Oh, there's also some official kick-off shindig at the River Music Experience soon (next week, maybe?) for the public to come mingle with the Leader staff... and it's looking like I'll be there, so you can even save the pointing and laughing for in person should you wish.
COLUMN: Carpal Tunnel
...otherwise known as the column which will hopefully put a coda onto the seemingly ne'er-ending saga of Shane vs. Guitar Hero.
Regular readers of this nook already know that my life has been uncontrollably revolving around the insipid video game that finally answers the age-old question: "What would Eric Clapton look like if his guitar was tiny, plastic, and adorned with rainbow colored buttons instead of strings?"
(Answer: He would look like a dork. A big, big dork.)
Two weeks ago, I discussed begrudgingly buying Guitar Hero II and watching helplessly as my already-meager social life ground to a complete halt in favor of heavy metal licks and wicked button-pushing solos. Last week, I mentioned how I rocked out SO hard to the game that I, umm, broke it and had to get another copy. Well, now it's week 3, and for a little change of pace, I didn't break the game... the game broke ME.
It happened the other night. I, like many a guitar great before me, was sitting in front of my X-Box trying to perfect the same song over and over again. "Yo, dude," said the sane portion of my brain after some time (and my brain calls me 'dude' a lot, we're close like that,) "put the game down and go to bed."
I shut off the X-Box and noticed something funny: the X-Box was definitely OFF... but my hand didn't feel itself pressing against the power button. In fact, my right hand wasn't feeling much of anything. It was perfectly numb. No pins, no needles, just... nothing, other than a mild tingly sensation running up my wrist.
"That's odd, dude," said my brain.
Happily, all was well the next morning and I chalked it up to a little over-zealous Guitar Hero-ing. Until, that is, I got in the shower and reached with my right hand to turn the faucet on. That's when a white hot pain erupted from my wrist and shot up my arm directly into my brain. The neighbors are still probably wondering what caused the quiet kid in B5 to yell "Nyyyyyyyah!" in the shower that morning.
It didn't stop there. Turning the steering wheel on the way to work? Nyyyah! Trying to right-click my mouse? Nyyyah! Taking out the trash? Oh, who am I kidding, I never take out my trash (but now I have an excuse not to!)
That's right, it appears as if Guitar Hero was the official catalyst to send me into the realm of early carpal tunnel. Frankly, it wasn't much of a surprise. I spend a good portion of my day non-ergonomically tied to a computer, I type using only my index fingers and a thumb, and I'm one of those lefties who holds their pens in the dreaded 'hooked' position, so I've been a candidate for carpal tunnel for some time. Just wasn't expecting it so soon.
At least I think it's carpal tunnel. I won't see a doctor until I've exhausted the catalog of home remedies first (spare me the lectures, it's how I operate.) Which means I just went out to the drugstore and bought one of those super sexy wrist braces.
Which is great, because it's SUCH the fashion statement. Yes, nothing says style like walking around as though I'm perpetually late for bowling league. And as if looking like a bowler isn't bad enough, the brace also begs the question from friends, co-workers, and passersby alike:
"What'd you do to yerself?"
What do I say to that? Certainly not the truth. "I'm a 36-year-old suffering from possible carpal tunnel and mild nerve damage from BANGING ON A FAKE PLASTIC GUITAR VIDEO GAME." No, thanks. Hence I've decided to use my injury to better my improvisational acting skills. Anytime someone asks what I did to myself, I make up a new scenario. To date, I've fought an angry dog, stopped a runaway car, rumbled with a mugger... basically anything to crack a co-worker up and slyly avoid confessing to over-playing a video game.
But the other day, I was walking around at work when a co-worker, one I don't know very well, spotted the brace and asked, "What'd you do to yerself?"
Without hesitation, I replied, "Ultimate fighting. Rough night in the ring."
I expected her to laugh. I expected a funny diversion to the sad truth. What I didn't expect was:
"Ooh, I've heard those can be very rough matches! Who were you fighting?"
Seriously? Okay, stop reading and look up at the picture of me at the top of this column. Look at my dainty little sissy face. Now imagine that face in ANY kind of ultimate fighting scenario. Can't do it, can you? Good, coz neither can I. The closest I ever came to a fight was when Robbie Downard pushed me on the sidewalk in 3rd grade, and before I could even react, my mommy, who had seen the rumble in full swing, came screaming to my aid.
But to actually BELIEVE that I was capable of stepping into an ultimate fighting ring? For THAT, she was the only person I fessed up the embarassing truth to. The good news is that the brace is helping a LOT, and I'm 90% to a full recovery. Until then, though, I think I'll go looking for some bowling shirts - I need to blend in.
Regular readers of this nook already know that my life has been uncontrollably revolving around the insipid video game that finally answers the age-old question: "What would Eric Clapton look like if his guitar was tiny, plastic, and adorned with rainbow colored buttons instead of strings?"
(Answer: He would look like a dork. A big, big dork.)
Two weeks ago, I discussed begrudgingly buying Guitar Hero II and watching helplessly as my already-meager social life ground to a complete halt in favor of heavy metal licks and wicked button-pushing solos. Last week, I mentioned how I rocked out SO hard to the game that I, umm, broke it and had to get another copy. Well, now it's week 3, and for a little change of pace, I didn't break the game... the game broke ME.
It happened the other night. I, like many a guitar great before me, was sitting in front of my X-Box trying to perfect the same song over and over again. "Yo, dude," said the sane portion of my brain after some time (and my brain calls me 'dude' a lot, we're close like that,) "put the game down and go to bed."
I shut off the X-Box and noticed something funny: the X-Box was definitely OFF... but my hand didn't feel itself pressing against the power button. In fact, my right hand wasn't feeling much of anything. It was perfectly numb. No pins, no needles, just... nothing, other than a mild tingly sensation running up my wrist.
"That's odd, dude," said my brain.
Happily, all was well the next morning and I chalked it up to a little over-zealous Guitar Hero-ing. Until, that is, I got in the shower and reached with my right hand to turn the faucet on. That's when a white hot pain erupted from my wrist and shot up my arm directly into my brain. The neighbors are still probably wondering what caused the quiet kid in B5 to yell "Nyyyyyyyah!" in the shower that morning.
It didn't stop there. Turning the steering wheel on the way to work? Nyyyah! Trying to right-click my mouse? Nyyyah! Taking out the trash? Oh, who am I kidding, I never take out my trash (but now I have an excuse not to!)
That's right, it appears as if Guitar Hero was the official catalyst to send me into the realm of early carpal tunnel. Frankly, it wasn't much of a surprise. I spend a good portion of my day non-ergonomically tied to a computer, I type using only my index fingers and a thumb, and I'm one of those lefties who holds their pens in the dreaded 'hooked' position, so I've been a candidate for carpal tunnel for some time. Just wasn't expecting it so soon.
At least I think it's carpal tunnel. I won't see a doctor until I've exhausted the catalog of home remedies first (spare me the lectures, it's how I operate.) Which means I just went out to the drugstore and bought one of those super sexy wrist braces.
Which is great, because it's SUCH the fashion statement. Yes, nothing says style like walking around as though I'm perpetually late for bowling league. And as if looking like a bowler isn't bad enough, the brace also begs the question from friends, co-workers, and passersby alike:
"What'd you do to yerself?"
What do I say to that? Certainly not the truth. "I'm a 36-year-old suffering from possible carpal tunnel and mild nerve damage from BANGING ON A FAKE PLASTIC GUITAR VIDEO GAME." No, thanks. Hence I've decided to use my injury to better my improvisational acting skills. Anytime someone asks what I did to myself, I make up a new scenario. To date, I've fought an angry dog, stopped a runaway car, rumbled with a mugger... basically anything to crack a co-worker up and slyly avoid confessing to over-playing a video game.
But the other day, I was walking around at work when a co-worker, one I don't know very well, spotted the brace and asked, "What'd you do to yerself?"
Without hesitation, I replied, "Ultimate fighting. Rough night in the ring."
I expected her to laugh. I expected a funny diversion to the sad truth. What I didn't expect was:
"Ooh, I've heard those can be very rough matches! Who were you fighting?"
Seriously? Okay, stop reading and look up at the picture of me at the top of this column. Look at my dainty little sissy face. Now imagine that face in ANY kind of ultimate fighting scenario. Can't do it, can you? Good, coz neither can I. The closest I ever came to a fight was when Robbie Downard pushed me on the sidewalk in 3rd grade, and before I could even react, my mommy, who had seen the rumble in full swing, came screaming to my aid.
But to actually BELIEVE that I was capable of stepping into an ultimate fighting ring? For THAT, she was the only person I fessed up the embarassing truth to. The good news is that the brace is helping a LOT, and I'm 90% to a full recovery. Until then, though, I think I'll go looking for some bowling shirts - I need to blend in.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
My Belly Hurts...
...from laughing so stinkin' hard.
BIIIIG tournament in town this week, folks. And I'm not talking about some stupid golf classic.
The Comedy Sportz World Championships have been going on this week in Rock Island, and the more eagle-eyed of you may have seen me at nearly every event this week.
Sadly, the championship match is going on RIGHT NOW AS I TYPE THIS, and I can't be there because I'm mere moments from heading off to the DJ gig.
That said, there have been some INCREDIBLY funny teams turn out to this thing. Los Angeles... Minneapolis... Milwaukee... Provo (who'd have thought Utah-ians could be hysterical?) And some key players: Miles from LA, Katie from Richmond, Susannah from Philadelphia, Scott & Matt from Provo, Patrick & Bill from Portland... and of course the great QC team who can hold their own with the best of 'em.
It's been one of the funniest weeks of my life, for real. Good job, Comedy Sportz!
BIIIIG tournament in town this week, folks. And I'm not talking about some stupid golf classic.
The Comedy Sportz World Championships have been going on this week in Rock Island, and the more eagle-eyed of you may have seen me at nearly every event this week.
Sadly, the championship match is going on RIGHT NOW AS I TYPE THIS, and I can't be there because I'm mere moments from heading off to the DJ gig.
That said, there have been some INCREDIBLY funny teams turn out to this thing. Los Angeles... Minneapolis... Milwaukee... Provo (who'd have thought Utah-ians could be hysterical?) And some key players: Miles from LA, Katie from Richmond, Susannah from Philadelphia, Scott & Matt from Provo, Patrick & Bill from Portland... and of course the great QC team who can hold their own with the best of 'em.
It's been one of the funniest weeks of my life, for real. Good job, Comedy Sportz!
Friday, July 13, 2007
COLUMN: Moral Breakdown
I am SO not destined for a life of crime.
I'm not saying that I'm some namby-pamby do-gooder guy or anything. I mean, I've had my moments of unbridled rebellion. I seem to have this recurring problem where my speedometer OBVIOUSLY goes faulty, causing me to get a few tickets over the years. I'm pretty sure I have some mp3's on my computer that appeared by magic. And heck, I've ripped the tags off mattresses with malice and forethought.
So yeah, I can be a rebel. I just don't do it often, because I also have the worst luck imaginable.
I don't know what it is, but it seems like every time I have the slightest moral breakdown in my life, I end up paying for it big-time. Once in college, my friends talked me into sneaking into a dance club when we were underage. Now, I didn't care about or partake in the illicit booze at all, no joke; I just wanted to hear a proper club DJ. But of course the ONE time I decide to break the law, THAT'S the night that the police show up to do random ID checks. Had a kindly waitress not spirited us out a back door, I probably would have cost my poor mother many a grey hair.
So I've learned over the years that it's best to, for the most part, walk the straight and narrow. But last week? I hit a curve on the road.
If you happened to read last week's column, you'll know that my life has been consumed by the video game Guitar Hero. I'm absolutely inept at it, yet it's still a good way to waste a few hours. Well, what I didn't mention in that column is that something tragic happened to me less than a week after I bought the game.
I had some friends over and we were rocking out. I was attempting a particularly nasty solo on some Rolling Stones song when the rock & roll spirit took over a little too hard. I pulled back on the cheezy little fake guitar to begin a manuver that can only be described as ROCKING THE HECK OUT, when -- *THUD*.
In the midst of my rock-gasm, I pulled a little too hard on the fake guitar and my X-Box took a 90-degree topple onto its side. Now, a mere amp topple wouldn't stop the Rolling Stones, right? Heck no, Keith Richards could probably topple his amp, play a mean guitar lick, AND shoot heroin at the same time -- ergo, I wasn't gonna stop, either. I kept right on rocking (albeit very badly) until the song ended. It was a four-star performance according to the game. Heck, maybe I could turn into a guitar hero after all.
What I didn't realize, though, is that while I was power rocking, my X-Box was carving a scratch the size of the Grand Canyon into my game disc. Turns out it's probably not a good thing to knock your X-Box over, mess up the alignment, and keep on playing. That Stones song would be the last lick that copy of Guitar Hero would ever make.
I took the disc out and looked at it. It was baaaaad. My hot guitar move had just destroyed a $55 game that I had owned for a whopping 4 days. That's a good chunk of change, especially for something as stupid as this game.
That's when the dark side took over. My friends and I hatched a complex, intricate plan to avoid having to re-purchase the game. The plan? walk in to the video game store and go, "I just opened this game and it's, like, broken or something."
For some reason, I honestly expected this to work. As though video game factories are prone to gouging their discs with a chisel before shipping or something. I walked in to the store and faced the manager. If I'm a bit of a geek, this guy was the Geekmaster. I gulped, went up to him, and lied my butt off. "I took it out of the case and it just wouldn't play."
The Geekmaster, without hesitation, turned the disc over, saw the abyss that was once a functioning video game, and said, "Your system did this."
"Nooooooooooo," I somehow try to respond. "I only had the game in for, like, a second. Couldn't be. Factory defect."
"Your system did this," he said again in the same dry voice. I was had. I couldn't keep up the charade. All I wanted to do was grab the disc and run out of the store in shame.
But no, the Geekmaster then told me how the internal whatzit in my X-Box had probably slid off its track, and how I could easily damage all of my discs. He gave me the phone number to call for X-Box support. He told me how to best ship the unit to repair for the fastest results. And then he did the unthinkable.
"I shouldn't do this, but I feel bad you for, man. I'll replace this disc with a used one I just got in."
Not only did the guy catch me bearing false witness, he still replaced the disc -- because he felt bad for me. Bad that I'd been an idiot and destroyed a game I'd owned for 4 days? Bad because I came in with a feeble attempt at lying to cover my own stupidity? Or bad because I'm a 36-year-old who plays Guitar Hero?
It didn't matter. I still felt 2 inches tall. All I know is that the Geekmaster earned my future business that day. Heck, I even felt so worthless that I bought ANOTHER game that day I didn't even really want - I just felt like I owed the guy something.
So lying is bad, kids. You might get away with it, but it does NOT fill one with warm fuzzies. Maybe I AM a namby-pamby do-gooder after all. Either way, lesson learned -- though perhaps they should put a warning on those fake guitars: "Caution - Do Not Over-Rock."
I'm not saying that I'm some namby-pamby do-gooder guy or anything. I mean, I've had my moments of unbridled rebellion. I seem to have this recurring problem where my speedometer OBVIOUSLY goes faulty, causing me to get a few tickets over the years. I'm pretty sure I have some mp3's on my computer that appeared by magic. And heck, I've ripped the tags off mattresses with malice and forethought.
So yeah, I can be a rebel. I just don't do it often, because I also have the worst luck imaginable.
I don't know what it is, but it seems like every time I have the slightest moral breakdown in my life, I end up paying for it big-time. Once in college, my friends talked me into sneaking into a dance club when we were underage. Now, I didn't care about or partake in the illicit booze at all, no joke; I just wanted to hear a proper club DJ. But of course the ONE time I decide to break the law, THAT'S the night that the police show up to do random ID checks. Had a kindly waitress not spirited us out a back door, I probably would have cost my poor mother many a grey hair.
So I've learned over the years that it's best to, for the most part, walk the straight and narrow. But last week? I hit a curve on the road.
If you happened to read last week's column, you'll know that my life has been consumed by the video game Guitar Hero. I'm absolutely inept at it, yet it's still a good way to waste a few hours. Well, what I didn't mention in that column is that something tragic happened to me less than a week after I bought the game.
I had some friends over and we were rocking out. I was attempting a particularly nasty solo on some Rolling Stones song when the rock & roll spirit took over a little too hard. I pulled back on the cheezy little fake guitar to begin a manuver that can only be described as ROCKING THE HECK OUT, when -- *THUD*.
In the midst of my rock-gasm, I pulled a little too hard on the fake guitar and my X-Box took a 90-degree topple onto its side. Now, a mere amp topple wouldn't stop the Rolling Stones, right? Heck no, Keith Richards could probably topple his amp, play a mean guitar lick, AND shoot heroin at the same time -- ergo, I wasn't gonna stop, either. I kept right on rocking (albeit very badly) until the song ended. It was a four-star performance according to the game. Heck, maybe I could turn into a guitar hero after all.
What I didn't realize, though, is that while I was power rocking, my X-Box was carving a scratch the size of the Grand Canyon into my game disc. Turns out it's probably not a good thing to knock your X-Box over, mess up the alignment, and keep on playing. That Stones song would be the last lick that copy of Guitar Hero would ever make.
I took the disc out and looked at it. It was baaaaad. My hot guitar move had just destroyed a $55 game that I had owned for a whopping 4 days. That's a good chunk of change, especially for something as stupid as this game.
That's when the dark side took over. My friends and I hatched a complex, intricate plan to avoid having to re-purchase the game. The plan? walk in to the video game store and go, "I just opened this game and it's, like, broken or something."
For some reason, I honestly expected this to work. As though video game factories are prone to gouging their discs with a chisel before shipping or something. I walked in to the store and faced the manager. If I'm a bit of a geek, this guy was the Geekmaster. I gulped, went up to him, and lied my butt off. "I took it out of the case and it just wouldn't play."
The Geekmaster, without hesitation, turned the disc over, saw the abyss that was once a functioning video game, and said, "Your system did this."
"Nooooooooooo," I somehow try to respond. "I only had the game in for, like, a second. Couldn't be. Factory defect."
"Your system did this," he said again in the same dry voice. I was had. I couldn't keep up the charade. All I wanted to do was grab the disc and run out of the store in shame.
But no, the Geekmaster then told me how the internal whatzit in my X-Box had probably slid off its track, and how I could easily damage all of my discs. He gave me the phone number to call for X-Box support. He told me how to best ship the unit to repair for the fastest results. And then he did the unthinkable.
"I shouldn't do this, but I feel bad you for, man. I'll replace this disc with a used one I just got in."
Not only did the guy catch me bearing false witness, he still replaced the disc -- because he felt bad for me. Bad that I'd been an idiot and destroyed a game I'd owned for 4 days? Bad because I came in with a feeble attempt at lying to cover my own stupidity? Or bad because I'm a 36-year-old who plays Guitar Hero?
It didn't matter. I still felt 2 inches tall. All I know is that the Geekmaster earned my future business that day. Heck, I even felt so worthless that I bought ANOTHER game that day I didn't even really want - I just felt like I owed the guy something.
So lying is bad, kids. You might get away with it, but it does NOT fill one with warm fuzzies. Maybe I AM a namby-pamby do-gooder after all. Either way, lesson learned -- though perhaps they should put a warning on those fake guitars: "Caution - Do Not Over-Rock."
COLUMN: Guitar Hero
A few weeks ago, I wrote a column about deflated dreams. Remember when you were a kid and wanted to grow up and play in the NBA or fly to the moon or be a Calvin Klein model? Then you grew up and realized that (a) you're uncoordinated, short, and chubby, (b) you get queasy on the Tilt-A-Whirl, let alone a lunar module, and (c) you're SO good-looking that the sight of you in a Calvin Klein ad could cause pandemonium among the female ranks, the likes of which could tilt the balance of life on Earth forever all because you're just TOO doggone sexy? Or is that just me?
Well, now I can add one OTHER occupation that's officially NOT happening for me: guitar hero.
If you have kids, you're probably well-acquainted with Guitar Hero. It's one of the most popular games out right now for the Playstation and X-Box. As opposed to your standard video games that have complex plots -- you know, save the princess, slay the dragon, whip the Thuggee guards, stop the space invaders, make whoopee with a prostitute to regain your health (you've gotta love Grand Theft Auto) -- Guitar Hero's plot is simple: hit buttons.
As musical notes fly by on the screen, you have to hit the correct color-coded button in order to make your little on-screen dude jam out to a soundtrack of heavy metal and arena rock classics. If that's not dorky enough for you, you have to buy the custom Guitar Hero game controller, which is, of course, a guitar. A cheap, undersized plastic replica of a guitar, that is.
Actually, it's probably not undersized -- if you're 9, which is how old you SHOULD be when you play Guitar Hero. The thing is, though, every time I walk into Best Buy, where they've got a demo of the game set up, it's always some middle-aged dork wailing away on the plastic guitar like they're auditioning for Rush or something. This game aspires to unforeseen new and exciting levels of nerd-dom, and chuckling at the karaoke nightmare every time I walk past it is a newfound favorite hobby of mine.
Until. (You already know what's coming, don't you? All I had to say was "until.") Until my friend Chris showed up. My buddy Chris is a great friend, especially for a time-constrained video gamer such as myself. Chris is a video game junkie -- not only does he play all the X-Box and Playstation games, he's also into MMORPG's. These are the vast online games like World of Warcraft and Everquest where you play online with 1,000 of your closest cyberfriends while the games suck your soul away on a daily basis. The games that require you to play for HOURS every day to get anywhere. The games that have support groups for addicts.
My friend Chris, though, is fairly well-adjusted and not nearly as nerdy as most gamers -- which is why I sat open-mouthed when he showed up the other day and announced, "I bought Guitar Hero 2!"
"Are you KIDDING me?" I respond. "That game is the downfall of humanity! Nothing on Earth looks dorkier."
That's when he said the magic words:
"Duuuuuuude. It's awesome."
Now, I trust my buddy's opinion on all things video game related, and he doesn't issue "duuuuuude"'s too often. Still, I found this particular review hard to swallow. I shrugged it off. I'd still wander through Best Buy, and I'd still stop and grin at the dorks playing the game. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I could still hear those words. "Duuuuuude." "Awesome." You know, what if he was right? I mean, maybe I'm missing out on the most fun video game ever. And sure, the guitar looks utterly lame, but who's gonna see me? My cats?
So I did it. I bought the ridiculous game and the ridiculous fake guitar. On my way home, I stopped to get food and a kid in the drive-thru window saw the box and went, "Duuuuude. That game is so awesome." I made a wise decision.
There's just one tiny problem, though: I SUCK AT IT. I brought the game home, took out my little plastic guitar, tied on the strap, applied the super-cool stickers to personalize my axe, turned it on, and proceeded to suck the night away.
This game isn't fun. It's guitar-shaped torture. The notes whizz by at the speed of sound and I'm supposed to make my fingers play the chords AND strum at the same time? And when you mess up, your guitar makes a wonky noise while the fake audience hurls boo's and catcalls. Swell, I can now reach the pinnacle of embarassment from the comfort of my own home. What's next? A video game where you have to go to the front of the class and read a book report?
When I've watched kids at the store play Guitar Hero, they really get into it and start rocking out. I, meanwhile, sit stoically with a nervously focused look of sheer concentration, which is exactly how you're NOT supposed to look when you're playing along to Kiss. I can't believe Ace Frehley remembers to BREATHE, let alone shoot fire out of his guitar neck.
If this is even remotely what it's like to play a REAL guitar, count me out. Still, though, my buddy was right -- it is pretty awesome, in one of those must-find-a-hiding-place-so-none-of-my-other-friends-can-ever-see-my-secret-shame sorta ways. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some rockin' to do.
Well, now I can add one OTHER occupation that's officially NOT happening for me: guitar hero.
If you have kids, you're probably well-acquainted with Guitar Hero. It's one of the most popular games out right now for the Playstation and X-Box. As opposed to your standard video games that have complex plots -- you know, save the princess, slay the dragon, whip the Thuggee guards, stop the space invaders, make whoopee with a prostitute to regain your health (you've gotta love Grand Theft Auto) -- Guitar Hero's plot is simple: hit buttons.
As musical notes fly by on the screen, you have to hit the correct color-coded button in order to make your little on-screen dude jam out to a soundtrack of heavy metal and arena rock classics. If that's not dorky enough for you, you have to buy the custom Guitar Hero game controller, which is, of course, a guitar. A cheap, undersized plastic replica of a guitar, that is.
Actually, it's probably not undersized -- if you're 9, which is how old you SHOULD be when you play Guitar Hero. The thing is, though, every time I walk into Best Buy, where they've got a demo of the game set up, it's always some middle-aged dork wailing away on the plastic guitar like they're auditioning for Rush or something. This game aspires to unforeseen new and exciting levels of nerd-dom, and chuckling at the karaoke nightmare every time I walk past it is a newfound favorite hobby of mine.
Until. (You already know what's coming, don't you? All I had to say was "until.") Until my friend Chris showed up. My buddy Chris is a great friend, especially for a time-constrained video gamer such as myself. Chris is a video game junkie -- not only does he play all the X-Box and Playstation games, he's also into MMORPG's. These are the vast online games like World of Warcraft and Everquest where you play online with 1,000 of your closest cyberfriends while the games suck your soul away on a daily basis. The games that require you to play for HOURS every day to get anywhere. The games that have support groups for addicts.
My friend Chris, though, is fairly well-adjusted and not nearly as nerdy as most gamers -- which is why I sat open-mouthed when he showed up the other day and announced, "I bought Guitar Hero 2!"
"Are you KIDDING me?" I respond. "That game is the downfall of humanity! Nothing on Earth looks dorkier."
That's when he said the magic words:
"Duuuuuuude. It's awesome."
Now, I trust my buddy's opinion on all things video game related, and he doesn't issue "duuuuuude"'s too often. Still, I found this particular review hard to swallow. I shrugged it off. I'd still wander through Best Buy, and I'd still stop and grin at the dorks playing the game. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I could still hear those words. "Duuuuuude." "Awesome." You know, what if he was right? I mean, maybe I'm missing out on the most fun video game ever. And sure, the guitar looks utterly lame, but who's gonna see me? My cats?
So I did it. I bought the ridiculous game and the ridiculous fake guitar. On my way home, I stopped to get food and a kid in the drive-thru window saw the box and went, "Duuuuude. That game is so awesome." I made a wise decision.
There's just one tiny problem, though: I SUCK AT IT. I brought the game home, took out my little plastic guitar, tied on the strap, applied the super-cool stickers to personalize my axe, turned it on, and proceeded to suck the night away.
This game isn't fun. It's guitar-shaped torture. The notes whizz by at the speed of sound and I'm supposed to make my fingers play the chords AND strum at the same time? And when you mess up, your guitar makes a wonky noise while the fake audience hurls boo's and catcalls. Swell, I can now reach the pinnacle of embarassment from the comfort of my own home. What's next? A video game where you have to go to the front of the class and read a book report?
When I've watched kids at the store play Guitar Hero, they really get into it and start rocking out. I, meanwhile, sit stoically with a nervously focused look of sheer concentration, which is exactly how you're NOT supposed to look when you're playing along to Kiss. I can't believe Ace Frehley remembers to BREATHE, let alone shoot fire out of his guitar neck.
If this is even remotely what it's like to play a REAL guitar, count me out. Still, though, my buddy was right -- it is pretty awesome, in one of those must-find-a-hiding-place-so-none-of-my-other-friends-can-ever-see-my-secret-shame sorta ways. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some rockin' to do.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
COLUMN: Cats To Work
Okay, so fans of this column -- should any exist -- are likely aware that I'm known for one thing: my relentless crusade against injustice and a never-ending quest for social reform. Or something.
That's right, if you've heard that I'm a humor columnist, you were sadly mistaken. No sirree, I'm a serious journalist-dude type guy, and I use this space to raise awareness towards the many socio-political platforms that deeply concern me. Like, umm, gimme a sec... oh, like, umm, crime. Crime is bad. Yeah. Don't commit crime.
See, I'm all about using my edginess to raise the collective conscience. And lately, a topic has been brewing on MY conscience that's way worse than any piddly little issue like crime or sexism or racism. No, this is a FAR more disturbing -ism altogether: SPECIES-ISM.
I refer, of course, to the shocking travesty otherwise known as "Take Your Dog To Work Day." I read about it in this very publication a week ago. It's taking hold as a national holiday, and recently several of our staff took their dogs to work in order to write about the experience. Take special note, folks, that it's NOT "Take Your PET To Work Day." That's right, rabbit/ferret/pot-belly pig/fish/venomous snake owners, your cuddly pals are apparantly NOT GOOD ENOUGH for this exercise in blatant species-ism masquerading as a holiday. Well, NO MORE, I say! Someone has to stand up for the non-dogs of the world!
Once upon a time, I might have been jealous of this shameful holiday. Once upon a time, I wanted a dog. Sadly, the life of an on-the-go, man-about-town such as myself just isn't fair to a dog. Dogs are needy; they require companionship. They require potty hikes. That's why I became a cat owner. Cats are more my speed. My cats don't so much care whether or not I come home at night, just so long as the litter is reasonably clean and the food bowl is reasonably full.
And yet I don't get to write a heart-warming article about taking MY pets to work. Sniffle. I was mulling over shaving them and trying to pass them off as rare Claw-Footed Himalayan Chihuahuas, but it wasn't worth the effort. Besides, truth be told, they start incessantly meowing the instant they're ten feet away from my apartment door, let alone trapped with me at work all day. Still, I was sick of these smug little dog-owners walking around work with their needy little drool machines in tow.
Then it hit me: I write my column every week from home. That's work. Ergo, I have "Take My Cats to Work Day" all the stinkin' time! (And I do mean stinkin', since the litterbox is so close to my desk.) Regardless, I CAN write a heart-warming article about trying to write my column in the presence of the cats. And if I were to write it, it'd go something like:
7:00 - I walk in the door and my feline roommates -- Bez and Isobel -- pounce at my feet and fall to their sides meowing. This is cat for "hiya." Actually, it's cat for "pet me pet me pet me." This is my cue to drop what I'm doing and rub them until the air runs thick with mounds of cat hair and enough allergens to render all of Rock Island into one giant post-nasal drip. The amount of hair they shed off every night could be used to create up to 5 altogether new cats daily. By my calculations, they should now both be bald.
7:10 - I plop down at my computer to type out this week's column. The cats decide to help by running neurotically in concentric circles around the chair.
7:30 - Isobel wants something. I can't tell what, because she expresses herself via ONE act: Clawing the skin off my legs. I'm-happy = claw. I'm-hungry = claw. I'm-quite-concerned-about-the-situation-in-Darfur = claw. My legs look like I was recently on the losing end of a Weed Whacker. After brushing her off, she looks at me as if to say, "Why don't you understand me? Jeez, I CLAWED you and everything! Do I have to spell it out? Humans are SO stupid."
8:10 - The column is NOT progressing well, but suddenly I realize the cats are nowhere to be found. At last, peace. That is, until I slightly lean back and realize they're both hanging via claws from the back of my leather office chair. Swell.
8:12 - fgpljfgv,mcxcccccccccccdfdg glk;fllll;;fgkcxgmflkjtgreojjjg gfjdl rrrreop 33333 cdmccc. That was Bez, deciding to "help" by walking across the keyboard while I took a bathroom break. Personally I bet it's a profound answer to the mysteries of life. Rrrreop, indeed.
8:15 - We've found a new game. Attack-the-cursor goes something like this: I type a word. Out of nowhere, one of the cats leaps onto my shoulder and jumps head first at the computer monitor. Strangely, this never ends well for the cats.
8:20 - I'm too distracted by the cats for this column to go anywhere, so I scrap it and decide to write a column about being distracted by my cats while writing a column.
8:50 - Success. Column is done except for this last paragraph here. "Take Your Cats to Work Day" is judged a triumph. Isobel leaps onto my lap, looks at the monitor as if to give it a once-over, and responds by immediately going "HEOOOORK" and barfing a hairball onto my stomach. Let's see a dog give THAT kind of a critique.
That's right, if you've heard that I'm a humor columnist, you were sadly mistaken. No sirree, I'm a serious journalist-dude type guy, and I use this space to raise awareness towards the many socio-political platforms that deeply concern me. Like, umm, gimme a sec... oh, like, umm, crime. Crime is bad. Yeah. Don't commit crime.
See, I'm all about using my edginess to raise the collective conscience. And lately, a topic has been brewing on MY conscience that's way worse than any piddly little issue like crime or sexism or racism. No, this is a FAR more disturbing -ism altogether: SPECIES-ISM.
I refer, of course, to the shocking travesty otherwise known as "Take Your Dog To Work Day." I read about it in this very publication a week ago. It's taking hold as a national holiday, and recently several of our staff took their dogs to work in order to write about the experience. Take special note, folks, that it's NOT "Take Your PET To Work Day." That's right, rabbit/ferret/pot-belly pig/fish/venomous snake owners, your cuddly pals are apparantly NOT GOOD ENOUGH for this exercise in blatant species-ism masquerading as a holiday. Well, NO MORE, I say! Someone has to stand up for the non-dogs of the world!
Once upon a time, I might have been jealous of this shameful holiday. Once upon a time, I wanted a dog. Sadly, the life of an on-the-go, man-about-town such as myself just isn't fair to a dog. Dogs are needy; they require companionship. They require potty hikes. That's why I became a cat owner. Cats are more my speed. My cats don't so much care whether or not I come home at night, just so long as the litter is reasonably clean and the food bowl is reasonably full.
And yet I don't get to write a heart-warming article about taking MY pets to work. Sniffle. I was mulling over shaving them and trying to pass them off as rare Claw-Footed Himalayan Chihuahuas, but it wasn't worth the effort. Besides, truth be told, they start incessantly meowing the instant they're ten feet away from my apartment door, let alone trapped with me at work all day. Still, I was sick of these smug little dog-owners walking around work with their needy little drool machines in tow.
Then it hit me: I write my column every week from home. That's work. Ergo, I have "Take My Cats to Work Day" all the stinkin' time! (And I do mean stinkin', since the litterbox is so close to my desk.) Regardless, I CAN write a heart-warming article about trying to write my column in the presence of the cats. And if I were to write it, it'd go something like:
7:00 - I walk in the door and my feline roommates -- Bez and Isobel -- pounce at my feet and fall to their sides meowing. This is cat for "hiya." Actually, it's cat for "pet me pet me pet me." This is my cue to drop what I'm doing and rub them until the air runs thick with mounds of cat hair and enough allergens to render all of Rock Island into one giant post-nasal drip. The amount of hair they shed off every night could be used to create up to 5 altogether new cats daily. By my calculations, they should now both be bald.
7:10 - I plop down at my computer to type out this week's column. The cats decide to help by running neurotically in concentric circles around the chair.
7:30 - Isobel wants something. I can't tell what, because she expresses herself via ONE act: Clawing the skin off my legs. I'm-happy = claw. I'm-hungry = claw. I'm-quite-concerned-about-the-situation-in-Darfur = claw. My legs look like I was recently on the losing end of a Weed Whacker. After brushing her off, she looks at me as if to say, "Why don't you understand me? Jeez, I CLAWED you and everything! Do I have to spell it out? Humans are SO stupid."
8:10 - The column is NOT progressing well, but suddenly I realize the cats are nowhere to be found. At last, peace. That is, until I slightly lean back and realize they're both hanging via claws from the back of my leather office chair. Swell.
8:12 - fgpljfgv,mcxcccccccccccdfdg glk;fllll;;fgkcxgmflkjtgreojjjg gfjdl rrrreop 33333 cdmccc. That was Bez, deciding to "help" by walking across the keyboard while I took a bathroom break. Personally I bet it's a profound answer to the mysteries of life. Rrrreop, indeed.
8:15 - We've found a new game. Attack-the-cursor goes something like this: I type a word. Out of nowhere, one of the cats leaps onto my shoulder and jumps head first at the computer monitor. Strangely, this never ends well for the cats.
8:20 - I'm too distracted by the cats for this column to go anywhere, so I scrap it and decide to write a column about being distracted by my cats while writing a column.
8:50 - Success. Column is done except for this last paragraph here. "Take Your Cats to Work Day" is judged a triumph. Isobel leaps onto my lap, looks at the monitor as if to give it a once-over, and responds by immediately going "HEOOOORK" and barfing a hairball onto my stomach. Let's see a dog give THAT kind of a critique.
Monday, June 25, 2007
COLUMN: Insects
A few weeks ago, my friend Jason and I were driving around aimlessly in the sticks near Galena when he turned to me and said, "Can you pull over for a sec? I think I need to stretch my legs."
"Here?" I asked. We were quite literally in the middle of nowhere, driving on a gravel lane in the hills around the Apple River. The road didn't have ditches so much as canyons, and there really wasn't any place to pull off. Suffice to say, it was not your ideal rest stop locale. "You sure?"
"Yeah, here. Stop the car."
So I did. My friend suffers from occasional back problems, so when he needs to stretch his legs, it's usually not a debateable issue. I pulled over as best I could and stopped the car.
"Let's get out for a second," Jason said.
"Umm, ok," I replied. I mean, I was still on a photography kick from my new camera. Maybe Jason had spotted a good photo op or something. I grabbed the camera and stepped out of the car.
"Okay, don't panic," Jason said. "Stay out there. I just need to get a bee out of the car."
My friends know me too well.
"Sorry, man," he said after shoo-ing the tiny honeybee out of the car. "I didn't mean to lie to you. I just value my life is all."
See, Jason knows my deep, dark secret: I'm TERRIFIED of bees. Irrational, act-like-a-ninny terrified of bees. And he was right, if I had happened to have glanced in the mirror and seen that bee buzzing around my back seat, I probably would have driven us right off a cliff. And, while plummeting in a vertical freefall to our certain doom, my biggest fear would STILL have been getting stung on the way down.
Look, I know I'm not the most macho guy alive, right? I don't hunt or fish or ultimate fight or what-have-you. But I at least strive to be a step above full-fledged weenie status. Any success towards that goal, though, goes out the window if a bee comes in the window. When that happens, you might as well put me in a bonnet and call me Nancy, because I become a Super-Sissy.
In a way, I have full rights to act like a fool when a bee's near. I'm allergic to the things. If I DO get stung, you'd better have directions to the nearest hospital, because I poof out like the Pillsbury Dough-Shane. When I was a kid, I stepped on a bumblebee nest and got stung 3 times before my dad could grab me and run me indoors. Five minutes later, I was gasping for air and en route to the hospital.
So bees are not my friends. I'm in full favor of eliminating them from the world altogether. When the news broke in our paper this spring that bee populations were mysteriously declining across the U.S., I did a happy dance. Let them all die, I say. Who cares if they pollinate the flowers. Let the flowers die, too. It's a small sacrifice towards the noble goal of bee genocide, I say.
Actually, I'd probably be okay with the elimination of most all insect-things altogether. Not that I'm scared of other insects, it's just that other insects frequently put on amazing bee impressions. I've been known to run away from houseflies if they buzz by in a bee-ish manner.
Truth be told, I had NO idea what to write this week's column on until I was standing in the shower this morning. That's when I was greeted by a visitor: a moth flew directly into the shower. But this was no ordinary moth. No, this was Mothra himself. How this pterodactyl of an insect managed its way inside my apartment is beyond me, but obviously it was carnivorous, vorpal, and quite possibly rabid.
So there I was -- birthday suited, face full of shampoo, armed with little more than a loofah -- having to defend my most private of private parts from a deviant moth with the wingspan of a Boeing 747. And all I could think to do was make a noise that might be spelled "Nyaaaahhh!" After several failed attempts at moth wrangling, I did what any macho man would do: I gave up and ran away.
So as I type this at work, Mothra still holds reign somewhere in my apartment. But as I see it, it's okay. Most moths have lifespans that run hours instead of years, so maybe it's dead already. Plus, as I was leaving, my elite security team (i.e. my cats) were already on the case, meowing heartily at my winged intruder. I keep the cats entertained AND they rid me of the moth -- that's 2 birds with one stone... or one moth with two cats, as it were.
In the meantime, I think I'm doing better. The other day, a bumblebee flew into my car and onto my shirt and I just flicked it off. Of course, I thought it was a leaf at the time, and when I realized I had just touched a bumblebee with my bare hand, I may have had a slight aneurysm. But I'm pretty sure it was a macho aneurysm.
"Here?" I asked. We were quite literally in the middle of nowhere, driving on a gravel lane in the hills around the Apple River. The road didn't have ditches so much as canyons, and there really wasn't any place to pull off. Suffice to say, it was not your ideal rest stop locale. "You sure?"
"Yeah, here. Stop the car."
So I did. My friend suffers from occasional back problems, so when he needs to stretch his legs, it's usually not a debateable issue. I pulled over as best I could and stopped the car.
"Let's get out for a second," Jason said.
"Umm, ok," I replied. I mean, I was still on a photography kick from my new camera. Maybe Jason had spotted a good photo op or something. I grabbed the camera and stepped out of the car.
"Okay, don't panic," Jason said. "Stay out there. I just need to get a bee out of the car."
My friends know me too well.
"Sorry, man," he said after shoo-ing the tiny honeybee out of the car. "I didn't mean to lie to you. I just value my life is all."
See, Jason knows my deep, dark secret: I'm TERRIFIED of bees. Irrational, act-like-a-ninny terrified of bees. And he was right, if I had happened to have glanced in the mirror and seen that bee buzzing around my back seat, I probably would have driven us right off a cliff. And, while plummeting in a vertical freefall to our certain doom, my biggest fear would STILL have been getting stung on the way down.
Look, I know I'm not the most macho guy alive, right? I don't hunt or fish or ultimate fight or what-have-you. But I at least strive to be a step above full-fledged weenie status. Any success towards that goal, though, goes out the window if a bee comes in the window. When that happens, you might as well put me in a bonnet and call me Nancy, because I become a Super-Sissy.
In a way, I have full rights to act like a fool when a bee's near. I'm allergic to the things. If I DO get stung, you'd better have directions to the nearest hospital, because I poof out like the Pillsbury Dough-Shane. When I was a kid, I stepped on a bumblebee nest and got stung 3 times before my dad could grab me and run me indoors. Five minutes later, I was gasping for air and en route to the hospital.
So bees are not my friends. I'm in full favor of eliminating them from the world altogether. When the news broke in our paper this spring that bee populations were mysteriously declining across the U.S., I did a happy dance. Let them all die, I say. Who cares if they pollinate the flowers. Let the flowers die, too. It's a small sacrifice towards the noble goal of bee genocide, I say.
Actually, I'd probably be okay with the elimination of most all insect-things altogether. Not that I'm scared of other insects, it's just that other insects frequently put on amazing bee impressions. I've been known to run away from houseflies if they buzz by in a bee-ish manner.
Truth be told, I had NO idea what to write this week's column on until I was standing in the shower this morning. That's when I was greeted by a visitor: a moth flew directly into the shower. But this was no ordinary moth. No, this was Mothra himself. How this pterodactyl of an insect managed its way inside my apartment is beyond me, but obviously it was carnivorous, vorpal, and quite possibly rabid.
So there I was -- birthday suited, face full of shampoo, armed with little more than a loofah -- having to defend my most private of private parts from a deviant moth with the wingspan of a Boeing 747. And all I could think to do was make a noise that might be spelled "Nyaaaahhh!" After several failed attempts at moth wrangling, I did what any macho man would do: I gave up and ran away.
So as I type this at work, Mothra still holds reign somewhere in my apartment. But as I see it, it's okay. Most moths have lifespans that run hours instead of years, so maybe it's dead already. Plus, as I was leaving, my elite security team (i.e. my cats) were already on the case, meowing heartily at my winged intruder. I keep the cats entertained AND they rid me of the moth -- that's 2 birds with one stone... or one moth with two cats, as it were.
In the meantime, I think I'm doing better. The other day, a bumblebee flew into my car and onto my shirt and I just flicked it off. Of course, I thought it was a leaf at the time, and when I realized I had just touched a bumblebee with my bare hand, I may have had a slight aneurysm. But I'm pretty sure it was a macho aneurysm.
COLUMN: Cellular
So last week, I wrote a column about my chosen hobby career as a weekend club DJ. Namely, I provided some rules of thumb to follow when approaching the DJ booth to make a request. You, the club-going consumer, wants to hear a song. Me, the club-dwelling DJ, will most likely play it for you, if (a) it's a good song, and (b) you're not interrupting me in the middle of important DJ stuff like cueing up a song, beat mixing, or scoring phone numbers off cute girls.
Well, it turns out that, silly me, I left one important rule of thumb out of last week's column:
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SET A FULL DRINK ON AN IMAGINARY SHELF IN THE DJ BOOTH, CAUSING YOUR MARGARITA TO POUR OVER THE MIXING BOARD, A BOOK OF CD'S, THE DJ'S CELL PHONE, AND THE DJ's SHOE.
My omission of this rule was kindly pointed out by a girl at the bar this past Saturday, who showed me the err of my ways by -- you guessed it -- attempting to set a full drink on an imaginary shelf in my booth, causing her margarita to pour over the club's mixer, a book of my CD's, my cell phone, and my right shoe. In that order.
Happily, the equipment wasn't too badly damaged. That's because, in a last-ditch kamikaze act of bravery and discipline, my equipment was protected by my cell phone, which jumped into the line of fire and took the blunt force of the tasty beverage head on. It died instantly.
Well, if only it had died instantly. Instead, it kept trying in its death throes to turn on. The happy little Verizon logo would come on, then static, then a bright orange light that refused to shut off. Being an acclaimed master of every nervous habit imaginable, I have stubs for fingernails. So imagine, if you will, neurotic ol' me in the DJ booth, trying to mop up a spill, clean out a mixer, DJ to a packed dancefloor, air out my shoe, and get my non-existent fingernails under the dealy to pop out the phone battery... all at the same time. It was a losing battle, and my cell phone was the innocent victim.
I hoped in desperation that it just needed to dry out... but by the next morning, the flashing words "SERVICE REQUIRED" had sealed the deal. My contact list? Gone. Videos? Pics? Ringtones? Gone. My phone was dead; long live my phone.
Even worse was the discovery the next day that my phone was an outdated model no longer being sold. Not only was I phone-less, I now needed to start over from scratch.
There's hardly anything more evil than a cell phone store. You walk in to signs and banners proclaiming insanely cheap rates, unlimited reception, and an awe-inspiring Network, whatever that's supposed to mean.
What you REALLY discover inside the store is that your phone, and your entire knowledge base of communications, is woefully inadequate. New models of cell phones, each proclaiming some exciting new technological advance, come out roughly every 8.5 minutes, ensuring that whatever phone you buy will be outmoded, obsolete, and irrelevant by the time you get it home.
This is why I'm the proud new owner of a Palm Treo.
Phones are for sissy boys. I now have a pocket telecommunications empire. It's not a phone -- it's a day planner, word processor, broadband modem, web browser, mp3 player, camera, and e-mail hub that also incidentally allows you to make phone calls as an afterthought. I'm just not sure exactly HOW yet.
When I got the thing home, I was excited to see a complimentary phone book included at no extra charge -- until I realized it's not a phone book, it's the INSTRUCTION MANUAL.
But I don't care. I am at the top of my electronic game. I sit at the forefront of technological empowerment. Now I can schedule important appointments with... umm... my cats. Now I can surf the net and write my columns on-the-go. If only I ever went anywhere. Or had waif-like pixie hands, which appear to be the only things small enough to effectively work the World's Smallest Keyboard.
So what if it gives me carpal tunnel and probably emits enough radiation to cook an egg? So what if it has a million features that I guarantee I'll never use? IT PLAYS SOLITAIRE. How cool is THAT? And yes, the monthly charges are so much that I'll soon be evicted and impoverished, sure. But hey, I'll be able to track my descent into bankruptcy with its handy mobile Excel spreadsheet, and with the onboard GPS, it can direct me to the cardboard box of my choice where I can live out my glory days playing Tetris and annoying my friends with endless streams of text messages.
Now if it can just buy me a new right shoe, I'll be a happy guy.
Well, it turns out that, silly me, I left one important rule of thumb out of last week's column:
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SET A FULL DRINK ON AN IMAGINARY SHELF IN THE DJ BOOTH, CAUSING YOUR MARGARITA TO POUR OVER THE MIXING BOARD, A BOOK OF CD'S, THE DJ'S CELL PHONE, AND THE DJ's SHOE.
My omission of this rule was kindly pointed out by a girl at the bar this past Saturday, who showed me the err of my ways by -- you guessed it -- attempting to set a full drink on an imaginary shelf in my booth, causing her margarita to pour over the club's mixer, a book of my CD's, my cell phone, and my right shoe. In that order.
Happily, the equipment wasn't too badly damaged. That's because, in a last-ditch kamikaze act of bravery and discipline, my equipment was protected by my cell phone, which jumped into the line of fire and took the blunt force of the tasty beverage head on. It died instantly.
Well, if only it had died instantly. Instead, it kept trying in its death throes to turn on. The happy little Verizon logo would come on, then static, then a bright orange light that refused to shut off. Being an acclaimed master of every nervous habit imaginable, I have stubs for fingernails. So imagine, if you will, neurotic ol' me in the DJ booth, trying to mop up a spill, clean out a mixer, DJ to a packed dancefloor, air out my shoe, and get my non-existent fingernails under the dealy to pop out the phone battery... all at the same time. It was a losing battle, and my cell phone was the innocent victim.
I hoped in desperation that it just needed to dry out... but by the next morning, the flashing words "SERVICE REQUIRED" had sealed the deal. My contact list? Gone. Videos? Pics? Ringtones? Gone. My phone was dead; long live my phone.
Even worse was the discovery the next day that my phone was an outdated model no longer being sold. Not only was I phone-less, I now needed to start over from scratch.
There's hardly anything more evil than a cell phone store. You walk in to signs and banners proclaiming insanely cheap rates, unlimited reception, and an awe-inspiring Network, whatever that's supposed to mean.
What you REALLY discover inside the store is that your phone, and your entire knowledge base of communications, is woefully inadequate. New models of cell phones, each proclaiming some exciting new technological advance, come out roughly every 8.5 minutes, ensuring that whatever phone you buy will be outmoded, obsolete, and irrelevant by the time you get it home.
This is why I'm the proud new owner of a Palm Treo.
Phones are for sissy boys. I now have a pocket telecommunications empire. It's not a phone -- it's a day planner, word processor, broadband modem, web browser, mp3 player, camera, and e-mail hub that also incidentally allows you to make phone calls as an afterthought. I'm just not sure exactly HOW yet.
When I got the thing home, I was excited to see a complimentary phone book included at no extra charge -- until I realized it's not a phone book, it's the INSTRUCTION MANUAL.
But I don't care. I am at the top of my electronic game. I sit at the forefront of technological empowerment. Now I can schedule important appointments with... umm... my cats. Now I can surf the net and write my columns on-the-go. If only I ever went anywhere. Or had waif-like pixie hands, which appear to be the only things small enough to effectively work the World's Smallest Keyboard.
So what if it gives me carpal tunnel and probably emits enough radiation to cook an egg? So what if it has a million features that I guarantee I'll never use? IT PLAYS SOLITAIRE. How cool is THAT? And yes, the monthly charges are so much that I'll soon be evicted and impoverished, sure. But hey, I'll be able to track my descent into bankruptcy with its handy mobile Excel spreadsheet, and with the onboard GPS, it can direct me to the cardboard box of my choice where I can live out my glory days playing Tetris and annoying my friends with endless streams of text messages.
Now if it can just buy me a new right shoe, I'll be a happy guy.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Attention "Serious" QC Bloggers
Okay, I've got a beef.
But it's something I can't write about in the papers, because it'll seem as though I'm entirely biased and a party with a vested interest. So let me air my beef, and if one of you politically-minded bloggers wants to take it from there, that'd be pretty sweet.
See, my beef involves the District of Rock Island. Now, most of you guys know that I DJ at the club 2nd Ave. down in the District, which is why this entire argument might sound like all I'm trying to do is advance the image of MY club at the expense of the others down there. That's not the case, but it's your call whether or not to believe me. But I think I have a valid beef here:
This weekend, a lot of the clubs down in the District united together to put on an outdoor concert. This event did NOT include the clubs I'm affiliated with, 2nd Ave. or the Rock Island Brewing Co. (who have the same owners.)
Having been a member of the RIBCO/2nd Ave. team for several years, I've seen my share of street fests down there. On many Saturdays, we put on shows outside. And time and again, we bend over backwards to ensure that our outdoor events are held within the letter of the law. To wit:
(1) That the sound levels do not pollute to the point of illegality. I believe -- I could be mistaken, but I'm almost positive -- that the max volume allowed by Rock Island law is 95 decibels directly in front of the stage. This is done to ensure that we have fun but don't keep the entire town awake with the music outside. RIBCO owns a decibel meter, and I've seen our crew many times take readings around the plaza to ensure that we're operating at a legal volume.
and
(2) That the artists onstage do not break open air profanity laws. I know that RIBCO instructs all of their bands to refrain from vulgarities while playing outside; sometimes it's even written into their contracts.
Well, if WE have to abide by these rules, why don't the other clubs?
Saturday night, the band Buckcherry played outside to a healthy crowd in the District... annnnnnnnnd...
(1) It was LOUD. Like, really loud. Like, I actually heard via the gossip of District employees that the sound crew hired for Saturday night's event registered 120 decibels on their meter. It was CRAZY loud. I could, in fact, hear it from my apartment, and I live over by Augie and nowhere near the District. As I was pulling up, it was rattling the windows on my car... and I was parking TWO BLOCKS AWAY. At my club, one block away from the show, you couldn't hold a conversation with someone while standing directly outside our door.
(2) The show was FILLED with profanity. The band took to the stage yelling the F-word. I must have heard the F-word 30+ times in a half hour. The band's big hit single alone says it at least 10 times. The opening band covered Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name Of," which drops the F-bomb repeatedly at the end of the song.
Now, I am no fuddy-duddy, and anyone who knows me knows that I'm capable of and likely to drop the F-bomb myself. And the thought of me complaining about somebody cursing makes me laugh uncomfortably. But I can't deny that there are FAMILIES who live in the District. Families with kids who shouldn't be exposed to non-stop overly amplified swearing. It's the same reason why I watch the lyrical content of the stuff I DJ during festivals where kids might be present.
Yet the show went off without any apparant hitches. So what gives, City of Rock Island? I heard nothing about anyone getting cited for profanity or noise pollution.
I swear to you that I'm not just bitching because it wasn't MY club's festival. In fact, the gig this weekend didn't hurt us one bit; 2nd Ave. was jumping like any other night. And ANY attempts to showcase the District as a great place to come and have fun are welcome in my book.
But for our clubs to go out of their way to abide by Rock Island law while providing a fun night out, shouldn't the other downtown clubs be held subject to the same rules?
But it's something I can't write about in the papers, because it'll seem as though I'm entirely biased and a party with a vested interest. So let me air my beef, and if one of you politically-minded bloggers wants to take it from there, that'd be pretty sweet.
See, my beef involves the District of Rock Island. Now, most of you guys know that I DJ at the club 2nd Ave. down in the District, which is why this entire argument might sound like all I'm trying to do is advance the image of MY club at the expense of the others down there. That's not the case, but it's your call whether or not to believe me. But I think I have a valid beef here:
This weekend, a lot of the clubs down in the District united together to put on an outdoor concert. This event did NOT include the clubs I'm affiliated with, 2nd Ave. or the Rock Island Brewing Co. (who have the same owners.)
Having been a member of the RIBCO/2nd Ave. team for several years, I've seen my share of street fests down there. On many Saturdays, we put on shows outside. And time and again, we bend over backwards to ensure that our outdoor events are held within the letter of the law. To wit:
(1) That the sound levels do not pollute to the point of illegality. I believe -- I could be mistaken, but I'm almost positive -- that the max volume allowed by Rock Island law is 95 decibels directly in front of the stage. This is done to ensure that we have fun but don't keep the entire town awake with the music outside. RIBCO owns a decibel meter, and I've seen our crew many times take readings around the plaza to ensure that we're operating at a legal volume.
and
(2) That the artists onstage do not break open air profanity laws. I know that RIBCO instructs all of their bands to refrain from vulgarities while playing outside; sometimes it's even written into their contracts.
Well, if WE have to abide by these rules, why don't the other clubs?
Saturday night, the band Buckcherry played outside to a healthy crowd in the District... annnnnnnnnd...
(1) It was LOUD. Like, really loud. Like, I actually heard via the gossip of District employees that the sound crew hired for Saturday night's event registered 120 decibels on their meter. It was CRAZY loud. I could, in fact, hear it from my apartment, and I live over by Augie and nowhere near the District. As I was pulling up, it was rattling the windows on my car... and I was parking TWO BLOCKS AWAY. At my club, one block away from the show, you couldn't hold a conversation with someone while standing directly outside our door.
(2) The show was FILLED with profanity. The band took to the stage yelling the F-word. I must have heard the F-word 30+ times in a half hour. The band's big hit single alone says it at least 10 times. The opening band covered Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name Of," which drops the F-bomb repeatedly at the end of the song.
Now, I am no fuddy-duddy, and anyone who knows me knows that I'm capable of and likely to drop the F-bomb myself. And the thought of me complaining about somebody cursing makes me laugh uncomfortably. But I can't deny that there are FAMILIES who live in the District. Families with kids who shouldn't be exposed to non-stop overly amplified swearing. It's the same reason why I watch the lyrical content of the stuff I DJ during festivals where kids might be present.
Yet the show went off without any apparant hitches. So what gives, City of Rock Island? I heard nothing about anyone getting cited for profanity or noise pollution.
I swear to you that I'm not just bitching because it wasn't MY club's festival. In fact, the gig this weekend didn't hurt us one bit; 2nd Ave. was jumping like any other night. And ANY attempts to showcase the District as a great place to come and have fun are welcome in my book.
But for our clubs to go out of their way to abide by Rock Island law while providing a fun night out, shouldn't the other downtown clubs be held subject to the same rules?
Friday, June 15, 2007
COLUMN: Etiquette
Last Saturday, I woke up on the wrong side of life.
The cats came in meowing. I hated their stupid meows. The sun was beaming in through the windows. I hated the stupid sun. Then the sun went away and turned to rain and I decided to hate the rain, too. I turned on the TV. I hated the stupid remote control, the stupid TV, AND the stupid TV show all at the same time.
It was, as they say, a bad day. No reason whatsoever. Just a bad day.
The kind of day to maybe lose yourself in a book. To shut the doors, leave the phone unanswered, pretend you're not home, and wait for the funk to pass. A day to while away by yourself, and to avoid all humanity lest you have to actually interact with it.
The kind of day you CERTAINLY don't want to spend DJ'ing at a packed dance club.
DJ'ing is a hobby and a passion. I don't do it to get rich. Every penny I make at my DJ gig goes right back into music and equipment to do it better the next weekend. It's all about the rush. The moment when you mix into the right song -- at the right moment -- and the crowd goes wild. Talk about a God complex all you want, but in that moment, I am the dancefloor savior, and when the crowd screams, it's the ultimate hobby payoff. Some people collect stamps; I mix records.
Still, it's no fun when you're in an unexplainably cranky mood and it seems like everyone in attendance is there to methodically step on your every last nerve. That's why I decided, standing in that DJ booth at approximately 1:35 a.m. on that Saturday night/Sunday morn, to use my column this week for an education in DJ request etiquette.
• Do not poke the DJ. When the DJ stands in the booth with headphones clearly on and hands clearly doing important DJ-related activities at the mixer, the DJ is busy. Poking the DJ in the leg, arm, or elsewhere will NOT speed up the process. The DJ does not want to chat. He is busy bringing sexy back. Unless you're a cute girl, in which case the DJ will likely figure out a way to make time for you. Still, spare us the poking. We see you there, we're just a tad busy.
• The DJ takes requests. He just might not play 'em. The DJ is there to put as many people on the dancefloor as possible. If the booties do not shake, the DJ does not have a job for long. So it depends on your request. If it's a good song that'll pack a floor, it'll probably happen.
• "Will you play my song NEXT?" Hmm. Let me think. Umm, no. You might think of a club DJ as a guy who gets paid to sit and push "PLAY" all night long. That's not far from the truth, but there really IS science involved. As a DJ, you're constantly building sets, increasing tempos, and strategizing out your dancefloor. At any given time, I've got the next 6-7 songs already in place and ready to go.
• "Hi. It's my birthday/bachelorette party/anniversary/my people's religious and-or cultural holiday, so you need to play [insert the world's most obscure song here.]" Happy birthday, wedding, anniversary, Kwanzaa, etc. I am truly honored that you've chosen to spend it at my club. However, if I play your lame request, everyone will leave. Then so will you, 'coz nobody likes an empty club. Especially the DJ.
• "Will you let me say something into the microphone?" Not if hell freezes while pigs fly. Not even if you walked in with a letter of recommendation from Casey Kasem. Heck, not even if you walked in WITH Casey Kasem. Knowing my luck, if I handed you the microphone, even the most innocent of clubgoer would use that precise moment to utter some woofer-blowing lupine howl and/or racial epithet.
• "Hi, I'm a guy, and..." Next.
• "No, seriously, I brought this CD I burned, it's me and my boy freestyling over the theme from 'Knight Rider,' and if you bump it, it'll be off the chain fo real!" Go away.
• "Me and my friends are leaving, so can you play our song soon so we can split?" Yes, yes, of course. Let me expedite your departure from my club. Because it would sure be awful if you were forced to stick around, buy another drink, support our club, and spend time on my dancefloor. Especially if you and/or your friends are cute girls. Boy, I sure hate that.
• Interpreting Request Responses: If a DJ says, "Let me see what I can do," this is DJ for "No." If a DJ says to you, "Ooh, let me see if I brought that song," this is DJ for "I definitely didn't bring that song."
I'm kidding (mostly). But you get the point. I swear I'm not as jaded and ungrateful as I sound. There's a reason I sacrifice my weekends for the heart and soul of the dancefloor. I love it, and I love and appreciate everybody who comes out on the weekends to support us. Well, except that dude who threatened to kill me when I wouldn't play bagpipe music for him on St. Patty's Day. I hate that dude, seriously. Everyone else has my love... even when I wake up on the wrong side of the bed.
The cats came in meowing. I hated their stupid meows. The sun was beaming in through the windows. I hated the stupid sun. Then the sun went away and turned to rain and I decided to hate the rain, too. I turned on the TV. I hated the stupid remote control, the stupid TV, AND the stupid TV show all at the same time.
It was, as they say, a bad day. No reason whatsoever. Just a bad day.
The kind of day to maybe lose yourself in a book. To shut the doors, leave the phone unanswered, pretend you're not home, and wait for the funk to pass. A day to while away by yourself, and to avoid all humanity lest you have to actually interact with it.
The kind of day you CERTAINLY don't want to spend DJ'ing at a packed dance club.
DJ'ing is a hobby and a passion. I don't do it to get rich. Every penny I make at my DJ gig goes right back into music and equipment to do it better the next weekend. It's all about the rush. The moment when you mix into the right song -- at the right moment -- and the crowd goes wild. Talk about a God complex all you want, but in that moment, I am the dancefloor savior, and when the crowd screams, it's the ultimate hobby payoff. Some people collect stamps; I mix records.
Still, it's no fun when you're in an unexplainably cranky mood and it seems like everyone in attendance is there to methodically step on your every last nerve. That's why I decided, standing in that DJ booth at approximately 1:35 a.m. on that Saturday night/Sunday morn, to use my column this week for an education in DJ request etiquette.
• Do not poke the DJ. When the DJ stands in the booth with headphones clearly on and hands clearly doing important DJ-related activities at the mixer, the DJ is busy. Poking the DJ in the leg, arm, or elsewhere will NOT speed up the process. The DJ does not want to chat. He is busy bringing sexy back. Unless you're a cute girl, in which case the DJ will likely figure out a way to make time for you. Still, spare us the poking. We see you there, we're just a tad busy.
• The DJ takes requests. He just might not play 'em. The DJ is there to put as many people on the dancefloor as possible. If the booties do not shake, the DJ does not have a job for long. So it depends on your request. If it's a good song that'll pack a floor, it'll probably happen.
• "Will you play my song NEXT?" Hmm. Let me think. Umm, no. You might think of a club DJ as a guy who gets paid to sit and push "PLAY" all night long. That's not far from the truth, but there really IS science involved. As a DJ, you're constantly building sets, increasing tempos, and strategizing out your dancefloor. At any given time, I've got the next 6-7 songs already in place and ready to go.
• "Hi. It's my birthday/bachelorette party/anniversary/my people's religious and-or cultural holiday, so you need to play [insert the world's most obscure song here.]" Happy birthday, wedding, anniversary, Kwanzaa, etc. I am truly honored that you've chosen to spend it at my club. However, if I play your lame request, everyone will leave. Then so will you, 'coz nobody likes an empty club. Especially the DJ.
• "Will you let me say something into the microphone?" Not if hell freezes while pigs fly. Not even if you walked in with a letter of recommendation from Casey Kasem. Heck, not even if you walked in WITH Casey Kasem. Knowing my luck, if I handed you the microphone, even the most innocent of clubgoer would use that precise moment to utter some woofer-blowing lupine howl and/or racial epithet.
• "Hi, I'm a guy, and..." Next.
• "No, seriously, I brought this CD I burned, it's me and my boy freestyling over the theme from 'Knight Rider,' and if you bump it, it'll be off the chain fo real!" Go away.
• "Me and my friends are leaving, so can you play our song soon so we can split?" Yes, yes, of course. Let me expedite your departure from my club. Because it would sure be awful if you were forced to stick around, buy another drink, support our club, and spend time on my dancefloor. Especially if you and/or your friends are cute girls. Boy, I sure hate that.
• Interpreting Request Responses: If a DJ says, "Let me see what I can do," this is DJ for "No." If a DJ says to you, "Ooh, let me see if I brought that song," this is DJ for "I definitely didn't bring that song."
I'm kidding (mostly). But you get the point. I swear I'm not as jaded and ungrateful as I sound. There's a reason I sacrifice my weekends for the heart and soul of the dancefloor. I love it, and I love and appreciate everybody who comes out on the weekends to support us. Well, except that dude who threatened to kill me when I wouldn't play bagpipe music for him on St. Patty's Day. I hate that dude, seriously. Everyone else has my love... even when I wake up on the wrong side of the bed.
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