COLUMN: Festival of Trees Silent Disco

Welp. It's officially the holidays, I guess. Fa la la.

Once upon a time, I bet "the holidays" referred strictly to Christmas and New Year's. Thanks to the gods of retail, "the holidays" now incorporate Thanksgiving, Halloween, and pretty much any date that falls between October 15th and January 2nd. I'm surprised by this point we haven't just rolled Valentine's Day into the mix. January 21st is National Squirrel Appreciation Day, and I bet if you gave greeting card companies enough time, they'd figure out a way to monetize it.

As for me? I am not feeling it yet. 

I normally love "the holidays," and honestly, who doesn't? If there's an opportunity -- even if it's just an arbitrary day on a calendar -- to feel some warm fuzzies, take the day off work, and get together with friends and family, what's not to like? I mean, other than crass consumerism, forced interaction with toxic family members, overindulgence, pointless arguments over whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas movie, and hearing that terrible "Santa Baby" song on the radio eleventy-kajillion times. But I mean, other than all that, it's kind of an alright time to stroll the Earth, no?

But THIS year? I've yet to find that holiday vibe. In fact, as I type this, I'm still stubbornly wearing a short-sleeved shirt, refusing to accept the fact that Old Man Winter has already started his annual commute to our neck of the woods. I don't only want an extension of fall, I'd be up for a complete re-do of summer, please. My brain still wants outdoor fun, country drives with the windows down, and a sun that doesn't set at an eyeblink past noon. 

Despite my stubbornness, though, the holiday season marches on. I'm trying to figure out exactly what I need to do to get into that mindset.  

As much as I hate to admit it, one thing that might shift me into holiday mode would be a good old-fashioned snowfall. There's no denying winter is coming when you wake up to a blanket of freshly-fallen snow. When I was a kid, I used to beg the heavens to open up and blizzard away at full force. I remember my dad getting stressed out about plowing the drive, and I was so confused as to why anyone could possibly dislike snow. It's the closest you could ever get to toys literally falling out of sky.

Then I got older. I got a driver's license. I bought a house with a sidewalk I'm suddenly responsible for. I broke my foot on a patch of ice. I get it now -- snow sucks. It makes a mess everywhere, it takes work and effort to shovel and plow, it's treacherous, and it adds extra time to the morning commute when my brain is powered by little more than caffeine and hope. My days of praying for snow are over. Still, there's nothing like a coating of slushy ick to put the final nail in summer stubbornness and force me to move those short-sleeved shirts to the back of the closet. 

In my continuing efforts to find some Yuletide glee, I tried watching a made-for-TV Christmas romance the other night. If television has taught me one thing, it's that if you're a holiday humbug, all you need to do is get stranded by a snowstorm in a small mountain town where the woman of your dreams (who is usually a former cast member of Full House or Party of Five) and her precocious son and/or daughter will force you to discover holiday magic while you save her hotel and/or Christmas tree farm from an evil corporation (that you probably work for.)

These days, though, I find I have the attention span of your average eight-year-old. The guy in the movie had barely gotten stranded and I was already picking up my phone to watch some inane TikTok video instead. After rewinding the same scene four times to try and focus on the Christmas magic unfolding before me, I finally just gave up and turned the movie off. I'm pretty sure I know how it ends. Someday I want a Hallmark romance with an ending where the guy doesn't get the girl, the hotel gets foreclosed on, and a card before the credits comes up and just says, "Can't win 'em all, I guess. Sad holidays!"  

All that said, I do have one last trick up my sleeve and a hail-mary effort to officially get in holiday spirit. It involves a certain Festival of Trees you all might be familiar with. You might NOT, however, be familiar with what happens this Saturday night at the River Center. The Festival of Trees shuts down at 7 p.m., but then re-opens at 8 p.m. for the after-hours Festival of Trees Silent Disco. Every attendee gets a pair of headphones, and you can select from one of three DJs throwing down beats onstage. I'll be one of those DJs.

It's my favorite gig of the year, and its the only opportunity where you can dance around the Festival of Trees expo hall without people thinking you're a bit weird. If nothing else, show up just to hear people singing horribly off-key in an otherwise silent room. It is yuletide comedy gold, trust me. Tickets are still available on the Festival of Trees website and also come with a free general admission pass to the daytime festival if you're so inclined. 

Normally, I'd apologize for shamelessly turning my column into a plug for a DJ gig, but if we're living in a world where stores have their Christmas displays out the day after Halloween and radio stations are already belting Christmas songs weeks before Thanksgiving, I figure I'm just a tiny cog in the holiday money machine. And with your help, this gig might be EXACTLY what I need to find that elusive holiday spirit. Bonus points if you're the woman of my dreams. But I'm not saving your Christmas tree farm. I've got, like, stuff to do, sorry.

COLUMN: Catnapper

So let's get the sad news out of the way first.

Last month, I had to say goodbye to Isobel, my feline houseguest and roommate of the past 18 years. She was the nicest, most loving, doofiest cat I've ever been around, and her loss has left a cat-sized hole in my already addled heart. I lost her twin sister about a year ago, so my house is the quietest it's been since, well, ever.

This leaves me with just one roomie, the feral neighborhood cat who just strolled through my back door a few years ago and looked at me like, "oh hi, I live here now. Food, please." Bereft of ideas for a name, I went to a website that uses cutting edge AI technology to generate random cat names, and this is how I came to have a cat named Meatbag. She never got along well with the twins, and honestly seems pretty happy to have the run of the house.

From an owner's perspective, having just one cat is MUCH easier as well. The litterboxes have ceased to be daily biohazards and I'm no longer buying more cat food than people food at the store. Still, the house has been mighty empty and sad this past month.

Which is why I've been a little over-excited this week to spot a couple tiny new neighborhood strays cavorting around my alley and backyard. My initial thought was, of course, "KITTIES! LET ME GRAB YOU AND SQUISH YOU AND LOVE YOU AND YOU WILL BE MINE FOREVER AND EVER." But I'm also a realist. The newer, mellower Shane might be better off sticking to a maximum capacity of one pet. And I have a feeling the Meatbag might also prefer the solo lifestyle. If I did take these new alley-dwellers in, I'd be in store for a lecture or two from some of the more irritatingly responsible people in my life (hi, Mom.) 

Plus, for all I know, these cats might very well already have happy homes, and I'm in no hurry to add "catnapper" to my resume in any other context than sleeping. I'm no thief. Before I took in the Meatbag, I put a collar on her with a note that said, "Is this your cat? Because she strolls into my house every day and I'm taking her in if nobody claims her." And when I did take her in a week later, I had her scanned for a microchip and I put posters and flyers around my neighborhood to make sure I wasn't stealing someone else's pet.

I should probably be responsible and NOT abduct any more alley strays. But these cats look awfully skinny and needy (AND ADORABLE), so maybe they're hoping for an open door and kind heart, who's to say? I'm not going to go out of my way to lure strange cats inside the house, buuuuut, I mean, if I were to say, leave a little bit of food on the steps in the name of charity, and if they were to eat said food and then perhaps decide to saunter inside to say hello, who am I to stand in the way of cat/human relations?  

So I left some cat treats on the back steps a couple nights ago to see what would happen. And wouldn't you know it, when I walked out to work yesterday morning, all the cat treats were gone. Perhaps I've made new friends, I thought to myself with a mild skip in my step.

Then I got home that night and rewound the security cameras to see if my feline friends enjoyed their dinner. They did not.

Instead, I watched in fast forward as for hours, the army of squirrels that reside in my neighbor's walnut tree conducted a well-choreographed stealth night raid of my back steps. Long story short, there's likely now a hidey hole somewhere in that walnut tree chock full of cat treats.

Once upon a time, I used to like squirrels. I thought they were cute and fluffy. Then I moved into a house with a walnut tree overhanging my back yard, and quickly learned that squirrels aren't cute and fluffy at all. They're mean and fluffy. Every year, a pack of them harvest that tree until every single nut is decimated. With a ballet of skillful precision, they climb onto my house, roll the walnuts off the roof and onto the sidewalk below, and use my back steps as their own personal nutcracker. I come home nightly to a blanket of walnut debris covering my walk. And no matter how hard I try, I always manage to track that detritus into the house where it tries its best to stain my carpet and I find myself on my hands and knees with a bottle of Resolve.

I wouldn't even mind any of that if the squirrels were nice, but they're not. They're mean little buggers who scowl at me when I interrupt their harvest. They climb to eye level, stare at me with their beady little eyes, and angrily go, "Thpf! Thpf!" They purposely try to drop walnuts on my noggin. Hand to God, one morning a squirrel climbed the tree for the express purpose of peeing on my head. While it WAS one of the Top 5 most interesting reasons I've had for calling in late to work, it wasn't exactly my favorite morning.

So instead of luring any cats to their doom -- I mean, their future loving home -- I instead contributed to the ongoing epidemic of squirrel obesity plaguing our fragile world. Live and learn, I guess. As for the cats, I'm guessing they ARE feral, because they aren't exactly keen on humans and run away at the slightest glance. For the time being, I think I'd better stick to one indoor pet and a couple dozen mean and fluffy outdoor ones.

COLUMN: Einstein's Pink Frosted Sister

It was definitely my own fault. I did it to myself. I was the one who uttered those two cursed words a couple weekends ago:

"I'm boooooored."

I announced this, without even thinking twice, to an audience of precisely one person -- and that person was actually a cat. She didn't seem nearly as concerned as I was.

When I went to college at Augustana, the majority of the student body (and hence the majority of my friends) came from the greater Chicagoland area. With few exceptions, most of my big city friends loved the college but hated the Quad Cities. Hearing them talk, it was as if their parents were punishing them by sending them to the outer reaches of civilization for their education. "There's nothing to do here!" was a refrain I'd hear often.

I don't come from Chicago. I grew up in Galesburg. I didn't have the heart to tell my friends that when the cool kids from MY town talked about going to "the big city" for the weekend, they meant HERE. I've always been of the opinion that the Quad Cities has perfectly enough to do. Chicago is a fun place to visit, don't get me wrong -- but there's something to be said for eight-minute commutes, river views, and the comforting knowledge that I could be escaping down a dusty country road towards the middle of nowhere by the time this song on the car radio ends.

But for a few fleeting moments that weekend, I felt like my whiny Chicago friends of yore. I was bored, and there was nothing going on. My close friends were all busy. I spent a good portion of that weekend sighing, pouting, and having an exceptionally pathetic pity party for a table of one. At one especially depressed point, I put on my shoes, resolute in my efforts to find entertainment. I drove my car about 3 blocks before giving up and returning to the house, muttering "there's nothing to do!" This time, I didn't even have my cat's attention. I was just whining to the open air.

I'm happy to say I made up for it this past weekend.

It's official: anyone who says "there's nothing to do here" is an idiot. Or at least doesn't check the calendar of events.

Last Friday night, I found myself at Davenport's Raccoon Motel, first in line to check out the rock stylings of Chicago shoegazers Airiel. I'm a big fan of the high-volume, laid-back bliss of the shoegaze subgenre, so I was prepared for the sonic onslaught. What I was NOT prepared, for, however, was the opening act. They were called Pink Frost, and they were angry. Or at least discontent. Something in their lives, or perhaps the lives of others, was clearly not going well, and they had things to say about it. Or occasionally scream about it.

It was amazing. This band came out with such an intensity that I was moderately concerned about the structural integrity of the building and/or my future ability to hear anything ever again. Wear your earplugs, kids - that's my PSA. But if you're ever going to be driven mad and deaf by a band, this would've been a solid choice. 

"Wow," a friend of mine said after a couple songs. "What do you think?"

"I WANT TO START A REVOLUTION," I replied. "I'm not sure what or whom we should be revolting against, but this noise is clearly a call to action." They were great. Airiel were great. Everybody was super nice. I felt 20 years younger. It was a rock and roll lovefest.

The next night, I was back in action, this time at Common Chord's Redstone Room for the long-awaiting reunion gig of local powerpop heroes Einstein's Sister. This was a show that was a little more my speed. Einstein's Sister have been doing their thing since I was a freshly-graduated idiot turned loose upon the world, and grey was the predominant hair color of the evening.

They're some of the best musicians in town. Their fans are some of the best people in town. It was a veritable who's who of experienced local music nerds, and there were more friends than strangers in the audience that night. It was less a concert and more a big party of friends, except that it was still VERY MUCH an amazing concert, too. Unannounced guests like local legends Manny Lopez and Nervous Neal Smith joined the band onstage, and the setlist leaned heavily on Einstein's classics alongside tracks from their newly released EP, "Exit Strategies." 

The set ran blessedly long and culminated in a lovingly shambolic, half-improvised cover of "Gimme Shelter" that saw almost a dozen musicians take to the stage. There's videos of it floating around online - try to find and watch it while reveling in the fact that we're lucky enough to co-exist in the same metropolitan area as these class acts.

It was a stellar weekend for music, friends, and fun. And after the year I've had, I no longer take nights like these for granted. I'm glad I live in the Quad Cities. I'm seldom bored. I'm grateful for my friends and the great venues we have in this area to get together and celebrate. And this week? I'm also awfully grateful for my couch. That's where you'll find me for the next few days. I could certainly go for a nice, boring weekend right about now. 

COLUMN: Salt

Today, I inadvertently channel-flipped into Blink 182's "I Miss You" and almost rolled a tear. Sometimes all it takes is a good melody and some simple lyrics to capture the unrelenting pain of missing that which will forever sit close to your heart.

I'm talking, of course, about salt. I miss you, salt. It's been months since we ended our relationship, and I'm starting to regret the break-up.

Salt will forever sit close to my heart. This is mostly because it's embedded in my arteries and will likely never leave, no matter how much bland broccoli I force down my gullet. When my doctors told me I should go on a low sodium diet, I said, "No problem." Just lay off the French fries and stop sprinkling table salt on my dinner plate and I should be all good, I figured.

It's not that easy.

Salt, it turns out, is everywhere. It's in everything. It's in bread. It's in cereal. It's in fudgesicles. If air had one of those "nutritional information" charts, we'd probably learn that air is loaded with sodium and we should all stop breathing immediately for the sake of our hearts. 

A few days ago, I was excited to try out a new restaurant that opened up in town. Their menu has a lot of healthy-looking fare like chicken and rice and veggies, so I thought it would coalesce nicely with my new heart-healthy diet. Then I had to be stupid and look up their menu's nutritional information. If you've ever felt the urge to look up a restaurant's nutritional information, my best advice is... don't. Trust me, it's better not to know.

I'm supposed to aim for around 1500 milligrams of sodium per day. The "healthy" dish I was eyeing at that restaurant turned out to have 3900 milligrams of sodium per serving. That's more than twice what I'm supposed to have in a DAY, let alone a single meal. Had I not looked this up before-hand, I'd probably still be bragging about the smart dinner choice I almost made. 

Thankfully, there seem to be a lot of people in my boat, which is why they make an array of sodium-free spice blends you can use in lieu of table salt. I think I've tried all of them over the past few months -- and they all pretty much taste like grit. Sometimes it's slightly garlicky grit. Sometimes it's slightly lemony grit. But it's grit regardless, and does little to nothing to enhance the flavor of whatever vegetable I'm trying to choke down.

Someone told me that if you stop eating things that are salty and sweet, you'll eventually learn to appreciate the other tastes. I've now spent months trying to develop a fondness for sour, bitter, or umami flavors. No dice. I'm pretty sure sour and bitter taste buds evolved for one reason: to tell us when the salty and/or sweet things we're craving have gone bad. That leaves umami, which no one can even easily define, other than some vague explanation like "savory-ness." 

If umami means bland and boring fare like turkey and beans and salmon, then crown me the 2023 Umami King, because that's pretty much all I've been living on for months now. I've been trying recipes for heart-healthy dishes, but it hasn't exactly been a culinary triumph. Last week, I tried a recipe for "heart-healthy vegetable soup." You know what heart-healthy vegetable soup WITHOUT SALT is? It's green things floating in tomato water. And it tastes exactly how you'd suspect green things floating in tomato water to taste (spoiler: not good.) 

One recipe was for "delicious heart-healthy chili." I'm not sure what the thing I ended up eating was. It was, by no definition I could muster, chili. At best, it was bland Mexican soup. Maybe if the recipe had been called "bland Mexican soup," I might have been like, "Hey, this bland Mexican soup isn't half bad." But the recipe was called "chili," and I can't forgive that. 

So my search for enjoyable yet healthy food continues. The other day I went to a family restaurant with friends and wanted to eat healthy, so I ordered their most boring meal: a chicken breast with a side of broccoli. I took one bite and made a face I wasn't expecting. "What's wrong?" my friend asked. "This is SO salty," I replied in shock. In hindsight, I don't think it was especially salty. It's just that I haven't cooked with salt in months, so to get something with even a hint of salt on it tasted like a brine explosion.

I'd like to tell you I went "eww!", complained to the manager, and didn't rest until I had a salt-free delicious meal in front of me. But when I said, "This is SO salty...," I'm pretty sure I followed that a few seconds later with, "...and AMAZING!" And then inhaled every morsel and milligram of that deliciously salty plate. And then drank three diet sodas because I was so parched. I'll try to curb my addiction now before you find me on a street corner begging for sea salt. In the meantime, I'll be over there in the corner trying to will broccoli into tasting NOT like broccoli.  

COLUMN: Spooky Season

Spooky season is once again upon us -- and, as per usual, I've assumed my annual role as the Grinch-o'-ween, grimacing at most things that October fans adore.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I despise dressing up in costume. I despise other people dressed up in costume. I have social anxiety. Putting me into a party situation where I'm forced to small talk with people I barely know is a risky enough proposition on a GOOD day. But if you make me small talk with someone dressed up like Barbie or Chewbacca, it's basically like inviting me to a parade of panic attacks.

True story: one time I bumped into an old college friend at a Halloween thing. I was wearing normal clothes. He was dressed up like a Stormtrooper. He came up and did some schticky Stormtrooper bit, like "Halt! Identify yourself!" I laughed like a lunatic, turned tail, and legit RAN AWAY at a decent trot. That's how well I cope with not being able to recognize people in costume. Halloween parties are a swell time for me.

I also hate being scared. I've never been to a haunted house, nor will I. There are friends who count the days until haunted-house season every year. Heck, there are friends who count the days until they can put on make-up and go WORK at haunted houses every year. If that's your thing, groovy. If you want to squeal while my friends chase you around with rubber knives, have a blast. But it's definitely not MY thing -- and never more so than this year.

My usual response to haunted house invites used to be, "No thanks, you go have fun getting spooked. I know how many cheeseburgers I've eaten in my life, and I reckon my heart doesn't have too many scares left ha ha ha ho ho ho."

That joke loses its lustre after you spend the summer in cardiac rehab. You can keep your jump scares to yourself. There's a lot of things my life needs at the moment, but sudden bursts of adrenaline are NOT it. I'm on an all-tranquility diet with a side helping of blood thinners, thanks much. 

Last night, however, was a test of how well that cardiac stent's working. 

I went to the gym after work, so it was nice and dark and spooky as I was pulling down my alley. That's when I saw him. Standing in the middle of the alley, directly behind my garage, was a Random Creepy Guy. Like something straight out of a movie, there was a motionless figure standing perfectly still, Blair-Witch style, in the middle of the alley with his back to me. I quickly pulled into the garage and closed the overhead door while Creeper Guy continued to creep.

There's about six paces between my garage and my house, which is plenty enough room for a homicidal maniac to axe-murder me, I reckon. But it's also being filmed 24/7 by my security cameras, so if I DID get axe-murdered, at least my next of kin would have a nice snuff film as a souvenir. Before I opened the garage door, I pulled up my camera feed on my cell phone to make sure the coast was clear. There was nary a bogeyman in sight. Still, you can't be too safe. That's why I had a plan.

By opening my garage door, I was also silently setting off my security alarm. I knew I had exactly thirty seconds before it called the police. This would be just enough time to get into the house and deactivate the alarm, provided I had a murder-free stroll to my back door. I opened the garage door with every bit of my attention on the Random Creeper Guy in the alley. But with all my attention turned towards what was behind me, I didn't even notice what was in front of me.

At the top of my back steps, there's a little shelf to rest groceries or what-have-you while you open the door. What I didn't notice in the dark was the stray alley cat having a snooze on that shelf. Honestly, I don't know which of us was scared more. It hissed. I screamed. It jumped pretty much directly at my face. I nearly fell backwards off the steps. It zigged. I zagged. And somewhere in this fracas, my keys went flying to the ground. 

"Hey Siri," I yelled. "Turn flashlight on."

"What was that?" replied Random Creepy Guy from over my shoulder. I screamed again.

It wasn't a creeper after all. It was my neighbor, who had been taking a break from lugging some heavy stuff down the alley. In that spooky and dark October moment, though, I just assumed he was Freddy and/or Jason and/or Michael Myers wrapped up in a tidy little murderous bow.

But rather than axe-murder me, he helped me find my keys. Then I had the fun duty of getting inside and immediately calling my security company, who were in the midst of sending the police to my back yard. It was not my finest moment. THIS IS WHY I HATE HALLOWEEN, PEOPLE.

Except that I honestly don't. While I hate jump scares and things that go REDRUM in the night, I like creepy stuff. As long as nothing jumps out and yells "BOO!," I like ghost hunting shows and eerie movies and chills in the air. In fact, I'm DJing a spooky Halloween party on the 31st. I might even go in costume and (gasp) talk to other people in costume. Just don't force me into dumb small talk. The last thing anyone needs is their DJ laughing like a maniac and running out the door.

COLUMN: Workout Playlists

There's a lot of things to pay attention to when you're exercising regularly for the first time in your life.

Are my weights set correctly? What's my goal? What the heck are "mets" and am I achieving enough of them? How's my pulse looking? Do I need to add more resistance?

And then there's me, whose priority clearly seems to be: What music am I listening to, and have I quite possibly created the greatest workout playlist ever known to man? I'm pretty sure the answer is yes.

Ever since I started going to the gym, I've been fascinated by what everyone listens to. Almost every single person in the place is sporting a pair of earbuds or wireless headphones. What's everyone's go-to exercise soundtrack? I really wanna know, and I kinda wanna judge you for your answers.

I know it's exceptionally poor taste to spy on people, especially when they're exercising. Lord knows I don't anyone to cast a single glance my way while I'm wheezing on a treadmill. But sometimes it's hard not to take a quick peek at your exercise neighbors. Thus far, it's been alarming.

Last week, I was mid-workout when some random girl climbed aboard the treadmill next to mine and proceeded to run at a pace almost twice my speed. Of course, she was barely breaking a sweat while I was an exhausted pile of goo. I wondered what she must be listenening to in order to maintain such an impressive pace. I assumed it was some kind of uplighting, high energy, beat-driven dance frenzy. Then I caught a glimpse of her phone.

As it turned out, she wasn't even listening to music. Her phone was playing an episode of The Kardashians. She wasn't vibing to some motivational club anthem. She was watching vapid millionaires be vapid. I'm pretty sure it's the least motivational thing I could possibly think of to watch. But the more I considered it, it honestly makes perfect sense -- after all, whenever I see one of those Kardashian people pop up on my TV, my initial instinct is to run away at top speed. Why not do it on a treadmill and call it exercise? 

But nothing in my brain can rationalize the dude in front of me the other day. Again, I swear I wasn't trying to be nozy. But the guy was on an exercise bike directly in front of my line of sight, and he had his phone propped up so it was basically the only thing I could focus on when staring straight ahead. And on that phone, he was watching the astonishingly bad 1981 animated movie, "Heavy Metal." Now THAT is an impressively niche choice, my sweaty friend.

"Heavy Metal" is essentially a series of animated vignettes similar to "Fantasia," except instead of classical music, you get Sammy Hagar and Blue Oyster Cult. It's also really quite bad. Maybe it was cutting edge for 1981, but when viewed through 2023 eyeballs, it looks about as cool as an episode of "He-Man." Still, I was able to recognize the movie from a tiny phone screen feet away because I've seen it a kajillion times. No one my age watched "Heavy Metal" because it was good. We watched "Heavy Metal" because it contained a few titillating seconds of scandalous animated nudity, and thus every adolescent boy around that time declared it to be the greatest film of all time. Why one might watch it forty years later in a public YMCA, however, is beyond my understanding. To each their own, I guess.

I'm still experimenting with my exercise music playlist. It's a mix of dance music from the 70s to present, with a focus on newer club tracks that make me feel like a fit and active 20-something and NOT a 50-something chubster grooving out to tunes made by people half my age, played irresponsibly loud to make me feel especially young, dumb, and inspired. It's a work in progress, but I think it's great.

I did, however, inadvertently discover the music NOT to play while one works out. The other day, I thought I could multi-task at the gym. Local promoters Void Church are throwing a super spooky Halloween bash at Wake Brewing in Rock Island on the 31st, and I've been tapped to share DJ duties that night. It'll mostly be an evening of goth, industrial, and darkwave alternative music from yesteryear, so I've been going through tracks looking for some gems to dust off that night. At the gym the other day, I decided to peruse some of Spotify's goth playlists in hopes of finding some good spooky tracks for the party.

I hit shuffle on the playlist and hopped on an elliptical machine. Within seconds, my ears were greeted by a surplus of haunting, ethereal, and entirely inappropriate workout music. I went to skip ahead, but quickly realized my phone was in a cubby-hole just out of reach. I didn't want to stop the elliptical and ruin the good heart rate I'd worked up, so I decided to just power through for a half hour and let the playlist shuffle away. What followed was the weirdest workout of all time. The All-Music Guide refers to the British group Cranes as "chilling," "unsettling," and "nervously threatening," which is exactly the kind of vibe you don't need to conjure up at the YMCA. Yet the Cranes, This Mortal Coil, and Bauhaus soundtracked my evening jog on the elliptical that night.

So if you were wandering around the YMCA last week and saw a sweaty fat lunatic giggling to himself, he was NOT plotting your demise, I promise. He was just REALLY amused to be jogging to a soundtrack of death, despair, and loneliness. Maybe my new calling is to become the Richard Simmons of the counter-culture set -- I can lead classes called "Sweatin' With The Goths" where dour day-walkers in all-black shuffle around morosely to the dulcet angst of the Sisters of Mercy. You've got to admit, it'd be better than watching The Kardashians. 

COLUMN: Spin Class

I think I've officially figured out my least favorite part about the little, err, cardiac event I suffered earlier this summer.

Was it the pain? Nah. The multiple doctor visits?  The complete 180-degree lifestyle change I've had to make? The unwanted reminder of the fragility of existence? The taste of broccoli?

Nope. I'm pretty sure my least favorite part of this whole ordeal is that I can no longer make fun of people who exercise.

Let's not mince words: I was judging you people. From the comfort of my sedentary lifestyle with a burger in my hand, I was judging you and your sanctimonious, self-righteous ways. Every time you jogged past my house, I was judging you and all your friends with the unmitigated gall to run through life physically fit. I'm talking to all you people with your gyms and your hot yogas and your 5Ks thinking you're better than us lowly couch-dwelling folk. I mocked your very presence in our world.

And now? Now... I am one of you. I walk on treadmills and lift weights and stand upright on elliptical machines for TEN WHOLE MINUTES yesterday. I can no longer mock the exercised, for I have drank from their Kool-Aid. Their sugar-free, low carb, electrolyte-laden Kool-Aid. When I woke the other day at 7 a.m. and thought, "oh, I should go work out for a bit," that was the precise moment I lost any claim at mocking people who exercise. 

It didn't stop me from trying, though -- but karma saw through that right away. The morning I woke at 7 a.m. was the morning of the Quad City Marathon. As I crossed the Centennial Bridge en route to the gym, dozens of runners were also making their way across. It was downright chilly that morning, but of course in the thick of the runners were a couple dudes completely shirtless, jogging in little more than short shorts.

"You idiots," I thought to myself. "I bet you're freezing your little --" WHAM.

That was the precise moment when I got rear-ended by the car behind me. I have a feeling he was staring at and probably mocking the same dudes I was. My car was less dented than the front of his truck, but this was clearly karma telling me that my days of being mean and judgemental towards people with active lifestyles were probably over.

Except maybe for one last thing. Before I swear off mocking the exercise set forever, can we just talk about ONE thing real quick? Can we just, maybe if only for a quick second, talk about... SPIN CLASSES?

Now, I'm new to gym life and I'm sure these classes are wonderful. I've never stepped foot inside a spin class, but there's a room for it at the YMCA. I've never caught more than a stolen glance inside it -- mostly because they keep it super dark in there with disco lights flying around. Maybe there's WAY more to it than what I've seen. Maybe it's magically fun and amazing and awesome.

But from what I've glimpsed, it's basically a room full of exercise bikes, and you pedal them REALLY fast. Like, fleeing-a-crime-scene fast. Certainly faster than I'm capable of. And the whole time, beats are thumping, disco lights are flying, and there's a miked-up instructor screaming over the whole thing. I can't ever tell if the teachers are super motivational, super excited, or super mean. From outside the classroom, it's basically like listening to Charlie Brown's teacher, if Charlie Brown's teacher consumed WAY too much coffee that morning. 

I'm sure it's great fun, so please don't write me mean letters. But I know I couldn't handle the pace or the yelling -- and above all else, I certainly couldn't handle the music, which is usually the worst type of aggressively-caffeinated European techno imaginable. This makes sense, because whenever I hear music THAT insipidly obnoxious, my first instinct is to pedal as fast and far away from it as humanly possible. Maybe the people in spin class are like hamsters running endlessly on wheels in a futile effort to flee the Vengaboys.

I fear I may never know anything more about spin class, because me and the other chubsters give that room a wiiiiiide berth when we're at the YMCA. It is for svelte, sadistically healthy people and it frankly scares the rest of us. We don't even dare look in that direction. Honestly, if you were a nefarious group of evil-doers and needed a hideout to plan your evil-doing, you should do it in a spin class -- I promise you, none of us will ever bother you in there. Oh, and once you finally commit your evil-doing, you could probably just pedal quickly away with your toned physiques while the rest of us wheeze and high-five each other for walking a half-mile on a treadmill without vomiting.

I want to hate on spin class for pages and pages, but I can't. The people in there look like they're having fun. Well, some of them. The rest look like they're actively dying, but that's exercise for ya. It's sort of like wee tiny episodes of torture that are good for you. I'm sure spin class is a hoot. Just don't mind me while I look the other way, slip in my earpods, and listen to WAY better music.    

COLUMN: Teresa

My friend Teresa died last week.

The obituary in the paper was rather small. There will be no services. She lived alone, in a rental house about the size of my garage. She didn't have much of a social life. She mostly kept to herself.

But for about a decade, Teresa sat in the chair next to mine here in our newspaper's advertising department. She was a cherished member of our work family, and it's tough to accept that she's gone.

Did we get on each other's nerves? Heck yeah, we did. Like any family member you spend years with, we knew EXACTLY how to push each other's buttons. But was she one of my favorite people in the world? Absolutely. Teresa could make me laugh like few others could. Sometimes all it took was a glance. Good times or bad, we had each other's backs. 

Wherever she is right now, I guarantee she's mad as heck. Her obituary the other day may have been small, but it contained the one piece of information she never wanted any of us to know: her real age. She hid that number from everyone on Earth, and she hid it well. Once we had a work outing to a bar, and I begged the door guy to card her just so we could catch a glimpse of her ID. She straight up said she'd turn around and go home, and she meant it. That was nobody's business but hers.

We never knew her real age, but we had clues. One time, a Hendrix song came on the radio and Teresa out of nowhere just said, "Oh, he was so good live." And I was like, "Wait, what? You saw Jimi Hendrix in concert?" and she just casually replied, "Sure, yeah, a couple times. He was talented." And then she'd nonchalantly go about the rest of her day as if she hadn't just raised her level of coolness exponentially.

She didn't talk much about her past. She was married once. It didn't take. She seldom told stories of those days, but occasionally they'd slip out. Once, I was retelling a weekend adventure of driving back from Chicago on a starry night and pulling over to stare at the Milky Way. "Oh yeah," she replied, "That sounds like the night my ex and I went mountain climbing in Colorado." Again, we were all like, "Whaaat?" Teresa lived some exciting years -- she was just selective in who she let in to learn that side of her.

Another reason why she's probably mad as heck right now is that she shuffled off this mortal coil without getting to learn who wins this season of Big Brother. Teresa loved reality television with a fiery passion and just assumed everyone else did, too. I'd come into the office bleary on a Monday morning and she'd greet me with, "Could you believe what Jen said to Rob last night? I thought Cody was going to lose it!" She was on a first-name basis with every contestant on Survivor and Big Brother. Eventually, she wore me down and I started watching, too, mostly so we'd have something to talk about. A year later, she'd ask me, "Could you believe what Jen said to Rob last night?" and I'd spin and be like, "I KNOW! CODY WAS GOING TO LOSE IT!" I still watch Big Brother to this day, and it's all her fault.

With her gone, I also worry about the future economic stability and fiscal solvency of Asian restaurants in Moline. I remember when she was laid up at home with a bad back and I asked her if she needed anything. "Umm," she replied, "egg foo young?" I learned much about egg foo young from Teresa. What it consists of, which local restaurants make it the best, and even how to make it at home. Thanks to her, I am a walking encyclopedia of egg foo young knowledge. Note: I do not like egg foo young.

The only things Teresa hated more than red meat were spiders. She would never leave for break or lunch without first picking up her coat, examining it thoroughly, and shaking it violently to dislodge any potential 8-legged hitchhikers. Once when she was at lunch, I thought it would be funny to change her computer's desktop background to a big ol' spider because Shane's a funny guy, ha-ha-ho-ho. When she came back and that picture popped on her screen, she SHRIEKED. Not in a ha-ha-ho-ho way. In a horror movie way. In a way that all work in the building stopped and people came racing in from other departments assuming to find a murderer and murderee. In a way that I never messed with her again about spiders.   

Occasionally, she'd make amazing everything-but-the-kitchen-sink casseroles and bring them to share. The first time she brought in a casserole (and every time that followed), there was a Post-It note attached to one side that said, "SHANE'S CORNER." I was a bit confused as to why the casserole had assigned real estate.

"Duh," she explained, "I remember you saying you don't like onions, so I made sure to leave onions out of that one corner." True to her word, there was never an onion in Shane's Corner. I miss those casseroles. I miss those corners. I miss my friend.

The last year we worked together, she was having back issues worse than usual and it was her birthday. I thought I'd surprise her, so I got her a birthday shout-out video from Fessy Shafaat, her favorite contestant on Big Brother. Before he recorded the video, he sent a note asking how old she was turning. "Not sure," I wrote back. "Maybe 71. Maybe 51. Maybe 101. Maybe 21. No one knows for sure, and she'd like to keep it that way."

COLUMN: Y.M.C.A.

Some people have hot girl summers. I apparently get heart attack summers.

Ever since politely declining an invitation back in June from a hooded gentleman with a scythe, I've spent a good portion of the last three months climbing aboard a delightful array of assorted treadmills and elliptical machines in order to teach my blood how to once again flow throughout my body unencumbered. It's been a swell time.

Truth be told, I haven't altogether hated it. Honestly, it's occasionally been kinda (gasp) fun. I've lost a decent amount of weight, I've gained a ton of stamina, and I've met some really great people. Not once has anyone pointed and called me names, so cardiac rehab has already proven itself to be a MILLION times more valuable than junior high gym class ever was.

But all good things come to an end, and I've only got a few remaining sessions before I graduate rehab, receive my complimentary t-shirt, and get shown the door. From there, staying on the healthy path will be entirely up to me. Gulp.

I'm in it for the long haul, though. I've done the hard part. I've turned that new leaf. I deleted the pizza delivery numbers off my phone. This is the longest I've gone without a cheeseburger in my adult life. I've got a long road ahead of me to get back in fighting form, but I'm already a few miles farther down that highway than I ever thought I'd get. 

And this week, I did something I never thought would happen. Shane Brown, of his own free will and volition, joined the YMCA.

The me of two decades ago would've hung his mouth open in utter shock upon hearing such nonsense. WILLINGLY entering a building where people PURPOSELY sweat and work out without a sectional sofa or flatscreen TV in sight? Say it ain't so.

But listen, I've done my research -- and I have it on pretty good authority they have everything for a man to enjoy, I can hang out with all the boys, and it's fun to stay at the YMCA. Honestly, if you can't trust a cop, a construction worker, a soldier, an Indian, a cowboy, and a biker, who CAN you trust? 

I've been to the YMCA a handful of times now, and I've already noticed a few things.

At cardiac rehab, I sometimes feel like an athlete. It's easy to have confidence when you're surrounded by exercise professionals who know what they're doing and your heart rhythm is being monitored by attentive nurses in real time. Each week, I've been adding a little more resistance and speed to hopefully improve my performance and capability. It's almost like I'm becoming a real jock or something.

And then I went to the YMCA and had a bit of a reality check. I'm definitely no jock. Over the past few sessions at rehab, I've been quite proud of myself for trying their stand-up elliptical machine. Ten minutes on that baby and I'm an exhausted, flabby pile of ick trying hard not to barf. Well, the YMCA has a bunch of those machines, too. And the first time I was there, I watched a dude log 60 minutes on one of those things while chatting on his phone and barely breaking a sweat. Last time I was there, I thought I was walking a decent pace on the treadmill until two girls got on either side of me and starting running at more than double my speed. I am many things, but a "real jock" is NOT one of them.

Still, no-one laughed at me, and I've yet to flee in terror. I've been hitting the YMCA after work on my off days from rehab. I signed up for their fancy e-Gym, where the machines act as your own personal trainers and automatically adjust weights and resistance to meet your exact needs. Today, one of those machines told me I currently have the upper body muscle strength of an 83-year-old, so thaaaat's awesomesauce. I tried to see if I can do more than ten minutes on THEIR stand-up ellipiticals -- and I cannot (yet.) Their treadmills are high-tech and have screens where you can pretend you're walking along a beach in Europe or through the mountains of Argentina. Today, it randomly chose a casual stroll down the Sunset Strip. I was hoping to bump into Axl or Slash along the way, but no dice. 

So here's to this good thing not coming to an end anytime soon, and here's to getting that Village People song out of my head as soon as possible. Don't worry, once I become a buff and toned jock with abs of steel, I won't point, laugh, or kick sand in your face as I walk past you on the beach with a hot babe on each arm. Promise.

COLUMN: Am I A Prude?

As I've said many times in the past, one of my biggest fears in life is the self-realization that I've become a... (gasp) fuddy-duddy.  

I'm seeing it happen more and more often, like when my friends who used to stay out until dangerous hours doing dangerous things are now tucked into bed by 10 p.m. Like when I flip past the oldies channel and they're playing a song that came out AFTER I graduated college. Like when I see some hooligan on the street and immediately assume they're up to no good. When I use words like "hooligan." 

I am no longer a spring chicken -- but I do a decent job at living in denial. I still occasionally do dangerous things at dangerous hours -- but the danger is mostly me going, "Gosh, it's late. I bet there's a lot of drunks on the road. I need to be extra cautious during these risky hours of travel." I still watch TV shows about 20-somethings and their 20-something problems. I share silly viral videos off TikTok and find myself astonished when my friends have no idea what I'm talking about.

But the biggest denial of my laps around the sun happens on the weekends, when I spend my evenings filling dancefloors with people half my age. I might have a mild-mannered day job during the week, but when the weekend comes, you can usually find me in some DJ booth, doing my very best to soundtrack a great night out for clubgoers young enough to be my children. And it doesn't phase me one bit. When I'm behind the DJ decks, I never feel like the old guy in the room. I'm just focused on the tunes. But as much as I don't want to admit it, sometimes the tunes are what makes me feel ancient.

Everyone says the music of their era was the best music ever -- and everyone is usually wrong. The music of your youth is simply what you identify with the most, and it will usually always be your go-to. Big band fans probably hated Elvis. Elvis fans probably hated the Beatles. Beatles fans probably hated disco. While it's great to have favorites, it's always a pet peeve to hear someone say, "today's music is TERRIBLE!" Just because you don't identify with something doesn't make it inherently bad.

At least, that's what I always believed. Then the 2020's showed up. Maybe I'm officially old. Maybe I'm officially becoming set in my ways. That said, there's been some straight up TERRIBLE music climbing the charts lately. 

"Excuse me?" the cute, polite, well-mannered girl at the club asked last weekend. "Do you take requests?"

"Maybe," I replied with a smile. "Whatcha wanna hear?"

"Thanks," she said. "Can you play '[EXPLETIVE] On My [EXPLETIVE]?'"

I played it for her. But I also kinda wanted to wash her mouth out with soap, or at the very least offer a brief but informative lecture on self-respect and safe sex practices. But it's official - I know I'm becoming a fuddy-duddy when the lyrics to today's pop songs start embarassing me. But seriously, have you HEARD some of these tracks? 

Back in the Fifties, they wouldn't show Elvis' hips on TV for fear of upsetting people. In the Seventies, punk rock was the shocking sound of molten anger. In my era, the limits of decency were shattered by the fiendishly filthy 2 Live Crew, whose juvenile raps caused such outrage Congress got involved.

Well, the 2 Live Crew may as well be Kidz Bop compared to some of the most popular songs in the clubs right now. I bet these tracks would even make Luke from 2 Live Crew blush. I wonder if he has teenagers now? I wonder if he lets them listen to these filthy new songs? I'd really like to picture some poor kid getting a lecture about morality from the guy who wrote "Me So Horny."

But last weekend really brought it all home for me. A retro cover band was playing a Gilda's Club event at the Rust Belt, and yours truly got the opportunity to show up and open the night DJing a set of all 80s music. I hate people who say the music of their era was the best music ever -- except when people from the 80s say it, because they're correct. 80s nusic was, is, and always shall be magical.

That night, I didn't have to worry about the Top 40 charts. I didn't have to worry about being a fuddy-duddy. I certainly didn't have to worry about [EXPLETIVE] on my [EXPLETIVE]. That night, I was only focused on a few key concepts: (1) That I was living on a prayer, (2) that girls just want to have fun, and (3) that I had to fight for my right to party. I'm not one to brag, but that night, I may have rocked down to electric avenue and then I took it higher. It was ridiculous fun, and I got to drop New Kids, Debbie Gibson, AND Tiffany in the span of a half hour, so my mission was accomplished.

I have no plans to stop mixing records unless clubs finally decide to stop hiring an old guy to do it -- and the way I see it, I'll eventually cycle back to being cool again, because what club wouldn't want to book the old senior citizen DJ who limps into the booth with a cane and then melts peoples faces off with sick beats? In the meantime, if you ever want to throw an 80s party, you know who to call.

COLUMN: AI Shane

Are you familiar with those cheesy motivational posters that some people hang on their office walls? You know, the ones that say cringeworthy things like "PERSEVERANCE" beneath a picture of a sailboat trying to navigate a stormy sea? Yeah, I've always hated those posters.

I once had a boss who COVERED his office with those tacky things. On his first day, he summoned every employee for a one-on-one, and I proceeded to open my mouth and insert my foot immediately upon arrival. "Whoa," I exclaimed uncontrollably as I looked around his office. "Was there a sale somewhere at Motivational-Posters-R-Us?" That boss never liked me much. I can't imagine why.

Well, maybe I have a guess or two. Perhaps it was the "motivational" poster that hung for years in my cubicle. It was a gorgeous shot of a beach at sunset with the word MOTIVATION in giant print. Beneath it, an inspirational message I could always turn to during rough times: "If a pretty poster and a cute saying are all it takes to motivate you, you probably have a very easy job. The kind robots will be doing soon."

Well, it's been twenty years or so since I hung that poster up -- I figure it's high time we gave those robots a shot.

Nothing's been more buzzworthy this year than artificial intelligence and ChatGPT, the interface that lets you talk to a robot and beg it to write your term papers for you. Artificial intelligence is here, it's smart, and it's becoming hard to tell the difference between AI and a real person. 

This smart technology has grown considerably, even over the past couple years. If you don't believe me, go to Youtube and search "AI commercials" and watch some great clips from a few years back, when they tasked AI machines to study the human race and produce TV advertisements humans would like. The resulting ads were delicious nightmares, where eight-legged breakdancers with cheese for lips told you that pizza was better than family.

Today, though, teachers are literally struggling to tell the difference between real homework assignments and AI-generated cheats. The practical benefits of advancing AI are limitless, from self-driving cars to robots that can do the intellectual heavy lifting for us. Of course, the down side is that we as a people continually move ever closer to a dystopian future where mankind becomes enslaved by robots smarter than us. "The Terminator" CANNOT become a documentary, people.

That said, if a kid can now skate through college letting a robot write his term papers, there's absolutely no reason why a tired newspaper columnist can't take a quick vacation and let some piece of software write his newspaper column for a week, right? I figured it was worth a shot, so I went to the ChatGPT interface this week and gave it a simple command:

"WRITE A NEWSPAPER COLUMN IN THE STYLE OF DISPATCH/ARGUS AND QUAD CITY TIMES COLUMNIST SHANE BROWN."

Simple enough, right?  It took ChatGPT about 3.5 seconds to deliver a 700 word column. This was the first paragraph:

"Saddle Tales: Where Hooves and Hearts Converge, by Shane Brown.  Howdy there, folks, and welcome back to another riveting ride through the wild and wonderful world of the Quad Cities. Today, I reckon we're gonna stir up some dust and dive right into a topic that's as timeless as the Mississippi's flow – horses. Yep, you heard me right, those four-legged companions that have been galloping through history, leaving hoofprints on our hearts and heritage."

I will never doubt technology again. Had I not given you a spoiler alert, there's no way you would've known that paragraph wasn't written by me, eh? The artificial intelligence knows me perfectly: my fondness of the word "howdy," my predilection for flowery alliteration, and of course, my favorite column topic of all time: horses. You nailed it, ChatGPT!

Don't blame the robot, though. It was pretty cocky for me to have assumed that ChatGPT would have any earthly idea who Shane Brown is, let alone what my "style" would be. Just because one nice lady at the grocery store last week told me she liked my column (aww!) does NOT make me a household name worthy of anyone's intelligence, artificial or no.

Also, I'm not saying that I Google my own name on the regular, but if you DO fancy searching online for "Shane Brown," you'll likely run into a business called Shane Brown Performance Horses. That particular Shane Brown lives in Texas, likes horses considerably more than myself, and has no qualms posing against fenceposts while wearing spurs that I can only presume jingle, jangle, and jingle. I believe ChatGPT just wrote a column in HIS style, not mine.

Artificial intelligence has evolved, but probably not quite to the point where I can take a vacation and leave my column in its good hands -- mostly because artificial intelligence doesn't have hands. Yet. Please tell me it doesn't have hands. 

COLUMN: Riverdale

Last week, I was a bit of a Debbie Downer. Instead of the usual silly banter about cats and pop culture, I used my column space to eulogize a dear friend who left us way too soon. I was hoping to get back to more silliness this week, but alas, another friend has left us way too soon, and I fear we may need one more eulogy.

Farewell, Riverdale. You were the most ridiculous TV show I've ever been hooked on, and you will be missed. It's undoubtedly going to be a good long while before a show this bonkers ever gets greenlit again, so let's take a moment to sit back and appreciate its profoundly silly legacy.

If you've never watched Riverdale, either (a) you don't watch the CW network, or (b) you don't have anyone under 25 living in your home. Youth seems to be a fundamental prerequisite to even approach an appreciation for Riverdale. Either that or you need to be a newspaper columnist with the emotional maturity of a teenager and WAY too much time on his hands.

For those who haven't had the pleasure, Riverdale is loosely based on the beloved, long-running Archie comics. The characters we know and love from the comic books of yore are all present and accounted for. There's plucky teenager Archie Andrews and his best pal, Jughead. And there's Archie's competing love interests: girl-next-door Betty and big-city socialite Veronica. They live in the quaint everytown of Riverdale and their lives are filled with wacky hijinks and the whimsical follies of life as a teenager.

Its just that the hijinks and follies on the TV show are a tad less wacky and whimsical and a bit more psychotic and murderous.

In the Archie comics, the gang's plans are often foiled by the hard-nosed Miss Grundy, their white-haired, no-nonsense teacher at Riverdale High. In the TV show, we also meet Miss Grundy right away in the pilot episode -- when she and Archie are having sex while they accidentally witness a murder. Yep, it took about one minute of the pilot episode to realize this isn't your dad's Archie comic.

The Archie I grew up with liked to hang out with his friends eating burgers and shakes at Pop's Chock'lit Shop. In the TV show, Pop's is a front for Veronica's secret speakeasy she runs out of the basement. In the comics, Archie's teenage garage band writes a song called "Jingle Jangle." In the TV show, Jingle Jangle is the illicit street drug that the gangs of Riverdale riot to control. I would love to have been a fly on the wall in the Riverdale writer's room. You know those people had FUN.

Riverdale was helmed by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa, a writer who -- true story -- had once been sent a cease-and-desist letter from Archie Comics for trying to mount an unauthorized stage play where Archie moves to New York and comes out of the closet. Critics were never kind to Riverdale's half-sensical crazypants plotlines, but the teenage fans of the show ate it up until the plotlines became too hammy for even the most ardent of fans.

In the first season, Archie and his pals try to solve a murder. In the second season, there's a serial killer stalking Riverdale. In the third, there's a crazy cult AND the school falls victim to a fad Dungeons-and-Dragons style game that drives students insane. By the time the sixth season rolled around, even the craziest plotlines were running out of steam -- so they decided to give Archie and his friends SUPERPOWERS, because what the heck, why not? It got to a point towards the end where even the cast seemed embarassed of their own show.

Me? I ate it up. I was perfectly okay with the hammy dialogue, the insane plot twists, and the absurdity of the whole thing. If you're wanting to watch something grounded in reality, maybe pick a show that ISN'T based on a comic book? If you want gritty drama that reveals the inner truths about the nature of man, maybe choose a show without a lead character named JUGHEAD? If you're watching Riverdale and expecting anything other than mindless popcorn fun, you're doing it wrong.

Riverdale was a glorious train wreck, and I shall miss my favorite secret shame. Worse yet, with its passing, so too ends the CW network as we've known it. For years, the CW has been THE home for impeccably cool young-adult TV. When it first sprung from the ashes of the WB and UPN, the CW gave us shows like Gilmore Girls, Supernatural, The Vampire Diaries, and Gossip Girl, which helped cement the network's legacy for top-tier content. Over the past decade, it's been the home of fantastic superhero shows like Arrow, The Flash, and Supergirl. Its the network that birthed Veronica Mars and My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, two of the most compelling TV shows to ever exist outside of streaming.

But the CW was recently sold to Nexstar, who immediately cleaned house and cancelled nearly every venture that made the CW special. In an effort to make the always-struggling network profitable, its new owners are moving to a line-up that will rely heavily on low-budget reality TV, shows licensed from other countries, and sports coverage with minimal production budgets (starting next year, the CW will be the new home for the NASCAR Xfinity series.)

While the CW never turned a profit, it DID turn heads -- and made executives realize there's an audience for ridiculous shows like Riverdale. Hopefully, other networks and streaming services noticed. With any luck, someday someone will launch a TV show even more bonkers than "Riverdale." I really don't want to be forced to watch GOOD television. Those shows are kinda Debbie Downers.

COLUMN: Kari

When I had a heart attack a couple months ago, I didn't tell too many people right away, except for family and a few close friends.

That night, as I lay in my hospital bed, I got an unexpected text message.

"Mr. Brown," it read. "What is all this noise I'm hearing about your health? Are you ok? Worried about you."

"I'm still kicking," I replied. "Bad week, though."

"Look," came the response. "I'm chronically ill as you know. If you'd like me to teach you some tips and tricks to get healthy, I'm happy to help. The world is a better place with you in it."

"Appreciate it," I replied.

Those messages came from my friend Kari. As brief as the exchange was, it made me feel better while I was stuck in the hospital, unsure of what the future might hold. It turned out the future held me getting released from the hospital the next morning. The day after that, I got a phone call that Kari had unexpectedly passed away in her sleep. Sometimes life isn't fair.

Back in the old timey days -- you know, when we had to walk barefoot through blinding snowstorms on tiptoes as to not wake the dinosaurs -- Augustana always used to take the freshman class on a riverboat cruise as part of college orientation. My friends and I would always clamor to land this coveted DJ gig because we wanted to help our alma mater whenever possible and certainly NOT because it was a good opportunity to hit on freshman girls. Cough.

I had barely started playing music on one such freshman cruise when a girl stomped up, all full of snark and attitude. "So," she asked with a mischievous twinkle, "when are you gonna play GOOD music?" I figured anyone that cocky (and chock full of good music taste) was destined to become a friend, and Kari quickly did. Memories from those days are fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure I was the one who introduced her to my old roommate, who would become her first husband years later.

In the universe of my friends, Kari was often the sun. It seemed like people would just gravitate into her orbit and rotate around her. The Dos Equis guy had nothing on Kari - she was always The Most Interesting Person in the Room.

In life, you're lucky to get, what, maybe 5 or 6 killer stories in your arsenal? You know, the kind of amazing tales from your past that can captivate strangers and make you the center of attention at any social gathering. I've got a few go-to adventures I like to re-tell. Nearly every single one of them involves Kari in some capacity. The time we snuck backstage on a whim and ended up meeting Duran Duran? Kari instigated it. The night a kitten randomly jumped in my car and decided I was its owner? Kari was in the passenger seat. The epic Y2K New Year's Eve party that people only speak of in hushed tones and reverence? It was at Kari's house.

She wasn't just a force of nature, she was OUR force of nature. The girl who could talk her way into anything. The girl with unlimited charm who took zero grief from anyone ever. The girl who could single-handedly keep a party going for way longer than it should have. 

Kari lived her life louder and larger than her personality. As her first marriage ended, she took a job with MTV and moved to London, where she quickly adopted a Madonna-esque British accent and regaled us with tales of hanging with rock stars. Having fully conquered the British Isles, Kari eventually moved back to Atlanta, where she worked in marketing and public relations until her death, which is still such a surreal and silly-sounding thing to say, because forces of nature shouldn't be able to die. I like to think that she's simply up there somewhere, in charge of making party arrangements for us all in the afterlife. It's either that or she's in heaven's jail, having been arrested for stalking John Lennon.

My friend was a force of nature, but she WAS also chronically ill. Having fully exhausted her old liver (who she named Merle, "because he is haggard,") Kari was on the transplant list for a new one, had curbed her epic ways considerably, and had been taking good care of herself while sharing her journey online in hopes of helping anyone else who was struggling. Living with Merle was no picnic, but they're speculating it may have been untreated COVID that took her from us -- which means she was likely feeling lousy in those last couple of days, yet still took the time to check on ME in the hospital.

It's sad that she's gone, no doubt. But at her memorial service last weekend in Chicago, it was magical to see old friends and re-tell all those epic stories. There were tears, but there were WAY more smiles, and that's undoubtedly what Kari would have wanted. She probably would've cussed us out something fierce if we were all mopey and weepy. I'm sad that the world lost such a ball of energy, but I'm happy I had the pleasure of orbiting her sun. Love ya, K.  

COLUMN: Calm

It's been almost two months since I decided to spice up my summer by suffering a heart attack. I'm in no real hurry to have another one, so I've been trying my hardest to turn over a new leaf. Obviously, diet and exercise are key here, but I also can't help but wonder if stress may have played a role.

I never thought of myself as an especially stress-filled person. I don't lie in bed EVERY night tossing and turning with worry -- only some of the nights. I'm not easily triggered, and I only fly off the handle on special occasions. Emotionally, I've always thought I was fairly even-keeled. But I've spent the past couple months taking stock of my life, and I might be a little more stressed out than previously thought.

I love my job, but it's fueled by the constant pressure of deadlines and goals. On the weekends, I hang out in DJ booths trying to bring a party soundtrack to a crowd of people who could turn on you the minute you play the wrong song. I worry about my family and friends. I worry about finances. I worry about my health. I worry about worrying too much. I do an okay job at presenting myself as somewhat cool and collected, but maybe I'm a neurotic mess on the inside?

While I'm pretty sure my heart attack was brought on mostly by the fun sins of gluttony and sloth, I'd also like to take this time of lifestyle change to remove stress from my life where possible. I'm just not exactly sure how to do it. There's loads of books on the subject. There's countless podcasts and self-help websites devoted to relieving stress. I could try yoga or meditation. I could find religion. I could practice my breathing. I could ask a nice doctor for some happy pills.

Instead, I bought a virtual reality headset.

Oh, who am I kidding? I already owned one. Yes, I'm a fully grown adult who has the toys of a teenager. I think I've used it a good half-dozen times. The headsets are fun, but they look ridiculous, and if I'm being totally honest, it kinda makes me motion-sick. Also, it's a little unnerving to put on a pair of goggles and suddenly lose all connection to the real world. What if I'm sitting there with my headset playing virtual tennis while my kitchen catches fire or my home gets invaded by knife-wielding bandits? That'd be the all-time most embarassing way to get mugged. Worst of all, what if a girl were to ever see me in this ridiculous get-up? For these reasons, my virtual reality headset has spent more time gathering dust than power-ups.

But recently, I've been reading about these trendy stress-relieving apps and games for VR headsets. So I dusted off the ol' Oculus, downloaded a popular app that promotes calmness and serenity, and transported myself to a virtual reality where surely all of the stress in my life would just melt away.

These apps promise you a guided voyage to serenity. In full disclosure, the ones I tried just make you float around non-threatening virtual worlds while hokey new age music plays and you're somehow supposed to find tranquil inner peace. I don't get it. Here's a play-by-play of what my brain saw, felt, and experienced that afternoon:

Ooookay, so I've started the app and I appear to be... moving? Floating? Wait, am I flying? I'm totally flying. HOW am I flying? I can't see my body. Do I have wings? Nope, no wings. I think I'm just your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill, gravity-defying flying human. 

This doesn't seem stress-relieving -- this seems dangerous. How far is down? WHOA. It is a LOOOOONG ways down. Unless I'm made out of rubber or pillows, I don't think I'd survive a fall from this altitude. I feel sick.

Where even am I? In the distance, I can see a stalagmite. I think I'm in a cave. Yep, it's a big virtual cave. Great, nothing scary about that. I'm flying in a cave... just like a peaceful, serene, rabid bat. But here's the weird part. There doesn't appear to be any escape. Each way I turn, there's a cave wall way off in the distance. But I don't see a single door, window, vent, tunnel, or shaft.  

Oh, God. How much air is left in this subterranean prison? Am I going to virtually die? Wait, do I even need air? Does my weird floating non-existent body even have lungs? Maybe air isn't needed. Maybe I'm a ghost. 

The BIG question, though, is that my virtual cave is also playing some seriously hippie-dippie new age music. I'm pretty sure I just heard a pan flute. Let me fly around the perimeter real quick and... nope, no sign of Enya or Zamfir or Yanni anywhere. Yet the music remains. Somewhere in this cave, there must an impressive virtual speaker system. The cave appears to be at least ten stories tall, yet there's not even a hint of an echo. I wonder if these stalagmites are made of acoustic sound-dampening foam. I want to meet this cave's audio engineer.

But there's no time for that, because I'm currently being swarmed by virtual butterflies gingerly flappig around. GROSS. If there's virtual butterflies, that means there's virtual caterpillars crawling around somewhere, not to mention the potential now exists for VIRTUAL BEES. Did I hear a buzz? I'll just fly around as quickly as possible to outrun all this digusting virtual nature. Also, did anyone check and make sure these butterflies aren't poisonous? We're in a virtual world of limitless possibility. For all we know about these magical butterflies, they could have fangs and talons and lay eggs inside your brain. 

And that is how I spent my first session with a stress-relieving calmness app: wondering what it would feel like to have your brains slowly eaten by fanged cave butterfly larvae while listening to pan flute.

On second thought, I think I'll just stick with the happy pills.

COLUMN: Janos Disco

Last week, I wrote about how much fun it is to get in your car and drive far away from the Quad-Cities. THIS week, I should probably be fair and tell you about a couple upcoming events that are fun to do IN the Quad-Cities. Will these events be a hoot? I can't guarantee it, but I'll go with a confident "most likely!" Is this little more than shameless self-promotion for events directly involving me and/or my friends? Maybe. Is that kind of unfair? Perhaps. But do I have a newspaper column and you don't? Nanny nanny boo boo.

This weekend is the return of Alternating Currents, the Quad-Cities' annual music, arts, and comedy festival -- 30+ venues around town will be hosting over 100 live performances in one weekend. The air will be exploding in rarified sound for the next couple days, including some don't-miss performances. Friday night brings Chicago's Smoking Popes to town, a band who rocketed to acclaim after their song "Need You Around" was featured in the movie Clueless. The Made Indie Market AND the Beaux Arts Fair will be happening in conjunction with the festival. Floatzilla will be launching from Main Street Landing, soundtracked by my buddy DJ Buddha. There's a great band called Dendrons playing inside Ragged Records on Saturday. Download the Alternating Currents app for all the details and the full schedule.

But of course, my favorite part of Alternating Currents is the annual Silent Disco happening overhead on the Davenport Skybridge this weekend. That's right, they'll be turning our favorite bridge to nowhere into the world's quietest dance party. If you haven't been to a silent disco, they're ridiculous and fun. Each night, three DJs will be spinning all the records they can muster from 9-11 p.m. But they won't be amplified. There's nary a speaker to be found.

Instead, everyone who shows up at the event gets a pair of glowing headphones. Instead of powering a speaker, the DJs will instead be broadcasting directly to your wireless headphones. The phones allow you to easily switch between the three DJ feeds, so if there's a tune you don't like, you can just click over to a different DJ. Put the headphones on and beats will be flying all night. Take the headphones OFF and the Skybridge will be as quiet as a library. 

And yep, as you may have guessed, yours truly is scheduled to be one of those DJs on Saturday night. This will be my third year engaged in quiet battle atop the Skybridge, and it's never failed to be a silly good time. Come down, shake a tail feather, and bask in the awkwardness of watching me interact with other humans. It's a swell time.

But if you don't come out to see ME on Saturday, you should DEFINITELY head out next Thursday the 24th in support of one of the greatest human beings to ever reside in these fair cities. If you're lucky in life, you may get to know some people who are innately good. But if you're EXTRA lucky in life -- like, four-leaf clover and winning the Lotto kinda lucky -- you might get to know a few people who are truly great. 

Janos Horvath is one such great person. John (to his friends, and Janos to his closer friends) is nothing if not a Quad-City mainstay. You might know him from his many roles onstage with Circa '21's Children's Theatre over the years. Or you might know him from his wife Jen's store -- she runs Fred & Ethel's 50's Antiques in Rock Island.

But most likely, you probably know John from his many years behind the bar at an assortment of Rock Island watering holes (Blue Cat, RIBCO, and his current home at Radikal Effect Brewerks.) But Janos Horvath is no simple bartender. Some say he's the consummate bartender. In fact, he's won "Best Bartender in the QC" so many times he eventually took himself out of the running just to give others a chance at glory. Never without a smile, never without a great one-liner, never without the ability to pour the perfect shamrock atop your pint of Guinness. 

The thing about John is that he genuinely cares about pretty much everybody. He's the guy who never forgets to send you a birthday greeting even if you haven't seen him in years. The guy who remembers everyone's favorite drinks, favorite bands, and favorite topics of conversation. He's one of those guys who's always there for you, whether you're a close friend or a literal stranger off the street. And now we need to be there for him.

John's had a lousy summer. Back in April, he fell ill with what turned out to be a rare spine-eating infection. He's endured hospital stays, a lengthy surgery to fix his back, intense rounds of antibiotics, and he's currently in isolation while his immune system tries to rebuild itself. He hasn't been able to work since April, and his medical bills are mounting.

That's why on Thursday, Radikal Effect Brewerks is hosting John's Backbreaker Bash from 4-8 p.m. 30% of all bar sales that evening will go towards Janos, not to mention some bonus stuff like caricatures, hot sauce, food from Peaceful Palate, and a slew of raffle baskets with all proceeds going to our friend John. 

So there's my pitch. This week is yours to do with as you will. You can do what I did LAST week and flee the QC looking for adventure. But if you stick around, you could see some great bands, dance in silence, help one of the best people in town, and maybe say hi to an awkward newspaper columnist along the way. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the weekend.

COLUMN: Musical Roulette

As long-time readers may know, one of my favorite hobbies in the Quad Cities is getting in the car and leaving them. While I'm certainly a fan of our river communities, I'm also a fan of long, epic aimless drives with no plans, no maps, and no particular destination. As long as there's an open road, a full tank of gas, and a well-crafted music playlist, I can waste entire weekends pointlessly driving around the midwest.

I love the Quad Cities, but the music snob in me lives by a few simple sagely credos, such as: "Always try to be wherever Limp Bizkit isn't." Saturday was a fantastic day to flee the scene of a pending musical crime, so I called my best friend and thankfully he was equally bored. We've been getting lost in the country for over 30 years now, and Saturday would be no exception. The only downside? We've both lived here so long that in order for the both of us to get good and properly lost, we need to drive a considerable distance away from the Quad Cities.

On Saturday, we pointed the car north and headed towards the Driftless Area of southern Wisconsin. If you're going to drive about aimlessly, you might as well do it somewhere with steep hills, forested ridges, deep river valleys, and roads so twisty-turny you might need a compass to keep yourself sorted. Southern Wisconsin backroads are not for amateurs.

As soon as we cleared Dubuque, we turned down the first gravel road we could find. Just where this magical road might take us was anyone's guess. Perhaps a land of wonder, of excitement, of newfound adventure where I could...

Nope. It took us to Dickeyville. I'm pretty sure 80% of the Wisconsin roadtrips I've ever been on have somehow wound up in Dickeyville. I know this because it's home to the Dickeyville Grotto, a Catholic shrine built one pebble at a time by one Father Matthias Wernerus between 1924 and 1930. As far as weird roadside attractions go, the Grotto is pretty great. But I've seen it a kajillion times and wanted something new, fresh, and exciting. Then I saw the sign.

I've certainly spent quality time at the grotto before, but never while a rummage sale was happening on site. And much to my delight, they had a massive selection of utterly terrible second-hand CDs. I'm a music junkie and I didn't even recognize half these artists. That's when I hatched my own dare: I would spend four hard-earned dollars on the weirdest, most random CDs in this collection -- and no matter where the day took us or where we ended up, we had to listen to these four discs in their entirety. It would be a beautiful relaxing country drive -- all while playing a dangerous game of music roulette.

Up first was the gem "Rugolovations" by Pete Rugolo.  I'd never heard of my man Pete before, but anyone with the guts to name his album "Rugolovations" is aces in my book. Also, based on the cover art, Pete also wears the highest waisted pants in recorded human history. I'm pretty sure his belt is at nipple height. It's a brave look. If only it were as brave a sound. Instead, Pete comes off more like a second-rate Henry Mancini and the whole record is like the soundtrack to a bad 60s spy movie, which doesn't exactly scream "Wisconsin." One song yelled, "everybody mambo!" For the record, we did not.

The second album was "Phantasys" by one Danny Wright. Nothing against Danny. He looks wholesome and earnest in the inner sleeve. But this was pretty much an hour of a random guy tinkling light jazz noodling on a piano. Remember the piano players they used to have at Younkers back in the day? Imagine that, but for, like, an hour. Sorry, Danny. Hard pass.

Third was Woody Herman and the Thundering Herds, "1945-1947." Now, Herman was a respected bandleader of some reknown, and I bet ol' Woody lit up some pretty good shindigs back in the 1940s, especially if you wanted some solid big band clarinet in your life. I can, however, safely attest this is NOT the music you want blaring while you drive past an attractive bachelorette party in downtown Galena, unless your goal is to have them all stare at you like you're a complete lunatic. 6 out of 10 only because there's a song called "Your Father's Moustache." 

And the final selection we saved for dark, because it was "The Parting Tide" by the new age band ominously named Nightnoise. I was hoping it would be moody, vaguely creepy background music for late night ambience. Instead, it was basically Discount-Mart Enya. There were pan flutes aplenty (or at least one Casio keyboard set to "pan flute" mode.) There was Gaelic singing that I can only presume was about hobbits, because this was definitely music for midday at the Shire and decidedly NOT the kind of thing designed to soundtrack Cordova, IL at 11 p.m.  

Having survived music roulette, it was back to my usual Spotify playlist ("Songs That Do Not Suck") for the final push home. Some of you might prefer Pete, Danny, Woody, and Nightnoise to my bizarre playlist that can jump from Debbie Gibson to Einsturdenze Neubaten at the drop of a hat. All in all, though, music roulette added a new and exciting dimension to the aimless driving experience, and I can't recommend it enough next time you pass a rummage sale with an "eclectic" selection. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go listen to ANYTHING so I can get "Your Father's Moustache" out of my head.   

COLUMN: Crotchenator

Thanks to my doctor-ordered new life as a healthy person, I have officially become a gym rat -- except it's less of a gym and more like a structured cardiac rehabilitation program at the hospital. I've never spent quality time in a proper gym, but I reckon it's pretty similar. Multiple times a week, I get to roll in, exercise for an hour, and try my best to avoid the legions of hotties who now want to check out my buff new form.

Okay, maybe the last part hasn't happened yet, but I'm not saying it couldn't. I've been at it for a couple weeks now, and I've already lost a respectable chunk of weight. I had to go buy a new belt -- and I'm already down to the last hole on THAT one. I'm a heck of a long way from being a skinny head-turner, but I honestly feel pretty good about my progress thus far.

The rehab program has a host of different exercise machines, but I've been focusing mainly on three.

The first is a seated elliptical exerciser that I lovingly call the Crotchenator 2000. I'm not exactly sure which specific muscles its meant to work out, but it kinda feels like its primary mission is to stretch portions of the human anatomy that are best left unstretched. It works your arms and legs, but it feels like your legs come up WAY higher than necessary. I kinda hated it at first, but it might be my favorite machine there.

From the Crotchenator, I usually move to the Arm Death-o-matic. It looks like an escapee from the 1950s, complete with weird clicks and clacks, like a mid-century modern torture device or something. It's a tabletop machine that's little more than a set of bike pedals, except you pedal with your hands instead of your feet. For the first couple minutes, it's kinda fun. For the other eighteen, it's borderline inhumane. My arm muscles (I have those?) start crying out, my face gets flushed, and sweat drips from my every pore. If the goal of exercising is to look fit and handsome, I'm pretty sure this machine does the opposite, because I look like a wreck when I'm through. But anything that feels this unpleasant MUST be fantastic for you, so viva torture, I guess.

After all that, I've been ending my sessions with a brisk walk on the treadmill. I like the treadmills they have there, because they're big and comfy and have massive arm railings that feel like safety overkill. Plus, you get to put a little safety clip on your shirt to ensure that if you pass out and go flying off the back of the machine, at least it will shut itself off as you're hurtling towards your doom. This is good, because I'd hate for my death to needlessly waste electricity. Also, I've found that I get weird vertigo and a touch of motion sickness while on the treadmill, which is honestly the exact distraction I need to take my mind off how much I hate power walking.      

With every session, I've been adding more and more resistance to the machines, and I've actually noticed the results. I've got more strength in my arms than I've had in a long time. I feel a little lighter on my feet. This past weekend, I went to the suburbs and spent the afternoon wandering around Ikea without my feet aching. Maybe there's something to this exercise stuff after all.

I just can't get cocky about it. 

In full disclosure, I actually do own a pretty nice exercise bike in my basement that I bought years ago on a whim. It's gotten a ton of use over the years -- as a very expensive clothes hanger. But this weekend, I took those clothes down and decided it was high time to put that thing to work.

I was doing a load of laundry at the time, so while I was waiting for the dryer, I figured I might as well pedal a few calories away. I plugged the machine in and it sprang to life, asking me to select a setting. The dryer had about twenty minutes to go, so I chose a setting called "20 Minute Quick Calorie Burn."

The first "lap" was pleasant, with about one minute on resistance level 3. But after that one minute, the resistance jumped from a comfortable 3 to a challenging 7. Another minute later, it ramped up to a 9 before shifting to resistance level 11. I didn't even known there WAS a level 11. I thought it maxed out at 10. Almost instantly, I was sweating through my clothes and pushing things WAY too hard. After that, it backed down, but only to level 7 before climbing again. By the second time it reached level 11, I was wheezing and realized my fragile heart was beating out of my chest, so I packed it in. One ambulance ride this summer was quite sufficient, thanks.

So I don't think I need worry about turning into King of the Jocks quite yet. I'm seeing improvement, but I guess it's baby steps. Let's be honest, there are probably babies out there in better shape than me right now. My workouts are helping, but my "20 Minute Quick Calorie Burn" was more like "9 Minutes of Agony and Almost-Vomiting." I'm not quitting, though. In fact, I'm heading to the basement now for some polite Level 3 pleasure cycling. If this column makes it to press, assume that I survived.