COLUMN: Bieber

Is it just me, or does this photo scream, "I have to poop!" ??

I woke up today with one clear thought in my brain:

Justin Bieber has a lot in common with the Beatles.

My girlfriend earns extra cash frequently babysitting two of the cutest girls (ages 6 & 7) ever to walk the earth. I, having never been around kids since I was one myself, greet our time together with a mix of fascination and fear. Most of the time, I sit around in an awkward display of helplessness while they run around like they've been out mainlining caffeine with John Belushi. They bounce, hop, skip, sing, run, yell, shriek, cry, jump, pounce, and cause irreparable emotional damage to my cats -- while I just sit and concentrate on NOT having a stroke.

Still, there's a part of me that desperately wants them to accept and trust me and know that I've got their back. My girlfriend loves spending time with kids, so I want to, too. That's why I'll say yes when they ask me to play house, even though they always demand that I take on the role of the family dog. And that's why I'll sit there acting like it's the most interesting in the world when they show me their new Justin Bieber magazines and tell me what his favorite color and food are. (Purple and spaghetti.)

We were out shopping the other day, and when my girlfriend wasn't looking, I slipped a DVD copy of the Bieber concert movie into our cart. Not only do I come across as Mr. Awesome for getting the girls the movie, but it gives them something to do other than bounce, hop, skip, sing, etc. Win-win, right?

That's what I thought. Until this morning, when I woke up humming the most irritating earworm of all time:

"It's like bay-bee, bay-bee, bay-bee, ohhh, like bay-bee, bay-bee, bay-bee, nooo!"

I hadn't thought of the repercussions of devoting a small percentage of my life's soundtrack to Justin Bieber, and now his evil little song is stuck on autopilot in my brain. I can appreciate catchy yet blindingly stupid music -- that's why God made The Ramones, after all -- but have their ever been lyrics more insipid than Justin Bieber's "Baby"? That's when it dawned on me, and the answer is YES, I HAVE heard lyrics just as bad:

"Love, love me do, you know I love you, I'll always be true, so ple-e-e-ease, love me do."

Think about it: A debut album full of silly, catchy, G-rated love songs. Young girls shrieking in a near-riot pandemonium. A really bad haircut. Who am I describing? Justin Bieber or 1964 Beatles? They're one in the same. Okay, maybe the Fab Four worked their way to fame playing to seedy clubs in Hamburg and Liverpool. Well, Justin Bieber worked HIS way to fame playing to preteens and pedophiles on Youtube. Was there one single music critic on the face of the Earth in 1964 who would have dreamed that four teenagers singing a song called "I Want To Hold Your Hand" would end up revolutionizing pop music for the rest of time? Maybe before we cast Justin Bieber into the abyss of worthless teenage annoyances, realize that there's a chance he could be a longer haircut, an Indian guru, and a Yoko Ono away from real artistic greatness.

But another thought just crossed my mind: Justin Bieber also has a lot in common with Shaun Cassidy. In 1977, Cassidy launched from a Hardy Boy into a million-selling cover of "Da Doo Ron Ron" and the front page of every other issue of TigerBeat. Heck, even prepubescent Shane had a Shaun Cassidy poster in my room. Any dude who could solve mysteries AND rock out was cool in my 6-year-old world.

One of my friends is a Quad City-based musician who recently, on a trip out west, finagled his way into tickets to some posh L.A. event. And the way he tells the story, he was queueing in line when he realized that directly in front of him stood an aging yet still recognizable Shaun Cassidy.

After some debate, he tapped him on the shoulder and explained that his sister was a HUGE fan back in the day. That was Shaun Cassidy's cue to turn from Normal-Guy-In-Line to Complete Lunatic. "Who the (expletive) do you think you are? Do you know who the (expletive) I am? Don't (expletive) speak to me!" Etc., etc. My friend really thought that he was about to be decked by Shaun Cassidy, so apparantly one shouldn't da-doo-dredge up the past in front of Mr. Formerly Famous.

So who knows where insta-fame and Bieber Fever will take our pal Justin? I'm not convinced that he's destined to become a musical icon, but he's got as much of a chance as the next guy. After one particular incident that happened to me a few years back, I'll never take ANYTHING for granted.

We were in Chicago to see one of my favorite bands, a criminally under-appreciated Scottish group called The Trashcan Sinatras. They were the opener for a multi-band show at the Cabaret Metro. We pushed our way to the front row and had a fantastic time. Afterwards, we weighed whether or not to stay up front for the headline act. None of us were fans, but they had a silly song called "Creep" that was getting some MTV play, so we thought we'd give them a chance. The lights came up, and this ridiculous little blonde frontman strutted on stage looking like he'd seen "Sid & Nancy" a few too many times, grabbed the mic, and sneered "'Ello! We're Radiohead!" before spending the next song strutting around stage like a peacock to some wholly unmemorable tune. After ten minutes, my friends and I walked out, proudly announcing, "Wow. They suck."

Two years later, Radiohead would release the ground-breaking album "The Bends." Two years after THAT would come "OK Computer," which Time Magazine would later declare to be one of the 100 greatest albums of all time. Radiohead are now one of the most critically-revered bands on the planet. A few years ago, I was happy to be in about the 215th row when they played an open-air concert in downtown Chicago to 75,000 people.

So don't look a gift Bieber in the mouth, I guess -- which is no problem for me, since I can't get my eyes off his magical hair. And who knows, fellow Bieber haters, maybe we're witnessing the dawn of a new American -- err, Canadian -- hero. Or maybe he'll be the flash-in-the-pan that we're all expecting. All I care about is that I made two little girls super happy by buying a DVD. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go listen to something -- ANYTHING -- that doesn't involve the word "baby."

COLUMN: Mechanic

Over the years, I've compiled a lengthy list of occupations that you couldn't pay me enough to do. After this past week, there's a new career atop that list: Auto Mechanic.

For starters, I know absolutely nothing about the inner workings of cars. I know where the gas goes. I'm pretty sure I know where the oil goes. I know that Brian Vickers is my favorite NASCAR driver and he's way overdue for another win. Beyond that, cars move by magic as far as I'm concerned.

Yes, yes, I know: the ignition ignites and causes the rotors to rotate and the pistons to, umm, pistate. But then the radio comes on and I forget about caring how the car works because I'm too busy singing along to "Baby Got Back." From there, it's all in the hands of the magical pixies that presumably live under the hood and make the car move until a little light comes on my dashboard telling me to "check engine" -- or rather telling me to tell my mechanic to "check engine" because MY version of checking the engine would be to open the hood and go, "Yep, that's an engine, alrighty."

I'm kind of okay with being clueless about cars. I mean, to each their own, right? I'm sure some of you can't beat match dance music or write a newspaper column (or, in one of my better moments, do both at the same time.) But in being an eternal noob at all things mechanical, it's pretty easy for me to get snowed over by mechanics.

I'll guarantee it's happened before. When I was in college, I had a beater car (it might rhyme with "Tord Fescort") that was in the garage more than it wasn't. And every time the car would demand service, I'd hear something like, "Well, you brought the car in for a blown headlight. Well, we replaced the headlight, but while we were down there, we just happened to notice that your flux capacitor's leakin' accelerator fluid all over the cam drive piston defibrillator. See the wear on this carburetor belt here? That means your timing chain's faulty and as a result, you're gonna need a whole new gasket bearing shaft. We can get you back up and running for, oh, $850 or so."

And invariably, I'd have to get my dad on the phone and listen to the two of them talk Martian for a while before settling on some weird automotive compromise wherein they replace only HALF the faulty stuff that they've probably just made up, and then the car would run fine until the OTHER headlight would blow out a month later and they'd find another $850 of imaginary problems.

Finally, though, I found a mechanic that, freakishly, I trust. It takes a lot of patience to work on a Beetle given that the entire engine's crammed under the dashboard, but my current mechanic's never complained once. In the five years that I've been going to him regularly, I've gotten nothing but great service, fair prices, and the patience required to deal with an automoron like myself. If I go there with a problem and he thinks I can get a better rate elsewhere, he refers me. If he thinks I can get a cheaper part on my own, he tells me how to order it. It's the kind of service that almost mandates I tell all my friends and refer anyone and everyone I can.

This brings me to last week. I thought I'd swing by the garage for a quick oil change. In addition, I'd just blown the fuse to my accessory plugs, and a roadtrip sans iPod is a roadtrip sans Shane. So there I was, waiting in the lobby, when in walked, shall we say, a less-than-pleased customer.

I'm not normally an eavesdropper -- oh, who am I kidding? Yes I am. But this guy was almost yelling, so it wasn't really a chore to get roped in. Here's what I quickly gathered:

This guy was the ex-husband. He and the ex-wife had recently bought a car from an out-of-towner for their daughter. The car had some problems right away, so they spent $250 at an out-of-town garage that was unable to diagnose the problem. Ex-hubby had to leave town for work, so the ex-wife brings the car back to the QC and to my local garage. They find the problem easily and give her the estimate. But they ALSO find an internal oil leak that was rapidly destroying other parts of the engine. They explained to the wife that the other problems wouldn't stop the car from running, but if they weren't addressed, all sorts of higgeldy-piggeldy would be on the horizon. The ex-wife gave permission to do the whole fix for a four-digit figure of some kind, and now ex-hubby was marching in livid to accuse them of doing the same kind of snow job on the wife that I'm pretty sure other garages had pulled on me in the past.

So while my mechanic was trying to talk this guy down from the ceiling, it made me think a lot about trust, and what a precious commodity it really is these days. Should I NOT be trusting my mechanic after all? If I was in this guy's situation, would I be just as livid? Should I go through life with an eyebrow raised at everyone and their motives?

After sitting there for a bit, I decided my answer would be a resounding NO. A world where you can't trust your fellow man is a world worth avoiding. Sure, you may end up getting burned once or twice by a scumbag or two, but I'd like to think that human nature isn't consistently evil, shallow, and self-serving. All I know is that in five years, I've never gotten service from this garage that was remotely suspect.

After a few minutes of almost-yelling, the guy had to pause while my mechanic took a call. That's when he spun on ME.

"I hope to hell you're not letting them work on YOUR car, buddy!" the guy said.

"Actually," I replied, "I let them work on my car anytime it breaks down. This is the first garage I've ever been to in town that treats me and my car with respect. I trust them, plain and simple. They're good guys and they do a good job."

The guy shut up (a small miracle in and of itself.) And after giving my mechanic a little more static, he left. Afterwards, I found out that the rest of the family had been in earlier and had to be forcibly removed from the premises. We both agreed that if they had to be hot, why not be hot at the out-of-town garage that charged $250 to find nothing? At least their hefty repair bill fixed the problem.

As for MY oil change and fuse replacement? My total bill was a whopping $18 -- yet more evidence that I've picked a great garage. Sometimes it just feels good to trust someone else. Here's where I'd make a passioned plea for everyone to put a little more trust in your fellow man -- but I keep losing my train of thought. I'm too busy singing along to "Baby Got Back."

COLUMN: Grill

When it comes to shopping, I demand immediate gratification.

We live in the age of internet commerce, and you'd think someone as lazy as me would love it. The prospect of walking five steps from my couch to my computer sounds a heck of a lot better than an afternoon spent tromping through the mall. Too bad, then, that I just can't buy something without immediately possessing it.

Some people like to comparison shop for the best deals. Not me. If I take that much time, the yucky voice in my brain -- you know, the smart, mature, and thrifty one -- starts invading my inner monologue with such awful thoughts as "you don't really need this" and "you really can't afford this." I've found it's MUCH better to surprise your Inner Responsibility with a well-timed strategy of impulse shopping and credit cards. At the end of the day, you might end up broke -- but at least you'll have a brand new Blu-Ray player to pass the time until the repo man comes.

The same goes for e-shopping. If I needed new underwear, I could quite easily hop on my computer, go to Undies.com, and have bountiful amounts of skivvies delivered to my door in 7-10 days. But you know what happens when I get up from that computer? I'll still be wearing ratty undies for 7-10 days. E-commerce sucks the fun out of the quintessential shopping experience: Want -> Buy -> Have. It should NEVER be Want -> Buy -> 7-10 days of yearning mixed with a healthy dose of fiscal regret. Every time you click that "buy" button, it's like being a kid on December 15th and knowing there's an interminable 10-day wait until Christmas.

My girlfriend Amy is one of those annoying smart shopper types. She researches her purchases, clips coupons, makes lists and checks them twice. She'll walk in with bulging bags of new purchases under each arm and I'll be tempted to give her grief for over-spending when she'll proudly announce that she spent less than $20 on the whole pile. She claims I'm the one who needs the occasional lecture on over-spending, which might have filaments of truth were it not so darn fun. Take last weekend for instance.

It was Friday night, and we had just pulled into my garage. As I opened the door, I caught the most magical scent in the world wafting our way. Neighbor Russ was grilling out, and it couldn't have smelled better. I was making excuses to linger in the back yard, mouth watering -- and did I mention that we'd JUST returned with full bellies from dinner ourselves?

So when Amy asked me what we should do with our weekend, I didn't even have to breathe. "LETSGOBUYAGRILLANDGRILLOUTANDEATGRILLEDFOODANDITWILLBEGOOD!"

Neighbor Russ didn't give up any of his chicken wings, but he DID tell me that he saw a great deal on grills at a local grocery store, so that's where I pulled Amy.

"Let's take a look at the features," Amy said.

I already had: (a) It was silver, (b) it was shiny, and (c) it looked awesome.

"We should go home and do some research and see if this is the best grill for the money," said Amy. At least that's what I assumed she said. I was already on my way to the checkout line.

Five minutes later, I was proudly marching outside with my new grill. Well, okay, more like proudly sweating and grunting and almost killing an innocent family while precariously balancing a giant box on a less-than-giant dolly. That's when I got to my car and realized the first bump in the road of this impulse buy. Some thirteen years ago, I decided a Volkswagen Beetle would be a neat impulse buy. I love my car, but of the many things it's known for, space isn't one of them. One look at the box, then one look at the car, and then one ache to the head because this grill wasn't coming home in the Wonderbug.

Ever want to confuse a grocery store clerk? Buy a huge grill, then ask for a dolly to get it to your car, lug it all the way outside, then lug it BACK and tell them to keep an eye on it while you go get a bigger car. Amy's car was a tight fit, but we eventually got it loaded.

"We should go to your house and see what we need to assemble this thing," Amy said. Or maybe she didn't. I dunno. I was too busy calling up all of my friends.

"DUUUDE! GRILL PARRRRTY!! BRING YO SELF!! FOOD'S ON ME!!"

Ever want to REALLY confuse a grocery store clerk? Buy a grill, leave with it, come back with it, leave with it again, then come back WITHOUT it. Next thing I knew, I was running down aisles grabbing anything grillable. Hamburgers, veggie burgers, brats, corn on the cob -- a smorgasbord of flavor just waiting to be charred and carcinogized.

Then I opened the box. Rather, once all my hungry friends were pulling up, I opened the box. It turns out that grills do not simply pop out of the box pre-assembled. It also turns out that it was a bad move to NOT have ever impulse-bought a course in Mandarin Chinese. With boxes inside boxes handily marked in hand-written Chinese, this thing was the Rubik's Cube of grills. While Friend Jason and I were on hands and knees staring at an incomprehensible array of tiny grill parts, Amy called her dad.

Within ten minutes, he was over, toolbox in hand. Within twenty minutes, parts weren't fitting right. Within thirty minutes, he was asking if Amy was out of earshot so he could appropriately curse. Within forty minutes, we had given up for the night. And within thirty minutes or less after that, dinner was served -- thanks to Domino's.

So maybe it's possible to be a TAD bit too impulsive sometimes. But this story doesn't end with pizza. Amy's dad was back over at the crack of dawn, and by the time I was even awake, my dream of a shiny new fancy grill was a reality. My friends might not have come back the next night, but it was okay -- more food for me. And when Amy's little sister told me that she was eating "the best corn of her life," I swear I almost started crying.

So, unless you're immune to the heavenly smell of cinged meat, you might want to give my house a wide berth this week. I'm going non-stop until I run out of propane or stomach room, whichever happens first.

COLUMN: End of the World

Sooo... this is what the afterlife feels like, eh? And to think, all I wanted was a Thickburger.

There I was, in the drive-thru at the Rock Island Hardee's, innocently living my carefree life, when I glanced to the right and spotted the billboard:

"BLOW THE TRUMPET... WARN THE PEOPLE -Ezekiel 33:3. Judgement Day is May 21, 2011." Or perhaps it said "judgment day." Frankly, I'm always a bit leery of words that can be acceptably spelled in more than one way. That's why I always knew Gaddafi (or Khadafi or Qaddafi or Gadhafi or Khadafy) was bad news.

The point is, I KNEW I'd forgotten something on my to-do list for this week. Buy deodorant? Check. Make mortgage payment? Check. Write newspaper column? Check. Prep for judgement day? Oh, shoot.

Now, I'm no expert on Christianity or anything, but the last time I checked, I'm pretty sure the Book of Mark tells us about Judgement Day that "of that day and that hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels which are in heaven, neither the Son, but the Father." Well, the Father and, apparantly, a guy in California named Harold Camping.

I've written about Harold before. He runs an organization called Family Radio Worldwide, and it's Harold's opinion that we'll NEVER know who wins "American Idol" this season. No, we'll all be far too busy dealing with the end of days. Employing some creative math and an odd quasi-literal interpretation of the Bible (something about the Noadic flood and "one day is with the Lord as a thousand years,") Camping has taken to the internet and the airwaves with the revelation that Judgement Day comes on May 21st, 2011. I even wrote it on my desk calendar a few months back: "May 21st - End of World." Its right there between Rhubarb Appreciation Day and National Old Time Player Piano Day (the latter of which may be postponing celebrations indefinitely.)

There's just one problem. May 21st was (gulp) yesterday. This column, which I'm sitting down to write on the Monday prior, won't publish until May 22nd. Which means it may not publish at all. In fact, if you ARE reading this now, I'd imagine that one of two scenarios must be at play:

(1) Camping was wrong. Surely this can't be. I mean, he already got it wrong once before when he proclaimed twenty years ago that the Rapture would occur on September 6, 1994. Instead, this turned out to be the date that Michael Jackson and Lisa-Marie Presley made out onstage at the MTV Music Awards, so I can kinda see his confusion. Camping later blamed this on a math error. Surely he can't have made TWO errors, right? I mean, what are the odds?

(2) The Rapture has occurred, and you, unfortunately, were left behind. Bummer. Of course, this would also mean that a majority of the layout, printing, post-press, and distribution departments of our paper suffered the same fate, since your Sunday issue was apparantly still delivered on-time. Frankly, I'd prefer a happier ending for my co-workers. Also interesting: it's nice to know that, even if the world DID end in a hailstorm of fire and brimstone and trumpets aplenty, we still saw fit to include an Arts & Living section in your Sunday edition for you to peruse in your apocalypse down time.

Clearly, I think Camping's claims are bogus. More so, it's tragic that his followers have basically quit their jobs and emptied their bank accounts to travel the world and spread the news. Unless, of course, he's right, in which case I'll plead a hearty "D'oh!" to whomever (or maybe Whomever) I can. But frankly I hope that every one of us gets to live a colorful and spiritual life until a ripe old age. That said, something DID happen the other day that scares me a bit. Something that might just be a clear-cut sign that the end of the world COULD, in fact, be nigh:

I MADE DINNER FOR MYSELF. SEVERAL TIMES. IN A ROW.

Those who read my column on a regular basis (thanks!) know that I'm rather pre-disposed to eating out. In fact, I could usually count on one hand the number of home-cooked meals that I consume in a year (and that includes those cooked by my mom during major holidays.) That is, until I miraculously landed my super awesome girlfriend. Over the past two years, Amy has taught me that the kitchen is NOT, as I was previously unaware, for display purposes only. She's helped me stock the fridge, cooked many a meal, and even done most of the clean-up afterwards. For a hapless and helpless man-boy such as myself, it's been a dream come true.

But last month, Amy was gone. First on a business trip, then on a vacation to visit an old friend. For almost fourteen days, I was once again responsible for feeding myself. Instinctively, my thoughts turned to my old pal Taco Bell, until I realized that a whole lot of food in the fridge would be going to waste if I didn't figure out how to get it in my mouth. Take these eggs, for example.

Eggs are fun. They're goofy shaped, you get to crack them, and you can make them in a kajillion different ways. I just didn't know how - 40 years old and eggs remained a mystery to me. But I'm a smart guy with access to modern technology, common sense, and untold resources. So I did what any intelligent person faced with an uncooked egg would do:

I googled "how to cook an egg."

Funnily enough, there's a website devoted to it. And I'll guarantee you that it's last 20,000,000 visitors have all been single guys. Still, I learned how much Pam to spray in the pan, how hot to make the stove, and when to flip. At the end, I had some not-too-bad-if-I-do-say-so-myself eggs. And that was just the start. My culinary talents soon extended to sandwiches, milkshakes, fish sticks, and beyond. By the time Amy got back, I was grilling burgers and experimenting with the best homemade sauces to accent my broccoli florets. It turns out I CAN COOK. And thus far, no flying horsemen as a result.

If only I'd discovered this earlier, I'd have been making my OWN thickburger and living in blissful ignorance of our pending doom. I'm playing the odds, though, and marinating some chicken Friday night - if the world DIDN'T end yesterday, I'll be celebrating with a full stomach.

COLUMN: Snakes

Once upon a time, the house that I now call my own was built. This was about a decade ago. And way back then, whoever owned the place cared about the lawn. Hostas and decorative bushes lined the front of the house. Hydrangeas were planted on the south side to add some floral edging. On the north side, the new home was christened by the arrival of a small Japanese maple sapling. Home sweet home.

And from what I can see, that was the last time anybody looked at or cared about the lawn of this property until I moved in one year ago.

The Japanese maple? Dead as a doornail. The hydrangeas had grown together, merged, and transformed into some kind of Optimus Prime hydrangea monster -- half taller than my girlfriend, the other half collapsed under its own weight. And as for whatever the heck these bushes out front were supposed to be? Your guess is as good as mine. The whole mess had become so overgrown with weeds that I was clueless as to what was supposed to be there and what was an opportunistic passing seed in the wind forging a new homestead. The front of my house was little more than a habitat for passing chupacabra.

Because I bought the house in mid-summer, I let things slide last year. This spring, though, it was time for a little creative editing of Mother Nature.

That's when I set forth my Yard Work Action Plan, and I've got to tell you, it was exhausting. And now that I'm an expert in yard maintenance, perhaps it's unfair to hold all this knowledge myself. Many of you are first-time homeowners yourselves, and I couldn't sleep at night knowing that I'd failed to mentor those who so desperately need it.

Therefore I will share with you all my expertise. The hard work that I put into my lawn care can be divided into three major steps:

(1) Looking out the window and assessing the situation.
(2) Picking up the telephone and calling a lawn care service.
(3) While paying careful attention not to strain fingers, sign check and hand to lawn care guy.

I told you it was rough.

My lawn guy did an awesome job. I found him thanks to an ad right here in the Dispatch/Argus, and I'll even give him a personal plug later in this column. In a whirlwind, the maple was gone, the hydrangeas pruned, and my bramble patch out front totally obliterated.

While they worked, my girlfriend and I sat inside, watching TV and feeling horribly guilty about sitting inside and watching TV. We kept the window open, though, as if to somehow be part of the action. That was when I heard this exchange from outside:

"Blah blah blah." "Blabbity blah blah, blah blah." "Blah. Blah-blabbity-bab SNAKE blah blahity." "Blah blah GET IT!"

Say whaaaa? Did I hear SNAKE?

And that, dear friends, was the moment of my lawn care retirement. I hate spiders, bugs, and bees, but I'm deathly afraid of snakes. They're abominations of nature. If you're gonna be a creepy reptile and live in my yard, at the very least you should man up and grow some legs. I sincerely thought that living in the city, the last thing you had to worry about was snakes.

I grew up in the country, in an earth-sheltered "underground" home built into a hillside. "Cave sweet cave," as my dad said. One day, my mom and I were alone in the house while my dad was at work. Earlier, he'd been working on the roof to re-seal a skylight window that hung over the house's central courtyard. I was laying on my bedroom floor, reading a book, when I heard a noise and saw some movement. I looked up in just enough time to see a very unamused garter snake fall from the skylight onto the floor some six feet away and start slithering straight at me. My scream was so loud I almost broke my larynx. The whole nasty episode ended with my mom - a fellow snakeophobe - grabbing the thing with a pair of kitchen tongs while the two of us shrieked together like banshees. It was NOT my best moment.

I went out around sunset to admire my new lawn only to find a snake (the same one? a new one?) sunning himself under the newly-exposed porch. I took a rake and tried to toss him off my land but snakes don't fling as far as you'd want them to. Instead, it landed in the middle of the yard, coiled up, rose, and tried to take a big ol' chomp off the rake. I held back my scream and instinctively flung him into the street, where he immediately slithered into a storm drain and is now probably working at great lengths and expense to figure out how to snake up my toilet to bite my butt with gleeful abandon.

I got home tonight, now constantly looking straight down as I walk, when I noticed two of my neighbors surrounding his basement window well. He had just found THREE snakes hiding out down there, including one that had somehow made it inside the first of his two window panes. This is thoroughly unacceptable. If you're good with math, that makes 4 if not potentially 5 snake sightings in spitting vicinity of my yard in a 24-hour period. And my neighbor just told me, "Oh yeah, we get 'em all the time. They'll get in your basement window, just wait."

I'm not waiting. When I moved in, my dad replaced and insulated the basement window, so I called him up at light speed.

"DAD!" I said before he could even get a word out. "Can you promise me that no snake will get through my basement window and come say howdy while I'm watching TV?"

"Well," my dad replied. "Let me ask you a question. Now, these snakes that you've been seeing... would you say they're bigger or smaller than a molecule of air?"

"Umm... bigger?"

"Then stop worrying, because I sealed that window airtight."

There are times when it's good to have absolute and total blind faith in your father, and this is one of them. I am equipped to do MANY things in this life, but running a snake ranch is NOT one of them. As I type, I'm pretty sure I can hear them outside, speaking in parsel-tongue, conspiring to bite whomever mowed down their habitat.

Which is why I name-drop as promised and remind all snakes that the blame falls squarely on John at QC Quality Lawn Care. I'm just the dude who signs the checks. But if any of you snakes insist on requesting a meeting, I'll be available the next time I step out onto my lawn. How's December sound for you?

COLUMN: Royal Wedding

As a weekly columnist prone to writing about whatever's happened in my life over the past seven days, occasionally I worry about revealing TOO much. Not that I have any particularly embarassing skeletons in the closet or lead any kind of exciting double life -- but still, I can't help but feel that some things should simply remain private.

However, there's no good way to begin this story except to admit to you all that, in the wee morning hours of April 29th, I had bad gas.

So bad, in fact, that it woke me in the middle of the night. "Ugh," I simultaneously thought and said as I zombie-walked to the bathroom. By the time it was all over (a column I'll save for the next issue of Gastrointestinal Digest Monthly,) I sauntered back to bed far more awake than I ever cared to be at 4:30 a.m. That's why I decided to turn on the TV for a few minutes in hopes of getting lulled back to sleep.

And THAT, my friends, is how yours truly got an unintentional last-minute invitation to the Royal Wedding. The TV sprung to life at the exact moment Kate Middleton was entering Westminster Abbey, and by the time I fell back asleep, she was Mrs. Prince William Arthur Philip Louie Louie Me Gotta Go And The Revolution. And once again -- with all due apologies to ladies, Britons, and Elton John fans worldwide -- I just don't get it. But I think I've narrowed it down to a few select reasons, which I shall bestow upon you as an essay entitled...

Why Shane Doesn't Give A Flying Fascinator About The Royal Wedding

(1) I'm a guy. This means that I'm biologically predisposed to roll my eyes at any event featuring dresses, flowers and hats as major selling points. I'm just not a wedding kinda guy. Don't get me wrong -- when I get married, I'm going to care a heck of a lot about dresses and flowers -- but that's only because I know the future Mrs. Me enjoys that kinda stuff. But if it's a wedding that affects me in absolutely no way, shape, or form? Watching it unfold was about as exciting as watching paint dry. I found myself viewing it not unlike a NASCAR race -- waiting for any kind of trip, stumble, or misspoken name to liven things up. Sadly, the whole affair went as smooth and boring as I'd feared. Yawn. And as for the hats? No one can ever mock me again for my beloved ill-fitting Greek fisherman's cap, because the hats and fascinators on display that morning fell squarely into two camps: (a) things that looked like dead animals and (b) things that I'm pretty sure I saw Judy Jetson wear. If THAT'S what's passing for high fashion these days, my smelly cap should land me a GQ cover any day now.

(2) It's amateur hour for Anglophiles. For years, I used to run a website devoted to US fans of UK pop culture. I've got lifelong American friends who still to this day insert words like "loo" and "petrol" into everyday conversation. I used to stay up until 4 a.m. just to place mail orders with London record shops. If anybody's a fan of British culture around here, it's me. Yet last week, Americans were coming out of the woodwork to drink tea, wave the Union Jack, and cry over two people getting married a thousand miles away. There were girls in our office that held 3 a.m. Royal Wedding parties and talked endlessly about the Middleton clan as though they were on a first name basis with the entire extended family. When I used to DJ down in the District, we joked that no regulars ever came out on New Year's Eve. Same rule applies here. Let the amateurs have their royal wedding - come see me once you own the entire Smiths discography and can act out every Monty Python sketch from memory.

(3) What purpose doth the royal family even serve any more? Maybe I'd care more if these folks actually RAN the country they're supposed to represent, but they don't. As far as I can tell, the entire purpose of the royal family is to occasionally put on royal weddings. And if that's the case, well then I say "Brava!" Mission accomplished - it was a perfectly opulent pomp and pointless ceremony to befit such a pomp and pointless monarchy. Perhaps I'd have more of a vested interest in the whole affair if the Queen occasionally, oh I dunno, declared war on Iceland or something. And then she could force her army of knights into battle -- you know, such brave souls of combat like Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Elton John, Sir Ian McKellan, and Sir Anthony Hopkins... and they all have to occasionally don swords and fight Bjork. Then maybe I'd care.

(4) Hi-definition ruined the magic. I have vague memories of the wedding of Prince Charles & Diana Spencer, though I hope I didn't wake up at 4:30 a.m. for that one, too. What I remember was the same sort of spell-binding, fairy-tale, gag-me-with-a-spoon regal splendor of this one, but with a bit of a difference. With Charles & Di, it really did seem like you were watching a movie and catching an illicit glimpse of a Cinderella world you'd never be a part of. THIS wedding, though, I enjoyed in crystal clear hi-definition -- and I think it stripped the magic right off the affair. Suddenly, Westminster Abbey seemed royally REAL. It wasn't a fairy tale. It was just regular folk with the same pock marks and balding heads as you and me. We got to see the entire wedding as though we were there -- and that's no place for common folk like us.

(5) But most importantly, I don't give a flying fascinator about the royal wedding because no one asked me to come DJ the reception. You'd think the royal wedding planners wouldn't have made such a terrible oversight, but it appears they forgot to have me come play "Y.M.C.A." for the bridal party. What would be more fun than teaching Queen Elizabeth how to shake her royal fanny to the Cha-Cha Slide? And let's be honest, nothing brings out regal splendor quite like a good Chicken Dance (some people certainly had the right hats for it, that's for sure.) And tell me they wouldn't have made a KILLING from some well-timed dollar dances, no? It's all a huge missed opportunity.

It's enough to give me a stomach ache. Wait, nope, that's just gas again.

COLUMN: Celebrity Apprentice

It's no real secret that I've had a long-standing, sordid, and emotional love affair with bad TV.

I grew up on a steady diet of "Knight Rider," "The A-Team," "BJ and the Bear," and "The Dukes of Hazzard." My favorite show as a kid was a swiftly-cancelled series called "Salvage 1," starring Andy Griffith as a junkman who builds a rocket out of scrap metal and flies it to the moon to harvest space junk. (No foolin'. Look it up.)

In college, bereft of cable, my friends and I would spend hours in the dorms watching the home shopping stylings of John Cremeans aka The Late Nite Doctor of Shopology. Just the other day, I reached an "I'm-too-lazy-to-find-the-remote" mode and ended up watching an entire afternoon's worth of "Sonny With A Chance" on the Disney Channel. My girlfriend can testify that she once caught me in midst of an entire afternoon of down-with-men Lifetime movies.

In other words, I know bad TV. The denizens of the D-List have long been my life's companions. Yet there's one major pitfall of lowest common denominator television that I have, until recently, managed to avoid.

I like to split reality TV into two categories: Classy and Trashy. On the classy side exist shows that I watch without shame: "American Idol," "The Amazing Race," paranormal shows, and anything involving deadliest catches and/or ice road truckers. On the other side? The shows even MY thick skin can't sit through: The Hills, Jersey Shore, teen moms, "real" housewives, and anything involving "celebrities" dating, skating, and/or dancing around.

That said, I've recently fallen under the spell of a show I would normally throw in the trash bin: the current season of "Celebrity Apprentice."

Have you guys seen this fabulous trainwreck yet? Surely by now you know how the show works. Twelve "celebrities" compete against each other for charity in a series of blatant product placements disguised as simple marketing tasks. At the end of every episode, the task results are assessed, resulting in one celebrity being "fired" by famed entrepreneur, hair maven, and (can I REALLY be saying this?) arguable GOP presidential frontrunner Donald Trump.

This year, though, Trump's spotlight-hogging has taken a backseat to the wondrous shenanigans of the almost-perfect cast of celebrity has-beens and wanna-bes. In the mix this year? Former "View" co-host (and mega diva) Star Jones, "Real Housewives" star (and mega diva) Nene Leakes, singing sensation (and mega diva) Dionne Warwick, possible Martian (and mega diva) LaToya Jackson... get the pattern? On the men's side, you've got doting rock god Meat Loaf, hip hop mogul Lil Jon, nefarious "Survivor" winner Richard Hatch, and the always bat-poop crazy Gary Busey.

The result is the most hysterical television I've seen all season. Just the other day, Busey's insane antics caused poor grandfather-ly Meat Loaf to scream at him like a mental patient, while the claws have come out full throttle on the women's side and evidence mounts that Dionne Warwick might be the most evil person on the planet. When the sanest character turns out to be a rapper whose biggest contribution to society thus far is yellin "Yeeeeeeah!", you know it's a show worth watching.

The whole thing's got me thinking, though -- could it be even BETTER? Could there be an even better trainwreck of a cast to torment each other and The Donald to the brink of sanity? I think I've figured out the perfect mix. If I was casting director of the next season of Celebrity Apprentice, here's who I'd go for:

* LADY GAGA - A good chunk of the tasks thrown at celebrities involve putting them into embarassing, slightly awkward situations. But is it possible to embarass someone who wears a meat dress to the MTV awards? The only downfall is that every idea she'd bring to the table would have probably been done by Madonna a decade ago.

* ROSIE O'DONNELL - Why should only the CELEBRITIES have to squirm? Rosie and Trump's war of words have been going on for years now - let's let them duke it out in a boardroom cage match and make life rough for The Donald for once.

* MIKE TYSON - In case Rosie chickens out. I just want to see Donald Trump wag his finger at Tyson's face and tell him he's fired. He might not make it out of the boardroom with both ears intact.

* BILL CLINTON - To survive in The Apprentice, you've got to give good boardroom speech, and no-one's better at covering their own butt than our pal Bill. Say what you want about his presidency, the man might just be the best debater of this generation. Plus I just want to see him have to sell ice cream or make a painting or whatever ridiculous task Trump dishes out.

* PAUL LYNDE - Because a team just isn't a team without a snarky effeminate deviant, and no one did it better than our favorite center square. Just one problem -- he's long dead. Which means we need:

* RYAN BUELL, host of A&E's Paranormal State, to communicate with the ghost of Paul Lynde and be there just in case Trump challenges the team to rid a farmhouse of a demonic poltergeist. Hey, always be prepared, I say.

* MUAMMAR KADHAFI - "Muammar, you've been Project Manager of Libya for a record 42 years, and frankly, it's a friggin' mess. Muammar, you're fired." And you thought Trump would make a BAD president, didn't ya?

* KATIE HOLMES - Because of her exceptional leadership skills and business savvy and NOT because she's super cute because I clearly don't find her attractive because I clearly know my girlfriend reads this column. But when one's girlfriend makes one too many references to having a crush on a certain local weatherman (back off, Greg Dutra,) one feels slightly justified in making a passing Katie reference.

* OPRAH - Because it'd be fun to try and watch The Donald boss around someone with MORE money than him, wouldn't it?

* CHARLIE SHEEN - Because a tiger-blooded warlock armed with violent torpedos of truth might just have the winning edge in this circus.

Ah well, a fella can dream, eh? In the meantime, my money's on Lil Jon. Actually, my money's probably on a new present for my girlfriend to make up for calling Katie Holmes cute in print. Either way, you'll have to excuse me. I'm certain there's something horrible on TV that I need to be watching.

COLUMN: Porch

9:02 p.m. "Man, I wish there was someplace we could go and just sit around outside for a while."

It was Saturday night and me, Amy, and my best friend Jason had just left D'alessandro's in Rock Island with full bellies and good moods -- and it just seemed like a waste to end the night. Early spring is my absolute favorite time of the year. It's that small fragile window when you can be outside without humidity or spiders or mosquitos or moths or mayflies or all that other gross stuff they call "nature."

That was when Amy pointed out the obvious.

"Umm, duh," she said. "You DID buy a house. You have a porch now."

Wow. I DO have a porch now. Growing up in the country, our patio looked out on a serene view of a massive front yard, drifting hills of pasture, and nature aplenty. It was a midwestern paradise for some, I'm sure, but I never thought about hanging out there. If I was going to be outside, I wanted to look at something more exciting than grass.

When I first moved to college, my dorm window overlooked the parking lot, and I remember spending those first few nights away from home with the lights out, just staring out and people watching. In Rock Island, people watching is a way of life. You can drive around anywhere in town and spot folks on their porches just watching the world go by. Now, I've got a porch of my own, and that's where the three of us headed as soon as we got back.

9:12 p.m. Talk immediately turns towards the giant tree that grows in my front yard. It's majestic, but is it growing out over the road too low for passing tall trucks? Amy thinks maybe. Jason and I think it's fine.

9:14 p.m. Jason is now standing in the middle of the street, holding a 5' rake over his 7' frame to demonstrate that it touches the lowest tree limb at 12'. This is a nifty science experiment, except none of us know the height of the average truck. We decide that not enough trucks run down our street to care.

9:18 p.m. Amy: "What's the verb for when you invent something and then make it?" This is the intellectual high point of the entire evening.

9:20 p.m. We are now quabbling over whether "create," "produce," or "manufacture" is the best answer to this question.

9:22 p.m. A dude walks by, swearing into his cell phone -- but we rapidly realize he's not swearing INTO his phone, but AT his phone, which has apparantly failed to send a text message of some importance.

9:23 p.m. We agree that "manufacture" is definitely best. Trouble is, I can't remotely remember why she asked this in the first place.

9:25 p.m. Our two neighbors across the street couldn't be more different. House on the Right is a bit of a fixer-upper -- collapsed porch, overgrown lawn (already?!), and blocked windows emitting dim light from rooms in which I can only assume boiling vats of soup await curious neighborhood children. House on the Left is so immaculately landscaped that dark magic MUST be involved.

7:28 p.m., Three Days Into the Future: I just went to type, "our two neighbors across the street," but it came out "our two neighbors across the hall." Parts of my brain still live in my old apartment, methinks.

9:28 p.m. We notice that behind the two houses and across an alley, there's activity in an upstairs window, but it's too far away to see anything except a blob that may or may not be in a shiny red dress. Amy lectures us that leering into a stranger's window isn't just creepy, it might actually be illegal. Point taken, but are you a peeping tom if you're too far away to even ascertain the sex of your target? It's up for debate.

9:35 p.m. A guy walks by and asks us if we have seven cents. I'm pretty sure the same guy asked me for seven cents over five years ago down in the District. I hope he hasn't been seeking the same seven cents all these years.

9:40 p.m. Red Blob keeps repeating the same motions over and over again: She steps in front of the window, and then back... and to the left. Back... and to the left. It's like watching the peeping tom version of the Zapruder film. We try not to stare, but it's the only motion at the moment, and it's red and shiny. But what on Earth is he/she doing? The cha-cha slide?

9:45 p.m. You know a car stereo is impressive when you can clearly hear song lyrics while it's parked at a gas station over a block away. A rapper ensures us that it's alright to smoke narcotics because "that's how it's supposed to be when you're living young and wild and free." I, meanwhile, wonder if I should take a Claritin.

9:47 p.m. Amy heads inside. We worry she's become bored of the porch life until we realize she's running around the house, performing every mundane task she can think of to see if ANY of them involve the back-and-to-the-left motion of Red Blob. "Maybe she's doing dishes... oddly." Are you a peeping tom if you ask your girlfriend if she knows where the telephoto lens for your camera is? The answer is a definite yes and we think twice.

9:50 p.m. Awesome! My wireless works on my porch. Amy and Jason talk about how nice nature is or something lame like that. I, meanwhile, watch highlights of tonight's NASCAR race.

9:55 p.m. The three of us are staring squinty-eyed at Red Blob when a Rock Island police cruiser drives by. The officer waves and asks how we're doing. The answer? SHAMEFULLY, that's how we do. Thank God I didn't grab that camera. Time to look at ANYTHING but Red Blob. Our choice? The black blob that appears to be hanging on the wall behind Red Blob. We are sad, sad people. But what IS that thing?

10:01 p.m. An opossum wanders across the street, onto my lawn, looks at us, and clearly says with his eyes that we don't belong here. We decide to start packing up the lawn chairs.

10:05 p.m. In a flurry of activity, Red Blob shuts the window and turns out the light. Sadly, this is the most entertaining Saturday night any of us have had in an awfully long time.

7:00 p.m., One Day Into The Future. Amy asks me what my column's going to be about. I tell her it's about our exciting night on the porch. She tells me definitely NOT to make us look like creepy pervs who like to leer in our distant neighbor's window. I tell her not to worry. I just like my porch.

COLUMN: Million Dollars

I spent last Saturday night in the company of a good friend and fellow writer. And, as the evening progressed, our discussion turned towards the sorts of heady, highly refined intellectual discourse that you'd naturally expect from two literary giants.

Namely: one million dollars, and why neither one of us has managed to earn it yet.

I went to college, I worked hard for that degree that's currently sitting in a dusty box somewhere in my basement. I've paid my dues time after time, as Freddie Mercury might say. It's been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise, I've had my share of sand kicked in my face, and now it's high time somebody ponied up cold hard cash for my trouble.

I know, there are a LOT of folks out there who have it WAY worse than me, and I'm not taking for granted the awesome job and life I've already been blessed with. But sometimes you turn on the TV and you just can't help going green with envy. Snooki from The Jersey Shore is now a multi-millionaire. That just ain't right. Charlie Sheen, before exploding and telling the world that he deserves MORE money, was making an estimated $1.25 million per episode of "Two and a Half Men." That equates to roughly $53,000 per MINUTE. In ONE SECOND of work, Charlie Sheen makes more than most of us do in a week.

So, yes, jealousy is an awful side to show, and we're truly not supposed to covet our neighbor's anything, but the painful truth is that I'm likely to be out-earned this year by the little girl who sings that "It's Frii-EEE-Day, Frii-EEE-Day" song, and I can't help but think this means that society is somehow irreparably broken.

Clearly, though, a million dollars isn't going to be falling off a tree in my vicinity any time soon (I've checked into it.) So, if I truly want to start earning mad loot, I need to get a little proactive, stop whining, suck it up, and write me a New York Times best-seller. The way I see it, I've got the skills to attempt a couple of endeavors here:

(1) I could harness my one true passion and write a non-fiction charmer celebrating pop culture in all its glory. The only problem is that it's a crowded field already and most of our celebrated pop culture writers come with a celebrated pedigree. I can't quite imagine a dustjacket about-the-author going, "Shane Brown is some dude from the Midwest who likes to sit on his couch and watch loads of TV. It's kind of sad, really."

But as much as I admire my pedigreed pop culture nerdist elders, I'm still convinced that I could do a better job. I recently picked up Rob Sheffield's acclaimed new high school memoir, "Talking to Girls About Duran Duran" (which, incidentally, in MY school would have been titled, "Getting Beat Up By Girls For Trying To Talk To Them About Duran Duran. p.s. Def Leppard Rules!")

It's a great book that uses 80's nostalgia to kick up a dustbin of forgotten memories, but I wasn't 4 pages into it when I came upon this sentence: "When 80's darlings Depeche Mode come to town, my wife, Ally, begins picking out her dress weeks before the show, even though I already know its going to be the short black one. And I know I'm her date for the show, and I know she will look deep into my eyes when Dave Gahan sings 'A Question of Lust.'"

Fine and dandy, except for the fact that any REAL 80's music nerd knows that "A Question of Lust" is one of a handful of songs in the Depeche Mode canon NOT sung by Dave Gahan, but instead by their songwriting guitarist Martin Gore. You just failed the nerd test, Rob.

(2) I could also see myself writing (or at least attempting to write) young adult fiction. Given practice, I think I'd be pretty good at this. After all, I still think like a young adult. I pretty much have the maturity level of a young adult. I should be able to speak to this demographic. I have a friend who's horribly gifted at writing young adult novels, and she's even landed her own agent. Sadly, though, to this day she remains unpublished. Her agent tells her the reason is simple: the only stuff that sells these days to the YA market is supernatural romance.

Thanks a lot, Stephenie Meyer. Because of your subpar Twilight schlock, the only way I can make a million bucks writing books is if it involves a disaffected youth, a brooding vampire, a shirtless werewolf, and loads of pensive staring. Greeeeat.

Recently, though, I read an article about a girl named Amanda Hocking. She's a 26-year-old writer of young adult fiction who, after failing to get a book deal, opted to e-publish her books for 99 cents a pop on Kindle and iTunes, and now has over 4 million dollars as a result. She seemed cool in the article, and an accompanying photo even showed her wearing the very same ironic t-shirt I have on at this very minute, so I thought I'd hop on Kindle, download one of her books, and see what the fuss was about.

"Switched," her biggest seller, is the tale of a disaffected girl who falls hard for the brooding new kid at school. All's well until brooding kid shows up at her door, informing the girl that she is, in fact, a troll. And not just any troll, but the troll PRINCESS, which means she's got to be whisked away to Troll-land in time for the grand troll debutante ball. And, of course, she's in love with brooding kid, but he's from a lower class of trolls and unfit for a princess.

On one hand, I've got to hand it to her. She just managed to merge "Twilight," "The Princess Diaries," and "Romeo & Juliet" into one book, and if that won't sell copies, I don't know what would. But TROLLS? Really? If we're that desperate for untapped supernatural characters, what's left for me to write about? Disaffected minotaur? Brooding elves? A shirtless cthulhu?

My novelist career may be a ways off yet. And it's time to stop focusing on what I don't have and start appreciating what I do. The truth is, I wouldn't trade my life, job, friends and family for a million dollars. And besides, if I really get desperate for money, I've got a backup plan: "It's Thurr-SSS-Day, Thurr-SSS-Day!"

COLUMN: Tofu

I knew it... I KNEW it. I told you guys in last month's column it would happen, and it took less time than I'd even imagined.

Backstory: My girlfriend, as you all plainly know by now, is pretty awesome -- and one of the many facets of her awesomnity is that she really likes to cook. On many a night, she'll show up at my door with a bag or two of groceries and within minutes, we're eating home-cooked dinner num-nums.

The up side of this, beyond a full belly, is that, for the first time in my adult life, my refrigerator serves purpose. Thanks to Amy, I actually now have FOOD in my house. Usually, my fridge is little more than a repository for aging condiments and a rest stop for wayward pizza boxes. Now it's got, like, real stuff in it. And not just leftover stuff either. I'm talkin' stuff that you can combine with other stuff to make even more delicious stuff. It's an entirely new concept for me.

And a concept I've been taking advantage of, let me tell you. Having groceries around might not be the best for my waistband, but it's sure good for the psyche. This brings us to the other night, when I was home alone and got a craving for a midnight snack. Amy had been over before and made dinner, and I thought I'd spied her putting a carton of milk into the fridge. Milk and cookies before bed? Yes, please.

I sauntered into the dark kitchen, grabbed a glass, poured some milk, took a swig... and promptly spit-taked, cartoon-style, all over the floor. Something had gone drastically wrong with this milk. That's when I flipped the carton around and saw the two most evil words to ever grace the interior of my refrigerator: "RICE MILK."

Nooooooooooo! I immediately sensed a great disturbance in the Force. I opened the cupboard where Amy often stores snack treats that she brings over. I hoped and prayed with all my might that I'd open that door to the soothing blue of a Chips Ahoy bag. But, just as I'd feared, no Chips Ahoy had made this voyage from Hy-Vee. Instead, I was greeted with their bastard black sheep cousins: a bag of (shudder) rice cakes.

There was no denying it: my girlfriend was on a health kick. I quickly surveyed the contents of the refrigerator with growing horror. Polenta... some kind of gross bird-seed looking stuff called quinoa... a bag of snap-pea chips... veggie burgers... and there, in the corner of the refrigerator, lurked my multi-pound white gelatinous evil nemesis. I had been unknowingly co-habitating with tofu.

I knew it a few weeks ago when Amy joined Weight Watchers. I suppose a good boyfriend would have been supportive and proud of their girlfriend taking a pro-active stance on healthy living. Instead, I chose to focus on the various evil ways this development could affect ME. Little did I know that Weight Watchers would be a gateway diet... to a trial run at veganism.

This isn't the first time I've had to deal with the dreaded V-word. I like to surround myself with fun, arty, nerdy, creative types - and when you run with that crowd, there's a good risk of them also subscribing to the tree-hugging, salad-eating lifestyle. And I find myself the Ernest Hemingway of the bunch - gnawing on a well-cooked steak whilst my friends graze on their twigs and berries. To each their own, I say. But here's MY take on veganism:

The other day I watched a show on the BBC called "Human Planet." In this ground-breaking documentary, naturalists discover one of Earth's last uncontacted tribes somewhere deep in the Amazonian rainforest. An entire society of people, unexposed to the modern world, living undisturbed for generation after generation. Which is why someone decided that the best course of action would be to buzz them in a Cessna and scare the living bejeepers out of the poor folk.

When the plane approaches the tribe, what do you suppose happened? Did they hail the passengers and invite them down for tea and Pictionary? Nnnnope. Did they bow and worship the great shiny bird in the sky? Not hardly. As the plane flew by, those not paralyzed in fear or running for their lives stood their ground and shot at the plane with arrows, spears, and sticks. Why? Because even an undiscovered tribe of primitive humanity knows that BIRDS TASTE GOOD, even if they're shiny and made of metal.

With all sincere apologies to my herbivoric friends, we are genetically engineered to hunt and eat meat, just as cows are genetically crafted to eat six stomaches' worth of grass. We did not develop incisors in our mouth in order to better taste the savory goodness of tofu. One of my vegan friends once told me that they preferred their diet because of how "natural" it was. Well, sorry to break it to you, but if I had to come up with a list of the least natural things on Earth, I'm pretty sure tofu would be at the top.

Yes, yes, it's made of soy -- nature's wonder. But when it becomes white, gelatinous, mushy, and gross, it becomes less nature's-wonder and more I-wonder-how-this-could-have-possibly-come-from-nature. It's more like soylent white. I say we give it the ultimate test: let's hop on that Cessna to Peru, find that uncontacted tribe, and, without any directions or explanation, let's drop a big ol' brick of tofu right in the middle of their village and just see what happens. If that uncontacted tribe bum-rushes the tofu with primitive forks and hungry bellies, I'll publicly apologize to the tofu-loving masses and eat every one of my words. Just don't make me eat the tofu.

In the short term, I'll live. Amy tells me she's trying the vegan thing just for a few weeks as sort of a personal challenge. And I respect that and give her kudos for having the gumption to see it through. Maybe we'll all learn a little about how to appreciate that which we oftentimes take for granted. She has my support. And I've got to admit, tonight we just had pasta made with quinoa -- and it was actually pretty tasty.

Just don't ever insult my intelligence by calling something "rice milk." Until the day I see an infant grain of rice suckling from its mother rice's bosom, I remain unsold. Then again, when you actually sit and think about what milk is and where it comes from, it kinda makes tofu sound a little more appetizing after all. Now if you'll excuse me, my girlfriend just left so I've got some hot dogs to microwave. Man can't live on quinoa alone.

COLUMN: If I Ruled The World

People ask me all the time, "Hey, Shane, why would a legendary man-about-town such as yourself want the extra burden of writing a humor column every weelk?"

The answer, as I've said before, is quite simple:

I plan to use this column as a stepping stone to global domination, where I hope to one day rule the world with a cold iron fist. Don't worry, though -- all of you loyal readers are encouraged and welcome to sign up as my minions to one day perform my evil bidding. I'll never forget my fans.

Let's face it, the world is a bit lax these days when it comes to super-villainy. It's a niche market that I think I could really expand upon if given the opportunity. There's some stiff competition these days when it comes to power-hungry idiots, but I think I can take on the best:

* There's Moamer ("Muammar") Gadhafi Kadhafi Gaddafi, the clown prince of evil villainy. Admittedly, you've got to give the guy some style points for having a name that can be spelled 27 different ways. But as soon as he began insisting that his people actually love him but are being drugged by terrorists into hating him, he lost a good chunk of his mojo. Besides, there might not be much of him left by the time this column even prints.

* There's good ol' Ann Coulter, who this weekend claimed that Japanese folk were lucky because scientists have explained to her that radiation is, in fact, good for the skin and a cancer preventative. Evil incarnate? You betcha, but sadly too crazy to be taken seriously (I sincerely hope.)

* And lest we not forget the Right Reverend Fred Phelps and his army of nutjobs at the Westboro Baptist Church, who really should get a standing ovation of evil for forcing First Amendment supporters like yours truly to take a stand for freedom of speech, even if it means allowing this pondscum to picket at funerals. But I sincerely believe there's a difference between being a classy evil villain and just plain being an abomination. Don't worry, brother Fred, if the Hell you speak of truly exists, I imagine you'll get a real in-depth tour of their facilities soon enough.

Truth be told, my only real competition for Grade A classy and captivating evil villainy right now is Charlie Sheen, and there's no telling how much longer he's gonna hold up. I suppose if having access to gobs of money and illicit substances whilst lovelessly dating a harem of porn stars is, in fact, "winning," then maybe Chuck's got me. But there's just one thing, though. Charlie Sheen can drink all the tiger blood and declare himself a worlock all he likes, but it doesn't change one important thing: the man is an exceptionally BAD actor. And if you're gonna be famous, you'd better be good at the one thing you're famous for. Kim Kardashian, for instance, is only famous for being hot - but at least she's pretty good at being hot.

So, see? My ascention to super-villainy could work. I mean, I'm in no rush, really. While ruling the world with a cold iron fist is a lofty and impressive goal to aspire to, on the short term my couch IS pretty comfy. Plus I'd like to see who wins this season of "Celebrity Apprentice." It's good to not be in a huge rush for global domination, because it gives me time to sit back and seriously ponder the most pressing of all statements:

"IF I RULED THE WORLD..."

- For starters, McDonalds would serve breakfast all day. REAL evil is when you deny an innocent man an Egg McMuffin just because it's 10:32 a.m.

- I would barely have time to write this column, because the 21st season of "Twin Peaks" would be one of its best. It's on just after new episodes of "Lost," "Firefly," and "Freaks and Geeks."

- I would be able to have ONE day -- just ONE day -- of getting to and from work without being impeded by road construction.

- The following would be immediately and without hesitation demoted to irrelevance:

* TMZ. I love pop culture, I really do, and I like to live vicariously through celebrities from time to time, sure. That doesn't mean I need to bear witness to them walking down sidewalks, jogging, and/or buying coffee. It's bad enough that you're on my internet, but now you're on my TV, too. I'm starting to feel sorry for Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan, and that's unacceptable.

* Lady Gaga. "Baby, I was born this way!" No, you weren't. You were born Stephani Germanotta, and you languished playing to seedy clubs in the lower east side of NYC until a producer came along, gave you a dance beat, and told you to act weird for the sake of weird. Baby, you were MARKETED this way. Trust me, the schtick will get old soon.

* Katy Perry. My girlfriend's gonna hate me for this one, but I'm sorry, honey. She sings like a troll and perpetually looks like a kewpie doll in pain. Aren't your fifteen minutes about up? Russell Brand, you can stay, though.

* All Quad City nightclub DJ's... okay, no, because most of them are my friends. But SOMEBODY better decide it's time for early retirement. I left my decade-long club gig last fall for another club that promptly went bankrupt. Now I can't get on anywhere because every club's booked up. Not cool. So if you're a club owner in town and want new blood in your DJ booth, let me know. I'm clearly awesome and I work cheap(ish.)

* The Jersey Shore. And I don't mean the show. I mean the ENTIRE geographic area. Apologies to the Garden State, but the sorrowful MTV show you allowed to be filmed in your confines has ruined the reputation of your coastal region henceforth for all time. It also doesn't help that my life's dream is to become a cherished novelist and I've now been beaten to the New York Times best-seller list by someone named "Snooki." (Note: I grew up with a dog named Snooki. I'm pretty sure it was smarter.) I can't wrap my head around being jealous of anyone associated with this atrocity. Hence, it must be destroyed.

The bad news is that I guess none of these requests are especially evil or villanous. I guess I'm still a ways off from becoming the next Ming the Merciless. It's okay, though. I've got loads of time to practice -- "Celebrity Apprentice" has WEEKS to go.

COLUMN: Girls (Tippy Tippy Tippy HIDE!)

Sometimes I worry about the next generation of society... mostly because it's numbnutzes like me who'll be raising them.

It's no secret that I'm weirded out by kids. As an only child who grew up in the middle of the country, I havent been around kids since I WAS a kid. I don't know how to act, walk, or talk around kids, and the only way I can relate to them is as Slightly Less Skilled Video Game Players Than Myself.

To kids, I'm an ADULT, but I don't feel like an adult. I feel like a college student who's been on one looong paid internship. But the truth is, I'm now 40 years old. I'm a homeowner. I'm supposedly responsible. By the definition of the word, I AM an adult -- and that means children should be able to look to me for guidance, influence, and as a (I can't even type it without laughing) role model. I can barely tie my own shoes, let alone teach children right from wrong. Good thing, then, that I have my practice children.

My girlfriend teaches first grade at a small private school. However, since small private schools tend to issue small private paychecks, she makes ends meet by babysitting a pair of precocious girls four nights a week. One's five and one's six. Or maybe they're six and seven now. Or five and seven. They're TINY, that's all I know. And on many evenings, the four of us get to hang out like a miniature little family.

When I'm with the girls, my goal is simply to get through the night without causing any undue permanent emotional scarring -- to them or myself. Just how easy is it to influence wee children? I found out the other night.

My girlfriend and I had planned a home-cooked dinner date at her place. Usually, the girls' Nana drops them off around 8:30 on the verge of catatonia. Amy puts them into pajamas, kisses them goodnight, and they're out within seconds. This is what initially led me to believe that raising kids is a breeze. But this night was different.

It turns out Nana had a shindig to go to, so she dropped the girls off an hour earlier than usual. And instead of being on the verge of asleep, I think Nana had them hooked to an IV drip of Hawaiian Punch all day, because the girls literally exploded through the door. One of them started screaming, "SHAAANE! AAAAMY!!" while the other just jumped up and down for little to no reason other than it sure looked fun. We looked dumbfounded as they bounced around the house like human pinballs. Uh oh.

We made the mistake of having music playing in the background. That was all it took for one of them to start doing a surprisingly adept take on the Peppermint Twist while yelling, "SHAKE YOUR BOOTY! SHAKE YOUR BOOTY!" The other one, meanwhile, had looked to the table and honed in on the gift I had bought Amy that night. She's a huge fan of all things cute and furry, and I'm a huge fan of all things kitschy, so when I spied a stuffed Easter bunny that sings "Jesus Loves Me" when you push its belly, it was a must-buy. So in less than thirty seconds, our relaxing night turned into a booty-shaking, Peppermint-Twisting jamboree with the dueling soundtrack of Amy's stereo and "Jesus Loves Me" on an endless loop.

As quick as I could, I grabbed the remote and turned on the Disney Channel. Within seconds, the girls were zombiefied in front of "Phineas and Ferb," the two best babysitters a babysitter could ask for. Even I've got to admit, it's a pretty funny show. Five minutes later, both of the girls were snuggled up to me on the couch and I was second-guessing my ineptitude. It's ridiculous to feel intimidated around kids, I told myself. They're just kids, and see, everybody's all cute and cuddly on the couch and there's no reason to feel insecure or awkward or --

"Shane?" one of the girls asked.

"What is it, honey?" I said, newly secure in my role as World's Greatest Temporary Dad.

"I love your fat belly!"

I hate children. Okay, not really. But at that moment, I was pretty much satisfied as a cat owner. I'm pretty sure my cats like my fat belly too, but they're at least mannered enough to keep their mouths shut.

"Why don't you read the girls a story?" said Amy in a perfect subject-changing moment. Ooh, good call. I grabbed the top book from their pile and started to read.

"Tippy-Tippy-Tippy, Hide!" is the heart-warming tale of an innocent man's slow, spiraling descent into madness at the hands of sociopathic bunnies. In the book, the spritely Mr. McGreely gets his house all weather-proofed for winter when three bunnies come tippy-tippy-tippying through his mail slot. Creepy, right? So just as you and I would in such a case, he nails his mail slot shut. That's when they come in through the window. BAM! Nailed shut. The chimney? BAM! Every time poor Mr. McGreely seals one entrance, the bunnies come through another, leaving nose smudges in his tub and, eventually, "bunny drops" on his pillow. Now, I'm a sane and somewhat patient guy, but if I ever woke up to find myself snoring into a pile of rabbit dookie, I'd be killy-killy-killing some bunnies and dippy-dippy-disposing of their bodies. Eventually, poor Mr. McGreely seals up his entire house and likely falls victim to carbon monoxide. At the end of the book (spoiler alert!), he looks out his sealed windows to spring weather and the bunnies eating all his flowers.

Moral of the story? Let's see... Bunnies are evil? It's cool to drive people insane? In MY day, the three little pigs ATE the big bad wolf, Cinderella got Prince Charming, the giant fell down the beanstalk, and Jack and Diane were two American kids doin' the best they can. If the best we can teach kids THESE days is the joy of felony trespassing, I shouldn't care HOW I'm influencing the girls.

That was about the time that I passed by the bathroom. Inside, one of the girls was showering and singing to herself. And, as I caught the lyrics she was loudly belting out, I realized exactly how massive my sphere of influence was. And as I doubled over laughing, I realized just how awesome it is to have kids around in my life. Imagine you were in a vast room full of children and you had to guess which ones I helped babysit. Sounds like an impossible task, no? It turns out you'd figure it out pretty quick. They're the ones singing joyously:

"Shake my booty to and fro! For the Bible tells me so!"

I'm so proud.

COLUMN: Kopi Luwak

In these years that I've been fortuitous enough to call the Moline Dispatch Publishing Co. my home, I've only managed to accrue one major complaint about working in the newspaper industry:

All the dang news.

Don't get me wrong -- I like to be a well-informed person, and there's none better at the information game than newspaper folk. Every day, I walk in to the center of a global information hub. Well, okay, I walk to a dimly-lit corner cubicle a flight up from the hub, but still. At the press of a button, I have access to local and national news events pretty much as they occur. But occasionally there CAN be such a thing as too much news.

Specifically, I hate health stories. Sometimes, it's simply better to be happy and naive than informed and freaked out. Every time I look down, there's some new study informing us that something we do, own, and/or eat is, in fact, a silent killer of deadly deadliness. That is, until the NEXT study comes out a few months later refuting the previous study and informing us that what we previously thought to be a silent killer is, in fact, a miracle drug that will let us live forever.

Just a few years ago, scientists told us that aspirin was bad on the stomach and should only be taken sparingly. Now it's bad on the stomach but good for pretty much every other ounce of your body. Dark chocolate used to be a guilty delicacy; now it's a recommended addition to your diet. You practically need a scorecard to keep track. And now it's happening to coffee.

We all know the hazards of coffee, right? It stains your teeth, stinks up your breath, and keeps you wired on caffeine. But just this week, a new study passed by my desk. Scientists have now discovered that coffee also prevents cancer, minimizes inflammation, deters diabetes, and might just stave off Alzheimer's. So drink up, everybody!

At least that's what was on my mind when I found myself at my parents' house the other day. My mom owns one of those fancy new single-cup coffeemakers, and let me tell you, it is an absolute breakthrough in overpricing. Actually, it makes some pretty good coffee -- if you can afford the little one-shot packets of coffee that it requires. But if there's a way to screw it up, I'll find it. And I found it.

I wasn't aware of one little fact. When you stick the little coffee packet into the machine, the machine pokes a hole in it and then brews the water through thusly. No one explained that to me, which explains why I ripped the packet open before putting it into the machine. This, it turns out, is ill-advised.

My coffee came out black as midnight on a moonless night, slightly soupy, and topped with floating coffee grounds. It was pretty much coffeepocalypse. I wouldn't touch the end result; my mom, however, was braver.

"Bleh!" she said after a timid sip. "This coffee tastes like poop!"

But as I was about to find out, perhaps that wasn't me being an idiot so much as a trend-setting gourmet.

In my quest for non-stop knowledge and entertainment, one of my weekly rituals is Hollywood Babble-On, a free weekly podcast available on iTunes. It's one of the funniest hours you will ever hear, and, if you can handle the raunchy language, I can't recommend the show enough. Thanks to a recent episode, I learned about Kopi Luwak.

It is among the rarest and most expensive coffees in the world. In America, a cup of the stuff could run you around $100. It's said to be among the richest, smoothest, and most robust coffees ever made. But it's the "how it's made" part that's completely terrifying. Kopi Luwak begins its life as coffee cherries growing in Indonesia. For years, Indonesian coffee farmers have been plagued by cute little animals called civets. These adorable bug-eyed mammals (who are, incidentally, also adorably responsible for the global outbreak of the SARS virus) enjoy snacking on coffee berries.

There's just one problem. Their little civet bodies aren't fully equipped to digest and process the coffee cherries. Ergo, they pass right on through. Like the children's book says, "Everybody Poops" -- up to and including the Asian Palm Civet. It's nature, it's life, and we're adults and can handle it.

What I CAN'T handle, though, is the deranged fellow who must have been walking along one day, came upon some civet droppings, and thought to himself, "I bet this would make a MEAN cup of joe." That's right -- the civet droppings are harvested, the coffee beans are extracted (I'll leave that to the imagination,) and the end result is Kopi Luwak (translation: any two words that sound better than 'civet poop.')

Apparantly there's acids and enzymes within the innards of the civet that gives Kopi Luwak that mmm-so-good taste that you just can't get from Juan Valdez and his boring previously-undigested coffee. And since the entire population of Asian Palm Civets can only (ahem) "produce" 1000 pounds of Kopi Luwak every year, one pound of the stuff can pull in thousands of dollars, which would, were this not a family paper, cause me to write a joke involving the word "shineola."

There's good news on the horizon, though! Up-and-coming researchers at the University of Florida have developed a process wherein they can take regular old coffee beans and treat them with the same acids and enzymes found inside the digestive tract of the civet, supposedly replicating the taste of Kopi Luwak at a much more affordable price. So to sum up: the economy is faltering, gas prices are soaring, and we can't figure out how to pay government workers without entire states descending into near anarchy... yet a crack team of scientists have spent countless time, money, and resources to successfully create the world's first artificial butt, which we then use to pass stuff through to see how it tastes. And to think, some people think our generation doesn't know its priorities.

So I say, if civets are capable of "producing" the world's best coffee, why stop there? Now that we've got an artificial method of "production," let's just start feeding all kinds of food through the Fake Buttinator 2000 and see what happens. Why stop with coffee? Let's give ice cream a shot, or maybe peanut butter!

At the end of the day, I guess a LOT of stuff we put in our mouths is pretty gross. If you really stop and think about it, milk is pretty gross. Eggs are pretty gross. Bacon is pretty gross. Yet that's how I started my day today. But we have to draw the line somewhere, and my somewhere is that I simply will not eat any food that's seen both ends of an Asian Palm Civet -- not even if we publish an article tomorrow saying it's the healthiest food on Earth.

COLUMN: Chupacabra

When I first considered purchasing my own home last year, I sat back and tried to form a gameplan for every future challenge that would come my way. I thought about lawn care, snow removal, electrical problems, mortgage payments… you name it, I was braced for it. I bought my house confident and secure in my ability to handle any problems that may come along, or at least in my ability to pick up a phone and call someone overpriced who could handle it for me.

But in all of my fantasizing about lightning strikes, burglaries, and broken dishwashers, I somehow failed to form a contingency for CORPSE REMOVAL.

Have you guys seen a compulsive little show on SyFy called "Destination: Truth"? It's TV crack and I'm a junkie. Like its sister show, "Ghost Hunters," D:T features investigators who go traipsing around with video cameras and an assortment of gadgets in hopes of capturing proof of the unexplained. But instead of wandering through dark buildings seeking the supernatural, Destination: Truth concerns itself with even more outlandish creatures: from Yetis to aliens, Nessies to Leprechauns, D:T is a one-stop for mythical monster hunting.

There seems to be only one condition to the Destination Truthiverse: If you've got a bogeyman in your suburban backyard, they'll probably take a pass (which is bad news for me as you're about to read.) D:T hunts down all kinds of creepy crawlies, but only if they crawl around the most desolate, exotic, and entirely out-of-the-way places in the world.

The show's host -- a snarky, Indiana Jones wannabe named Josh Gates -- informs viewers of reports about an unusual creature terrifying the villagers of Randomtown, usually a remote island, nomadic campsite, or abandoned Chilean mountain mine only accessible by hot air balloon. The monster is usually fanged, often winged, indescribably powerful, and invariably carniverous. Then the show follows Gates and his team as they fly, drive, pedal, paddle, repel, and hike to the middle of nowhere.

Do they ever find anything? Nope -- just more of the same "OMG SOMETHING MOVED" or "I HEAR A WEIRD NOISE" that's kept "Ghost Hunters" in business for a decade now. But the show is edited in such a fantastic way that you are ABSOLUTELY CONVINCED that every rustle in the bushes has GOT to be some kind of vorpal ManBearPig ready for dinner.

This brings us to the other morning. I woke up to newly-fallen snow and set out early for some shoveling. As I stood on my porch surveying the task at hand, I happened to look down at the bushes surrounding the front of my house. "That's funny," I thought to myself. "Those twigs over there look just like animal legs." And those twigs were attached to another altogether larger twig that strangely looked exactly like a torso. And two more leg twigs… and, umm, a tail twig, and…

Ewwwww. It WAS an animal. And "was" was the appropriate word, because this fella wasn't sleeping. It was a frozen dead critter-sicle. My stomach churned as I realized this sort of thing was now my responsibility to clean up. Yes, I know, I'm supposedly a man, and both stereotype and evolution dictate that my role is to shoot cute and fuzzy animals with arrows and proudly display my kill to the tribe. Screw that. Dead animals are ucky and I'm not ashamed to say it.

But what WAS this belly-up buddy in my bushes? My outdoorsman instinct and years of classroom training took over and I performed the most exacting scientific methodology possible: I poked it with the longest stick I could find.

Now, I realize that you probably didn't pick up today's Arts & Living section with the intent of vomiting, so I'll keep this description blessedly short. My newfound former critter had brown fur, a wiry rat-like tail, and what appeared to be muscular, over-developed hind legs. It was too big for a rat yet too small for an opossum. This left only one conclusion: I was staring at the legendary chupacabra, the Puerto Rican goat-sucker of lore.

Thanks to Destination: Truth, I knew all about the chupacabra. With eyewitness reports claiming resemblances from a small bear to a kangaroo to a spiny reptile, this "mythical" creature has been blamed for mysterious vampiric livestock deaths throughout Latin and North America -- and I was positive one of them was now lying dead in my bushes. All I needed to do was see the head to bear witness to its goat-sucking fangs…

That's when it got kinda gross. This thing, whatever it was, was fully intact -- as if it were pleasantly strolling around my bushes and thought, "Well, then, here's a fine place to die." Except when I poked it with my poking stick, it rolled over -- and where the head SHOULD be, nothing remained but a skull. Two immediate theories sprung to mind:

Theory #1: I have found a mythical creature far scarier than any description of the chupacabra, and I hate to tell you all that our town may be plagued by giant death-rats with skulls for heads.

OR

Theory #2: I should stop worrying about this gross dead thing in my yard and instead worry about whatever ate its face off. There's a good chance I was right here in my living room watching Destination: Truth while ManBearPig was right outside my window chomping on hors d'rat head.

I decided then and there what my best move would be: never speak of it again and just go about my business living a life wherein face-eating monsters are NOT stalking the perimeter of my home. Like I said, I'm confident and secure in my ability to handle most any crisis, or at least my ability to pick up the phone and call someone to do it for me.

That's why I called my dad… who graciously came over and sent my critter-sicle to Destination: Trash Can. I suppose a braver man would have handled it himself. But YOU try watching a marathon of "Destination: Truth" and then go carcass-disposing and see how much you like it. You show me on my mortgage where it says I'm responsible for chupacabra clean-up and I'll man up. Until then, I remain your humble, yet fairly wussy, homeowner.

COLUMN: Wisconsin Pt. 2

For as long as I can remember, I've had a love affair with England. For this, I blame my dad.

When I was a wee Shaneling, my folks were pretty rigid when it came to bedtime, and I routinely hated them for it. I despised bedtime, and I still kinda do. Sleep is wasted time as far as I'm concerned, and even when I was a kid, I'd do anything to avoid it. Whether it was reading a book under the covers or silently tiptoeing across the room to plug in my headphones to the stereo, I was a master at dodging my parents' maliciously-imposed mandatory deadline for day's end. But there was always ONE event for which my dad would temporarily lift my life sentence: I could stay up late with him whenever network TV aired a James Bond movie.

Ergo, James Bond instantly became the coolest guy in the universe. Not only could he defeat the bad guys, travel the world, and get the girls, but he could do it AFTER 9 p.m.! Add cars that shoot fire, pens that shoot lasers, and dudes with armored teeth and razor-edged bowlers? Nerd-vana!

So if James Bond was the coolest guy alive, my young mind postulated, then it must reason that EVERYONE who spoke with such a brilliant accent and hailed from England had to be equally awesome, right? Adam Ant dressed in warpaint and was just untouchably cool; Bananarama were the hottest girls ever; Sting had great songs AND acted in sci-fi movies on the side; the Pet Shop Boys wore trenchcoats and sounded like the future; and you could never figure out what the hell Duran Duran were up to in their non-sensical music videos, but you knew for certain it was cooler than whatever YOU were doing. And they ALL had British accents.

As I grew up, so did my Anglophilia. I discovered the treasures of the BBC, the lure of Premiere League soccer, the mysticism of Stonehenge, and the taste sensation of kidney pie. Eww. Okay, so maybe British food isn't the best, but all these years later, England is still my go-to place for pop culture. In fact, I spent over a decade running a website devoted to US fans of UK music, where I got to bond nightly with fellow Anglophiles. We'd spend our nights swapping bootleg recordings of Radio One, planning our dream British vacations, and staying up til 4 a.m. to place orders with our favorite London record stores.

Now that I've reached my 40's, I've mellowed some and come to realize that some parts of British life are shockingly less great than our own (see: Revolution, American), but I've still got a soft spot in my heart for Old Blighty and I hope that God keeps on saving the Queen for years to come.

That said, I've recently run into grievances with a couple of Brits, and their incessant taunting has tested my Anglophilia to the breaking point. It might come as heresy to some of my long-term friends, but thanks to these two rechid women, I'm thiiiiis close to chucking in my Union Jack and buying a Bruce Springsteen record.

The first is the shrill woman who yells at me on the phone every day. See, as part of my day job here at the paper, I call on our customers who've placed classified ads to ensure their satisfaction. If you've ever placed a classified in the Dispatch/Argus, we've probably spoken.

Back in the day, it was fairly easy to determine where I was calling based on the number. But thanks to our cellular world, phone numbers are assigned all willy-nilly and I don't know when I pick up the phone if I'm calling Milan, IL or Milan, Italy. Sometimes, it's a guessing game as to whether a number is long distance or not, and I have no idea whether or not to add a 1 and the area code. All I can do is hope and pray that I get it right, because when I don't, that's when SHE shows up.

"THE NUMBAH YOU AHH DIALING IS NOT A LONG-DISTANCE NUMBAH! HANG UP AND MAKE YOUR CALL UH-GAIN."

Now, I'm no expert, but I would imagine that in the wide field of contemporary voiceover artists, there are LOTS of choices out there. I'll guarantee that you could get a golden-voiced Casey Kasem type to record a few polite sentences for a bargain. Explain to me, then, why our phone company opted for Nanny McPhee's evil, elderly cousin. She doesn't thank you, she doesn't apologize -- she justs scolds, corrects, and hangs up on you, all with a voice that sounds like my thoughtless and incorrect dialing has absolutely ruined her day.

But she's not the worst. No, no. That award goes to a woman whose hostility knows no limit. A woman named Garmin.

Last weekend, I surprised my girlfriend with a daytrip to a concert in Milwaukee, and Mapquesting revealed that Milwaukee is a downright confusing town with no less than 63 turns between here and there. Factor in my fear of expressway driving, and I decided that the easiest way to navigate Milwaukee was to pull an old friend out of the trunk -- my trusty Garmin GPS navigator, whose voice is that of a slightly p.o.'d Mary Poppins.

"In... 2 point 3 miles... turn... left," she ushers in mildly hostile tones.

I thought I could deal with it, but here's the thing. In the center of Milwaukee, every interstate convenes downtown in what can only be described as the graphic representation of a migraine. Nothing makes sense. Ramps spin around and deposit you onto weird roundabouts from which there is little to no escape. And, it appears that ALL of this fun was built AFTER the last update to my Garmin. As we attempted to navigate, Ms. Garmin was determined to inform me that we were not, in fact, driving on a road. And, at precisely the most confusing part of the journey, she tragically suffered a stroke in the middle of barking out non-sensical commands.

"In... point one mile... turn... RECALCULATING... in... 1.2 mi... RECALCULATING... RECALCULATING... KEEP RIGHT, EXIT LEFT, KEEP RIGHT, EXIT LEFT, KEEP RI..." And with that, her whole poor British-accented system crashed. It was the happiest moment of the trip, and I had already spotted the marquee of the concert venue in the distance.

So why is it that the same land that brought us the Sex Pistols and The Office is also responsible for some of the most annoying voices in history? And why, Garmin Co., would you think that legions of drivers would want to get directions from a British-accented school marm? My proposal is that all Garmins immediately be re-recorded with the voice of Keanu Reeves.

"Okay, dudes, are you ready? In, like, 2 miles... go right. Wait, that isn't right. Go left, right? Or is it right, left? Duuude. I am SO confused."