Screw Safety, I Want My MTV (or something)

Okay, so here's the most shallow beef I've had in a loooooooong time.

So we all know the weather's not been the hottest lately, right? Ice is everywhere, rivers are flooding, people are displaced, without power, cold, etc. I know and respect folks' plights, really, I do.

THAT SAID...

The most annoying thing in the world is trying to watch hi-def TV during all this. Why? Because every time I'm sitting there, watching my 1080 pixels of greatness, that's when the local TV channels will decide to run some random weather warning or cancellation scroll across the screen... and when that happens -- WHAM! -- the picture drops down to lo-def.

And sometimes it STAYS that way for a looong time, even after the scroll disappears, until maybe some hapless board operator looks down and goes, "Oh s***!" and hits the hi-def button.

Sorry for the completely selfish rant. But I'm really irritated right now -- I'm trying to get my weekly "Lost" mojo on and, thanks to something flooding on US 150 right now, the picture keeps going lo-def, hi-def, lo-def, hi-def.

Like everyone in Illinois, I can't wait til good weather arrives. Like no one else, I can't wait because I'll finally be able to watch TV in peace.

COLUMN: Funny Valentine

"Romance Ain't Easy," the song goes. And now I've got proof. I've (gulp) met a girl. And, of course, since fate hates me, it couldn't have happened at a worse possible time.

A mutual friend had been trying to set the two of us up for ages, but me being the world class chicken that I am, I balked at every opportunity. Finally my friend had enough of me hemming and hawing around, so she brought this girl down to the club I spin at. And you know what? She's great. She jumped into the DJ booth and requested the Dave Clark Five. I mean, how cool is THAT? She's funny, she's cute, AND a fellow music nerd to boot.

Only one small problem: By the time I finally met her, she had already moved to Chicago and was just back in town visiting. Worse yet, she was literally hours away from moving again... this time to CHINA, where she had an amazing opportunity to teach for half a year. This wasn't just bad timing, Fate was Ashton Kutcher and I was getting Punk'd.

So basically we've spent the past 6 months e-flirting and running through phone cards like mad. Last month, she finally got back to Chicago, and we're just taking it slow and seeing what happens. Neither one of us is in the market for a white picket fence or china patterns. She's got a life, I've got a life, and we're okay with that. All I know is that when our schedules jive and we DO get to hang out, we have a GREAT time together, and what else can a person ask for?

Well, Fate, I'll tell you what else I can ask for: that all of this DIDN'T go down in February, because nothing can wreck a fledling pseudo-relationship quite like the happy nightmare of Valentine's Day.

So what does one DO in a scenario like this? I didn't want to ignore the holiday completely, but this was a hairy situation. I mean, red roses would be COMPLETELY out of the question, right? Roses say, "Yo, baby, I loves you" in a deep Barry White voice kinda way. Roses say commitment. Roses say relationship. I needed something that said, "Hey, I kinda dig you and stuff."

Ergo, I opted for tulips. Not exactly a brainstorm, but a fairly respectable flower nonetheless. In fairness, I won't say WHICH floral delivery website I went to, but let's just pretend they're called something like, oh, Freaking Terrible Deliveries. And, in the sake of saving ink, let's just abbreviate it to FTD.com.

Everything went smooth at first. I found a nice arrangement and placed the order. Then? Nothing. The website froze. No denial, no confirmation, just... nothing. Swell.

Finally, I reset my computer and tried it again. Same thing happened. Their website locked up my browser with no explanation and no flowers. I went to bed and vowed to try it again the next day.

The next morning was Valentine's Eve. I fell out of bed, stumbled to my computer, and opened my e-mail.

"Your order has been confirmed."
"Your order has been confirmed."
"Your order has been confirmed."
"Your order has been confirmed."

FOUR? Noooooooo! One order says I'm a caring and cool dude. FOUR orders says "Howdy, I'm Shane, I'll be your psycho for the afternoon! Please be my creepy Valentine!" This couldn't happen. I had to call right away and cancel the duplicate orders.

"Thanks for calling FTD," the recording said. "Due to the unusually busy time of the year, no one is available to assist you. Please try your call later." Click.

WHAT? It's the busiest week of the year for floral delivery, so let's respond by GIVING UP? You don't hire more staff? Are all of the Happy Valentines of the world dependent on a haggard woman named Glenda, running one switchboard for the entire shebang?

I e-mailed FTD's customer service department with a plea. I was greeted with an auto-reply telling me that they'd take happily care of my problem... within 48 hours. So... that was it, then. It was a fun and flirtateous romp while it lasted, but this girl was hours away from Attack of the Room-o'-Tulips and I was on the fast train to Dumpsville. She might even be ALLERGIC to tulips for all I knew!

I had no options but to wait, teeth clenched, through Valentine's morning. Then I got an e-mail: "You got me flowers?!?!"

I had to do it. I called her up: "Flowers! They're so pretty! Thank you so much!"

"No problem," I said. "Umm, hey, just out of curiosity, how many flowers did I get you?"

Turns out that the folks at FTD.com must have gotten my desperation e-mail, as only ONE order showed up. Still, I had to come clean and make the awkward explanation, "Sooo... if you happen to get any, umm, MORE flowers today, it's, uh, NOT because I'm crazy, 'kay?"

Once I told the story, happily she laughed about it. She's got a great laugh. And as long as its still fun, we're gonna keep flirting away. So you know what, Fate, I WON this round. Sure, you're gonna come back next week and destroy my life as per usual, but this time, I kicked your butt. Maybe romance is easier than I thought, or maybe I just owe Fate a favor.

What kind of backwards reality are we in...

When Al Gore just got off the funniest bit of the night on the Oscars?

His candidacy-announcement-being-cut-off-by-Oscar-music schtick was hammy but had me crying with laughter.

I swear, I'd vote for the guy (AGAIN) if he ran. I've even still got my Gore/Lieberman water bottle (unopened, mind you) from their downtown Moline appearance. But, just for the record, I still hate Tipper.

COLUMN: Grammy

Bush is a big ol' doodiehead. Don't worry -- I'll explain that later. Put it aside for now, because this story begins not with a bang or a shockingly controversial statement, but instead with a simple revelation:

There are People... and then there are People Like Me.

Let's take the last two weeks for instance. You're probably a normal person, right? And as a normal person, odds are pretty good that you may have had some dough riding on the Super Bowl. And by "dough," of course, in no way, shape, or form am I referring to or condoning unlicensed, off-track cash wagering, as that would be illegal, naughty, and most inappropriate within the confines of a family newspaper. I'm instead referring to, umm, baked goods.

And hey, there's nothing wrong with a little good-natured cookie trading among friends, I say. And if you happen to be the sort of person who likes to sportingly swap cookies with your fellow fan, there's a good chance that the Bears made you toss your cookies somewhere around the 2nd quarter.

I, on the other hand, lost no cookies to the Bears. Or the Colts. Because I am not a normal person. I had no baked goods riding on the Super Bowl -- yet I just lost pretty much the entire Keebler Forest to Justin Timberlake.

Some people bet on the Super Bowl. I bet on the Grammy Awards. As I see it, that makes me pretty weird.

Every year, my friend Kerry hosts a Grammy party. The invite list is small and about as nerd-centric as you can get. Record store owners and employees, a few musicians, and some area journalists. We sit, we eat chili, we make crass jokes about Shakira and Lionel Richie. We laugh at the pitiful decisions of the Academy, and invariably each of us makes at least one ill-timed speech about "who shoulda won if the world had a clue." For a tried and true music geek like myself, it is nothing shy of Nerd-vana.

And of course, there is the friendly transfer of the aforementioned dough. Each of us fills out a ballot with every category, ponies up some dough, and whoever correctly picks the most winners beforehand gets the whole cookie pot. Many a Grammy party have I attended; never a pot have I taken home. But this was to be MY year.

Actually, no -- it was Justin Timberlake's year. I picked Justin to win nearly every category. Not because I like his music, which I don't. I picked Justin because you couldn't turn on a TV or radio this year without hearing the dude. Plus he DID bring sexy back, and that's gotta mean something, right? Right?

Wrong. No, my hopes and dreams for cookie pot domination were thwarted this year... by the Dixie Chicks. Grrr. That stupid band seemed to win every stupid award of the night. And why? Because of their talent? Their fantastic, critically acclaimed new album? Umm, folks, I didn't even know that the Dixie Chicks RELEASED an album this year. No, there was but one reason for the Dixie Chicks to win a truckload of Grammies:

REDEMPTION. Surely you know the story. The Dixie Chicks were country's hottest ticket, until the eve of the Iraqi conflict, when chief Chick Natalie Maines opened her mouth and spouted off against the war and President Bush. Faster than you can say "Yee-Haw," the red states mobilized. Songs were banned, records were burned, tours were re-routed. It was all but career suicide.

Lesser bands might have split under the pressure; the Dixie Chicks persevered with a new record, newfound respect, and now a boatload of Grammys for their trouble. But, in the humble opinion of THIS amateur musicologist, they were Grammys earned NOT by talent, but by their ability to stare adversity in the face and overcome it.

That's when it hit me. If the Dixie Chicks can stir up controversy and take home a pocketful of Grammys, I should be able to do the same thing and score at least a Pulitzer, eh? Hence my doodiehead comment above. It's a smart and calculated attempt to shock, awe, and become a Very Respected Journalist Dude. Any minute now. It's coming. Wait for it.

Hmm. Nothing so far. There must be a problem. The Dixie Chicks spoke out against the war at a controversial time. Now that it's been going on for a spell, and now that polls show a countrywide frustration with the lack of progress, going anti-war just isn't shocking enough. I'll leave politics to the more qualified. I guess I take it back: Bush isn't a big doodiehead. He's just, like, a medium one.

But I'm not giving up on my theory of making a shocking comment and taking it to the bank. I mean, those awards could fetch a pretty penny on eBay, no? I just have to find something more shocking to say than a left-wing take on Iraq. Hmm... hmmm...

Oh! Got it. Ready? Sitting down? Helloooo, Pulitzer:

Rex Grossman is an American hero, a fine quarterback, and one of the most cherished players in the game. Now please don't hit me. Send the awards to the usual address. Send the hate mail to Justin Timberlake.

COLUMN: Beetle

"Why do you drive a girly car?"

That's a sentence that sure gets the testosterone pumping, eh? Yes, nothing fills a guy with male pride quite like a complete stranger threatening their masculinity. But that's the very question I fielded at the gas station the other day.

It didn't floor me that a stranger came up and asked a question -- I'm used to getting questions about my car, such as: "What kind of engine's that thing got?" (Answer: A 4-cylinder. Beyond that, I'm clueless.) "Are you squished in there?" (Answer: In fact, it's the roomiest car I've ever had.) And, of course, the question that'll give it away: "Is the engine still in the back?" (Answer: Nope.)

That's right, I drive a New Beetle. Anybody wanna take a potshot or two? Call me a sissy? The floor is yours.

Actually, no, it's not. This is MY column, and around here, my car's still pretty cool. There was a time, in fact, when I had the coolest car on the block. Mine was one of the first five Bugs in town, and was quite the headturner when I went cruising around.

Only one problem -- I didn't so much know how to drive it at the time.

Back in 1998, my last car was hanging on by a thread. There was a reason we called it The ATE (All Terrain Escort.) In the hands of me and my friends, that car had taken some serious abuse. Snow drifts, corn fields, muddy roads -- it was less a car and more a very under-performing tractor. By the summer of '98, it had a cracked head gasket, a rusty frame, and a trunk full of Kool Aid that had spilled some 4 years prior. (Mr. Science fact: After 4 years, Kool-Aid turns black. And gummy.)

Anyways, it was time to buy a new car. So I did what you're supposed to. I compared models, shopped around, test drove, did my research, and then picked the car with the coolest TV ads. And I don't care what you say -- Beetles are sharp, awesome little cars.

So I went to Williams VW and got on the waiting list. Weeks passed. So many weeks, in fact, that Williams got bought out by Lujack's somewhere in the process. This was, of course, the perfect cue for my Escort to bite the dust, leaving me carless and yearning.

In the interim, my dad loaned me his work vehicle -- a 1976 Chevy Blazer. It ruled. Especially the parts of the car held together by pop rivets. What remained was a rusty home for wayward mice bravely masquerading as a vehicle. I called it "Slim Goodcar," because it, like its 1970's namesake, was see-through. "Ohhhh. So THAT'S how a car works!" Normally you can't see due to all that pesky, umm, CAR in the way. With the Blazer, the rusted-out holes provided a nifty education in auto mechanics. Well, that and it had a sweet 8-track player AND the "Best of Foghat."

Needless to say, I was in crisis mode. I needed a new car fast. That's when Lujack's called. I had ordered a black automatic. Weeeeell, there was still going to be a wait on that... BUT a white stick shift had shown up. Was I interested?

Well, let's see. Sounds great, but just one problem... I'd never driven a clutch before in my life.

"No problem," said my salesguy. "I'll teach you."

So I did it. My dream of a black automatic Beetle turned into the reality of a white 5-speed. And my salesman was true to his word. He spent two hours with me in a loaner car teaching me how to drive stick. And he did a great job.

I, on the other hand, sucked. Imagine me, cruising down the block in my fancy new car. Heads are spinning everywhere I go. Then, like the stud I am, I pull up to the intersection and eye the girlies in the car next to me. "Hey ladies," my eyes would say, "Check out my sweet --

KA-THUD THUD!

That would be Me the Stud, killing the car in the middle of the intersection and trying desperately to get in back in gear while half the Quad Cities drives by pointing and laughing. I was a FAST learner, because that kind of embarassment goes deep. Well, that and I preferred to have my new car with its clutch not on FIRE at the end of the day, thanks.

Anyways, when I got the car, it made my head swell with VW pride, and that balloon hadn't really burst until Random Guy and his "girlie car" comment. I hadn't ever really thought about it much, so I began an independent study.

Every time I passed another Beetle, I checked. And wouldn't you know it, every single other Beetle driver that you see in the QC these days is a woman. How did this happen? How did my sweet, sweet ride become a chickmobile? That's completely unfair stereotyping.

But you know what? I don't care. I still like my car, even if it DOES have an in-dash flower vase. The gloves are off. I'm planting the flag and I'm taking back the Beetle for all mankind. Not womankind. Well, you can have the pink ones, I guess. But I'm still driving my Bug with pride, and probably will until it joins the Escort in car heaven. Then I can find myself a truly macho car. In fact, I've been hearing good things about these Mini-Coopers...

Insight, Foresight, The Clock on the Wall Reads 3 Hours Past Midnite...

Okay. I'm bored. It's, like, 3:30 in the morning and I just got home from DJing to a near-empty club thanks to (a) snow-zilla, and (b) Augie finals next week. I'm not quite ready for bed yet, so mebbe it's time to use this blog AS a blog and just do a stream of consciousness post.

FIRST OFF... Why, why, WHY am I fascinated by celebrity? I should be above it. And I'm not saying that like I'm ego-boy columnist or something. I'm saying that I (hopefully) have a brain in my head... and that should mean that I should care less about Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Donald Trump, etc. Right? Wrong.

For some reason, I'm drawn to the gossip. I honestly think this stems from my childhood. My mom harbors the same bizarre fetish. My grandmother harbored it, too -- that's why every week, she went out and bought the Enquirer, Star, Weekly World News, etc. And after my grandma was done with 'em, my mom -- not wanting to be embarassed in a checkout lane -- would heist them back to our house. And when Mom got through with 'em? You guessed it -- straight to my bedroom.

This, I hope, is the reason why part of my daily ritual involves quick stops at TMZ.com and PerezHilton.com, two of the most voracious gossip sites on the internet.

So the subject of much concern in the world of celebrity gossip these days has been our girl Britney Spears. Since the "tragic" split with the K-Fed, our Brit's been keeping herself busy accidentally exposing her nether-regions in drunken hazes across America. Friends are publically calling for an intervention. The gossip rags are tired of putting her pics up 12 times a day. And even I have to wonder about the well-being of her two rather young kids.

And today was an exceptionally exciting day in Britney-Land. First came the word that Britney had checked into an undisclosed rehab facility (rumored to be the Caribbean facility founded by Eric Clapton.)

Then came the scandalous report that Brit had checked herself in, but ALSO checked herself out within 24 hours and headed home to Los Angeles. THEN came official denials of the whole sordid affair from the Spears publicity machine.

Well, tonight I get home and hit Matt Drudge's website (I'm a liberal, which means I should hate DrudgeReport.com -- but I'll be honest, it's the best way to get ALL the news headlines in a glance -- you've just got to weed through the conservative slant of it all.)

Anyways, I get home tonight and check Drudge. And what's the top news story? Iraq? The presidential race? Maybe even some Anna Nicole fodder? Nope.

Top story is Britney.... BALD.

That's right. Britney showed up at a tattoo parlor in Los Angeles tonight... bald as Telly Savales.

This will certainly NOT help her cred right now. Britney needs to have a serious sit-down with her Image Control Staff (and only someone like Britney likely actually HAS these sorts of people in her employ.)

I don't know how the next few days in Britney gossip-land are going to play out, but it's going to be interesting and quite likely scandalous and ugly. And I'm secretly excited about getting to see it all go down.

That said... here's my weird confession:

I think Bald Britney looks pretty hot. No, I don't know why.

I'm definitely an oddball, that's a given. And sure, I listen to some eclectic music and grew up surrounded by the kids they used to call "corn chips" -- big hair and/or no hair, punk rock, body-pierced, Cure-obsessed alterna-youth -- but I'm not the kind of guy who goes for freaky looking girls just because they're freaky looking. In fact, I'm kinda put off by girls with enormo tattoos and such.

I've never thought baldness on a girl was hot BEFORE this. Sinead O'Connor? Never did a thing for me. Natalie Portman, when she went bald for that one movie, looked downright yucky to me.
Britney, on the other hand? I dig the bald. I might be the only person on Earth who's gonna say that -- and that's okay, because that might be the ONLY way for Britney to even know I exist. Just suffice to say, toots -- I'm here for ya.

And here IS my apartment, which is the best part about tonight. I made it home.

I love the locale of my apartment, I really do. It's 2 minutes from the District, it's 7 minutes from the Dispatch office, I've got fast food options galore within blocks, it's my little slice of Rock Island Heaven. With only one problem:

The short driveway to my parking lot shoots uphill at about a 45 degree angle. This means that, if there's more than a couple inches of snow on the ground and the plows haven't come yet, I'm not getting home. And if I can't make it up the driveway, the nearest place to park is about 2.5 blocks away and a long walk down a snowy sidewalk to my place.

Happily, tonight's snow has been a lot more fluff than substance. Even though we definitely got a few inches, its the kind of snow that you can plow through fairly easily -- even in a Beetle. So I made it up the driveway tonight -- albeit losing half of the rubber from my tires in the process, coz I was spinning all over the place trying to get traction.

I'm coming to terms with the fact that I really don't like winter much. I mean, a nice snowfall is super picturesque and all, but it's the icy aftermath that I really despise. I have absolutely no coordination -- I learned to walk before I learned how to crawl. Some scientific minds think that kids who do this inadvertently stunt their coordination. I think it's more to do with the fact that I spent my formative years NOT outdoors playing football or shooting hoops, but rather indoors fighting ninjas, demon warriors, and large space-rock-weapons that yell "I am SiniStar!" before crushing you to death.

Anyways, as a result of me being a klutz, all I have to do is walk NEAR ice in order to perform a Three-Stooges-esque pratfall at least once a year. I have yet to make my painful pratfall this year, so every day is like sheer terror as I walk on ice just waiting to biff it.

But tonight I'm home. And right now, I need my couch and my cats and some horrifically bad 3:30 a.m. television. Have a great weekend, all -- even YOU, Bald Britney.

AHEM! Your attention please...

Sorry, that's not "The Complacency Chronicles." It's "THE AWARD-WINNING COMPLACENCY CHRONICLES," as voters in the River Cities' Reader annual Best of the Quad Cities poll voted us #2 Best Local Blog of 2006. World domination gets one step closer...

In all seriousness, though, if you took the time to vote for my blog, I'm humbled and grateful. Thanks, all. And, of course, if something should happen to The Air Strange (this year's winner), The Complacency Chronicles vows to wear the crown and complete all duties of Miss Best Local Blog 2006.

COLUMN: Fake Pee

Technology has caused me to devolve.

Ever since I got my hi-def TV at Christmas, I've become part of the furniture. All I want to do is sit... and stare. Outside my window, people whizz by. People with lives. People with an agenda. My agenda consists of making sure I don't lose the remote control within the cushions of my sofa.

I'm not a couch potato. I'm a couch rock. Potatoes have potential. They can grow into potato trees, or bushes, or whatever they do. I wouldn't know - the Home & Garden Network isn't available in hi-def yet. Which brings me to my one complaint about this captivating world of modern television:

The selection. As a good Mediacom junkie, I've got digital cable with all the 20-kajillion channels. But once you've had a taste of the good stuff - all 1080 pixels of hi-definition greatness - digital cable becomes child's play. The problem is, there are only TEN hi-definition channels to choose from. The 4 networks, ESPN, HBO, and some other random stuff. Mostly stuff I could care less about. But in hi-def, even the boring stuff is awfully pretty, which is why I keep on sitting and keep on staring.

And I'm getting smarter, too. See, one of the hi-def channels offered in town is Discovery HD. Finally, an excuse to become cultured! No more roller derbies or "Pants-Off Dance-Off" for me. Yes, thanks to Discovery HD and the knowledge that pours out of that channel, I'll soon be the hit at wine-tasting parties. I'll be the one providing the droll anecdotes at the Outing Club. I will become... learned. (The TWO-syllable kind of learned. Lear-ned. Fancy.)

With that ambition in mind, my friend Jason and I sat down the other night for a little high culture and historical analysis courtesy Discovery HD. The show? Well, I forget the title, but it was something akin to, "The 100 Most Awesomely Brilliant Scientific Discoveries of All Time, Ever."

This was it. The exact moment my sophistication would begin. I sat and pondered during the opening commercial. What would I soon be learning? What knowledge would this show impart on me? With what could I wow the folks at the water cooler tomorrow? The possibilities were limitless. The 100 greatest discoveries of all time? Nuclear fission! The theory of relativity! The wheel! I was at the edge of my educational seat.

Then the first discovery was unveiled. A scientific marvel beyond words. A discovery that would rock the foundations of our world. An advance in science that would certainly help out mankind... or at help fans of the Grateful Dead procure gainful employment for years to come.

That's right -- we tuned in just in time for the great scientific discovery of... synthetic urea. No joke. And in case you're slow, urea is a nice way of saying, umm, the letter after O. Stop giggling, this is science.

Stunningly, it turns out that in a lab back in the year 18-whenever, a scientist created synthetic, umm, urine. Even more stunningly, this is considered one of the 100 Most Awesomely Brilliant Scientific Discoveries of All Time, Ever. Apparantly it was the first time that a naturally existing substance had been created by Man. Call me crazy, but I'm a man, and all I need to create it is a tall glass of water and about an hour. But that's beside the point.

A discovery of this magnitude begs several questions, chief among them: Why? Why devote resources to the creation of THAT? Was there a shortage back then? Then I became lear-ned. It turns out that the discovery of said synthetic urea happened in the lab ACCIDENTALLY.

Accidentally? What were they TRYING to make? "Heeey, this isn't Mello-Yello!"

Still, we remained resolute in our quest for knowledge. Chuckles were stifled. We were now cultured, refined, distinguished gentlemen, and no synthetic urea would stop us, no sir.

Until, of course, the show revealed that the inventor of synthetic urea was one Dr. Gay Lussoc. And yes, the last name's pronounced as comically as you could possibly imagine. That's when I made my own Awesomely Brilliant Scientific Discovery: Snorting Pepsi out of your nose hurts. I started laughing. Jason started laughing. Class was over.

That's right. One guy's silly name turned us from cultured students to snickering 10-year-olds in a second flat. We laughed... and laughed... and then turned the channel to some movie with dudes shooting at other dudes.

So I am not lear-ned. I am, in fact, immature and goofy. And I'm kinda okay with that. Life's too short for refinement. As for Dr. Gay Lussoc, he went on to develop the system for measuring alcohol content in fluid that today we call "proof." Which kinda makes sense, because if I was going down in history as Gay Lussoc the Urine-Maker, I'd probably be hitting the bottle, too.

Taco Bell, I Love You So

Those of you who follow my blog know of my never-ending love affair with the Taco Bell drive-thru, perhaps the greatest source of comedy material on Earth. Just when I think they can't top themselves, they do it again.

I wheel into the drive-thru and am greeted with the now-customary yet still incredibly weird, "Hi. How are you?" (See my column from about a month ago.)

"Cold. Hungry. Disaffected." I replied.

Once again, I was met with eerie drive-thru silence. So I continued.

"#7... with a Pepsi." Or whatever the basic Taco Supreme combo is. I go there a lot, but I still don't know the orders by number yet, thank God.

Then, from the speaker box comes the twist:

"Sir, does the order look correct to you?"

Gasp. I looked all of a sudden. Lo and behold, the Taco Bell had installed one of those screens where you can see and proof your order as you place it. This was bad news on the comedy front. Could this be the end of Taco Bell drive-thru hilarity? A system to accurately check your order? The ability to confirm my order without comedy or chaos?

Then I looked at the screen. It read:

1 TSXMPC. $4.92

"SIR! Does the order look correct to you?"

Yes, yes, it did. And in case you were wondering, the TSXMPC's were delicious.

I love you, Taco Bell.

COLUMN: Ethics

Sometimes doing the right thing stinks.

As a general rule, my moral compass usually swings in the direction of being a namby-pamby do-gooder. "Bravo," you say. "That's the proper way to live, Shane."

Whatever. Frankly, I'm beginning to think that “doing the right thing” might be a touch over-rated.

Let me explain. A few months ago, I wrote a column in which I name-dropped a local business. I can barely recall the column, but I DO know it wasn't an intentional endorsement on my part. While it's true that I definitely respect this establishment and shop there frequently, I wasn't trying to advertise the joint. I was just telling a story, and that story happened to involve this particular place.

In other words, it wasn't a big deal, which is why I was taken aback when the manager of said business called the other day. It turns out they really liked the piece I wrote, so much so, that they offered me a boatload (OK, maybe just a carload) of free merchandise as a thank-you ... with the unspoken understanding that perhaps I might feel inclined to name-drop the store again in a future column.

I was stunned. My mouth said, "I'll have to get back to you," but I couldn't tell you the part of my brain that was speaking. Wait, no, actually I CAN tell you. It was the part of my brain that likes STUFF. And especially FREE STUFF.

I complain all the time in these pages about my loveless, tedious bachelor status, but there really is one pretty good perk to it all. While you, Random Mature Person, probably have to spend your hard-earned money on houses and kids and having a life, I get to blow my limited income on gadgets, gizmos and assorted useless junk.

You might be saving for college funds or mini-vans. I, on the other hand, went to Toys-R-Us and bought all the Lost action figures this week. (Only because chicks dig guys with action figures, of course. That and the little Locke dude comes with a plastic machete, and that's pretty sweet.)

I digress. Suffice to say, I'm shallow enough to really like STUFF. And this guy was offering a whole BUNCHA stuff! All I had to do was compromise my journalistic integrity and plug his store a few times. How hard could that be? Why hadn't I realized this before?

Could it be that my weekly drivel actually can INFLUENCE consumers? Could businesses really be affected by insignificant little ME name-dropping them in a column? And most importantly, could I thusly use my column to become a corporate shill in order for every local business under the sun to call me and give me free stuff?

This brings me to my next point, which is that Harris Pizza really IS the finest pizza in the world. The secret is their hand-tossed dough, you know. I go there frequently in my trusty Volkswagen New Beetle. Volkswagen: We Build Excitement. Or is that Pontiac? Who cares. All I know is that my newfound journalistic ethics can be summed up in one word: Fahrvergnugen.

Now gimme free stuff. Just kidding. Except that part about Harris -- it really IS the best pizza ever, even IF I have to pay for it.

Sigh. If only it were that easy. We can't accept gifts. It's company policy. Plus it's just plain wrong. The second I take the free stuff, I'm basically working for that company. Or what if I start endorsing Company X and then Company Y calls in all mad? It's just a can of worms I'd better not open.

But that little devil guy on my shoulder can sure be loud. After I got off the phone, I waited 10 minutes and then told my boss, just to ensure that I wouldn't be tempted to call the manager back and claim my booty. The I-LOVE-STUFF part of my brain can rationalize nearly anything given enough time.

But I rose above it. Once again I get to be the boring good guy without the apartment full of free stuff. How lame. So dear readers, it's your job to watch this space and make sure I don't fall into the evil trap of endorsements and journalistic payola. I vow to do my best, or my name isn't Shane Brown, The Official Humor Columnist of NASCAR. And if you're planning on bribing me in the future, you'd better bring your VISA card, because this year Shane Brown doesn't take American Express!

COLUMN: Directions

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I like the Quad-Cities. We're big-city enough to keep me occupied, and we're small-town enough to avoid hour-long commutes to work.

That said, though, there's one thing about the Quad-Cities that often brings a psychotic twitch to my right eyelid: out-of-town visitors.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I'm one of those sittin'-on-a-porch, suckin'-on-some-hay, "we don't cotton to strangers in these here parts, boy" types. I like it when friends from out of town come to visit.

The problem is simply GETTING THEM HERE.

There is nowhere on Earth more difficult to give driving directions to than the Q-Cs. Seriously. Right now there are probably Unabomber types living in shacks in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness who have an easier time giving their friends directions than I do.

Recently, a buddy from high school whom I hadn't seen in forever came up for a visit. Now, this guy's always been a little directionally challenged. My directions literally had to begin: "Exit your driveway, turn left."

But I'm a smart guy. I should be able to give no-nonsense, effective directions from Galesburg to here, right? But as I talked, I realized just how inane I was sounding:

"OK, so get on I-74, umm, west. You'll actually be going due north, but it's 74 west, OK? Then, an hour later, you'll want to exit onto, umm, I-74 west. Yeah, I know. Just do it.

"So you got off of 74 onto 74, right? Then go until you see the exit for ... (sigh) I-74. Yes. Yes. Take 74 to 74 to 74. To the left. Take it back now, y'all. Five hops this time. Five hops this time. Cha-cha now, y'all, and you're here."

The Quad-Cities is not made for the directionally disabled. First, you've got to circumnavigate that interstate loop. Then, once you get into town (any town), you've got to deal with the street names.

I've lived here for 20 years now, and I'm still not used to numbered streets. See, I come from Galesburg, where we have the logic and the sense to give our streets actual NAMES, not just numbers.

"But, Shane," you say, "numbered streets are so efficient! At any point, you'll know exactly how many blocks it is to where you need to be!"

That may be, unless you're like me and forget which street you're looking for in the first place because you can't remember whether it's 32nd or 35th or 38th, because they all sound the same. "I just knew it had a 3 in it. Maybe." And since that's not confusing enough, you've got streets like "38th Avenue Court A West" or whatever, which makes sense to the guy who programs OnStar and that's about it.

On weekends, I DJ at a club on 2nd Avenue in Rock Island. The only reason I know this is because the club is NAMED 2nd Ave. Otherwise, I'd just go, "You know. That one place. By the river. Kinda."

When I start getting cocky and swear I've got the numbers figured out, I drive from Rock Island to Moline and all the numbers inexplicably change. Fourteenth Avenue in Rock Island becomes 16th Avenue in Moline. And then, of course, 12th Avenue in Moline somehow turns into 30th Avenue in East Moline, and, hey, there's that twitch!

City leaders need to have some kind of peace accord -- perhaps Jesse Jackson could moderate -- wherein we simply make all street names between towns the same. "Heck, no!" say city leaders. "That'd take all the challenge out of day-to-day driving."

Look at Rock Island. City leaders recently discovered that one of their roads had a real name: Blackhawk. And Blackhawk Road took you from one end of town to the other, efficiently. That's a dangerous level of intelligence and logic, and it required a quick remedy. That's why, at great expense, to maintain the status quo of confusion, they have now taken Blackhawk Road and rerouted it to Milan. Whew! Thank you, Rock Island, I can sleep easier knowing that there's no longer a logical way to get from Point A to Point B.

Milan? Really? Do people, umm, WANT to go there? Now, no offense to you fine Milanians reading this now; I'm sure your town's lovely, but as far as I'm concerned, the day Showcase Cinemas closed was the day my Milan travels came to an abrupt end. But now Blackhawk Road wants to take me there. Unless, of course, I exit ... onto Blackhawk Road.

Grrr. Twitch.

I just need to come to terms with the fact that the Quad-Cities is a little backward in some areas. Don't tell me I'm wrong; there's a reason why the world's most famous north-south river decides to go east-west here. We're not normal.

And I wouldn't want it any other way.

COLUMN: Talent

Otherwise known as The Most Controversial Column ever. Boy, is this a quick lesson on how one can TOTALLY botch something up. What's that you're thinking? That I've been over-run with hate mail from angry "Grease" fans? No such luck.

Instead, I've been getting mail from folks a little ticked off about my flippant usage of the word "crazy" in this column... and that, by this example, I must have very little empathy for those stricken or affected by mental illness.

Yikes. Obviously not my intention.

My first draft of this column was actually even worse. In that original column, I wanted to celebrate some of the colorful characters we've got here in the QCA -- from the guy who always asks you for exactly $.07 to the gentlemen known around Rock Island as "The Professor." IN NO WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM was I trying to make fun of these people... rather, to celebrate their impact on ALL of our lives.

The whole thing goes back about a year. There's a group on Myspace devoted to Quad Citizens... and a thread started on that message board about some of the more "eccentric" folks in town. I was honestly worried -- the last thing I wanted to read was a bunch of kids pointing and laughing at folks who are unfortunate and potentially unbalanced.

But the Myspace thread DIDN'T become a mockery of these folks... but rather a celebration. It was honestly pretty cool to see all these kids posting about these folks... because in their words, you could tell that they CARED. I mean, miracles don't happen, it's not like they actively assisting these people... but still, rather than mock, they revered. And, in a generation like ours, genuine feelings of compassion and sympathy don't show up too often. When it did on this thread, without any hint of name-calling or anything, I was touched. I really was.

So basically I wanted to do the same thing in the column. To tip my hat towards the eccentric characters that help define our community. To respect those folk out there who never get any credit. And, at the same time, point out the great double standard that, while our society frowns on making fun of eccentric (and, let's be honest, mentally ill) folks out there... we can always tune our dials to the Fox network and see similar eccentric folk being ruthlessly mocked by talent shows like "American Idol." It just upsets me. Period.

So I set out to write the epic column to celebrate our colorful cast of characters in town while simulataneously taking American Idol to task.

I failed. Egregiously.

My first draft of the column was summarily rejected by my editors for being "insensitive" (the exact thing I was trying to avoid.) But upon re-reading it, I realized that, yeah, it was crass beyond belief.

So I reworded it. And turned it in like you'll read below. And I still received a letter (a very SINCERE letter, not a bitch-fest or anything) from a local mental health volunteer who was upset at the piece. And I can't say I blame 'em. It was thoughtless journalism at its finest.

So... to anyone else who might take offense at this column, know that it wasn't intentional. Know that, were I a better writer, I could have picked my words a tad better. But hopefully cut through my awful writing and flippant usage of the word "crazy" and appreciate the point of the column, which is to point and laugh at "American Idol." Thanks for the understanding on this one, gang.

How did you spend your Sunday night? I could have been working on The Great American Novel. I could have been giving my time to charity. I could have been flirting with girls. Yet I, in my infinite wisdom, had a better idea.

That's right -- I watched the debut episode of "Grease: You're the One That I Want," otherwise known as Ninety Minutes I'll Never Get Back Ever Again.

What is it about oddballs that folks find so entertaining? I've never understood it. Heck, if I felt that way, I'd be a lot happier here in the Quad Cities. Let's admit it -- we've got our fair share of colorful characters around town.

Just because somebody's different, does that mean it's our duty to point and laugh? OF COURSE NOT. Why? Because making fun of people is ethically, morally, and intrinsically wrong, that's why. No matter how much the little devil guy on your right shoulder wants to go, "Whoa! Lookit THAT dude!", there's the little angel guy on your other shoulder letting you know that
ALL people are God's creatures and should be treated with as much dignity as you can afford.

So we've established that making fun of people is NOT COOL, right? So why is it that we shouldn't crack up at a guy wandering the streets talking to himself, but it's perfectly okay to bust out laughing at some nimrod auditioning for a talent show whose voice sounds like a cat being force-fed Pepto-Bismol?

If I had a nickel for every time someone's said to me, "I love 'American Idol,' but I only watch the first couple episodes with all the idiots auditioning," I'd have at least 90 cents, and hey, that's enough for one of those cinnamon rolls out of the vend-o-mat in the break room. Shows like
"American Idol," "Grease," "America's Got Talent," etc. have made cash cows out of horses asses.

It all started with the Godfather of Crazy: our boy William Hung. "Idol" auditions were tedious to watch until Willy came in with his whole She-Bang and changed television history. Now, instead of hoping to hear the next Kelly Clarkson, viewers are tuning in these talent shows to see the next trainwreck nutjob.

I haven't quite figured these people out, though they definitely fall into one of two camps. There are the people who are, in my opinion, authentic loons. The ones who come to these auditions thinking they're a step away from fame when they're in fact an octave away from making ears bleed. These are the true whackos, and it should be immoral to give them airtime, let
alone suffer through it.

Then there are the other folk. The ones who watched William Hung and realized that if they came out to the audition and acted as loony as possible, they could have a shot at freakshow stardom. These are the ones I REALLY worry about. I mean, from what I've seen, these auditions are a beast. "Idol" makes you wait in line for DAYS. Could you imagine being so
attention-starved that you'd be willing to stand around for 24+ hours just so you can make an spectacle out of yourself for 10 seconds on TV?

Where's the "fun" in that? What compels someone to want to look like a nimrod on national TV? And what does your 15 minutes of fame get you in the end? Maybe somebody on the street a month later going, "Hey, aren't you that bonehead who can't sing? The one who sucks?" Can THAT sort of interaction possibly be worth the effort?

The ones I feel most sorry for are the judges. After realizing that weirdos = ratings, the producers of these talent shows are letting more and more attention-seeking mouthheads into the top auditions. Every time I see somebody walk into an audition with the whole "whoa-look-at-me-I'm-craaazy" schtick, I hope and yearn for Randy Jackson to just step up and slug 'em in
the face.

Being an idiot can be fun sometimes, I'll admit it. Heck, I've even sung karaoke before, and let's just say no record reps were pulling out business cards. But being forced to WATCH someone trying to be fun by trying to be an idiot is just trying on my patience. Maybe I'm talent-showed-out. Maybe I really WILL find something better to do. All I know is that I'm skipping "Grease" AND "Idol" this year until both the real AND fake crazies are weeded out.

I get enough insanity in my life -- after all, I get C-Span.

COLUMN: Hi-Def

I came to grips with yet another painful truth about my life this weekend. For the past two years, it's caused me to slowly descend down the shame spiral until I finally took a deep breath and confronted the ugly reality: I was living my life in lo-definition.

I really like television. More specifically, I really liked MY television. It was a 38" Toshiba that had served me well the past decade. It was the television that was with me when "Cheers" served its last beer, when the Soup Nazi served his last bowl. The TV that was there when Ross dated Rachel, dumped Rachel, dated Julie, married Emily, divorced Emily, married Rachel, dated Charlie, and kissed Rachel. That thing and I had a special, irreplaceable bond.

Until, of course, I walked into Best Buy and saw my first hi-definition television. That's when I realized my beloved TV was a hunk of junk that was an insult to all who watched it. Suddenly I was incomplete as a human being. Episodes of "Lost" seemed irrelevant unless I could actually see the individual arm hairs of the Others in crystalline hi-def clarity. Al Roker can't properly give me my morning weather in the confines of a mere 38 pathetic inches. I had suffered in my lo-definition existence long enough; it was time for an upgrade.

So when the parents asked the inevitable, "So, what do you want for Christmas?" question this year, I replied simply: COLD HARD CASH -- which I then took and put with some cold hard cash of my own. Then I took a deep breath, secured my wallet, and walked into American TV on a mission.

I thought picking out a new TV would be a snap. Well, close -- it almost made my BRAIN snap.

The first step is figuring out what kind of TV to get. Naive little me just thought the answer to that question was "hi-def." Not so easy. There's plasma, there's LCD, there's DLP, there's boxes filled with magical pixies that just draw really fast pictures on the screen. Well, maybe not, but that made as much sense to me as the salesman's explanations of all the others.

After a while, though, it started to come together. Plasma, I learned, was out for me. You're not supposed to play video games on plasma TV's because it can cause screen burn. Besides, the word "plasma" makes me think that my television is actually ALIVE, and hey, there's enough stuff growing in my apartment as is.

That left LCD (which hangs on the wall) or DLP (which is basically a kazillion mirrors powered by the world's most impressive flashlight.) After lengthy debate, I opted DLP for one simple reason: BIG. DLP sets come in larger sizes for less money.

If I'm spending an obnoxious amount of money on a TV, I want that TV to be a behemoth. I want jaws to drop. I want streams of drool to run from the corners of my friends' mouths. Some people want to invest in home theatre; I want my home to BE a theatre. That's why I walked in to American and immediately centered myself in front of the biggest thing they had: some 80+ inch Enormo-tron.

Happily, my salesman was a realist and politely explained to me that, in my tiny apartment, an 80 inch TV would basically make me blind and sterile, not to mention a potential hazard for nearby low-flying aircraft. As much as I hated to admit it, there IS such a thing as overkill, and sitting 9 feet away from a 7 foot TV is just not a prudent move. He suggested a 42". We compromised and I bought a 56" Toshiba.

In the store, sitting on the Wall 'o TV's, a 56" unit looked pretty conservative and thrifty. In my apartment, it looks like a slightly undersized drive-in theatre. My place is officially pimped out. I feel like charging admission and selling popcorn.

Of course, getting the thing set up was no easy task. Again, one would think that this kind of investment would result in the magical TV pixies moving my entire apartment around for me, but no deal. My old entertainment center only fits a 38" TV, so it had to be moved to the bedroom (resulting in the exciting discovery of an oatmeal creme pie from the Mesozoic Era underneath! Score!) Of course, to get it in the bedroom, my chest had to be moved to where my nightstand table was. And the nightstand table had to be moved to, well, the dumpster.

So now my apartment lies in ruin. Everything's moved around and nothing fits. The cats are completely confused. I may have to sleep standing up from here on out, but at least I can do it HI-DEFINITION. Now all I have to do is figure out how to work the remote and turn the stupid thing on...

COLUMN: Best 'o 2006

I fear change. I always have. Maybe that's why I never left the Quad Cities after I graduated college. Maybe that's why I'm still in the same apartment complex that I moved into my senior year at Augie. I find comfort in the consistent; serenity in the same. That's why I'm all in favor of holiday traditions.

Maybe your family opens one gift early. Maybe you take a pre-Christmas drive to check out the houses with the best lights. Me? I've only got ONE tradition: every year, on Christmas Eve, I spend the day going through the past year's CD's to come up with my definitive list of the Top 10 Albums of the Year. (It's a music nerd thing, indulge me.)

#10 - GOMEZ - "How We Operate" - I've mentioned before how much I hate hippie rock. Gomez is the exception. This UK band has been releasing album after album of laid-back groove rock for almost a decade now, and "How We Operate" is the stand-out of the bunch. Working with an outside producer for the first time, the result is a new-found cohesiveness among the batch of tunes, and a jam record with melody, fun, and earthy spirituality.

Gomez - See the World (click below for video)

#9 - CAMERA OBSCURA - "Let's Get Out of This Country" - The Glasgow-based Camera Obscura are one of those bands who've shown potential for greatness in the past, but it's finally realized with this, their third record. Pop music so gentle you fear a breeze could blow it away, this album excels from their others in tunesmanship alone.

Camera Obscura - "Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken" (click below for video)

#8 - THE 1900's - "Plume Delivery EP" - Speaking of bands with potential, the Chicago-based 1900's have only offered one debut EP and are already at the forefront of many a critic's minds. It might only be 6 tracks long, but this one EP packs more of a whallop than most band's entire discographies. Hazy psychedelic folk-rock that isn't just a carbon-copy of the 60's, the 1900's bring beautiful harmonies together with loosely orchestrated strings and organs.

#7 - THE RAPTURE - "Pieces of the People We Love" - The only band that might actually take the "MORE COWBELL!" mantra seriously, The Rapture have spent their career putting their NYC-fueled punk funk signature on top of, yes, cowbell-laden dance grooves. The new record is more of the same, and hey, why wreck a good thing? Luke Jenner's shrill vocals might be a deal-breaker for the more timid, but you just can't help but shake a booty or two to this one.

The Rapture - Whoo Alright Yeah Uh Huh (click below for video)

#6 - CHRASH - "Audio Feng Shui" - Anyone reading this who's older than 25 hopefully remembers Tripmaster Monkey, one of the few QC bands to ever earn national exposure, and deservedly so. A decade later, former Tripmaster frontman Chris Bernat has again delivered a record worthy of the same acclaim. Finally transforming his ever-changing solo project into a proper band, the results are evident in the new-found strength of quirky songwriting and production. Released on the QC's own Futureappletree label.

#5 - SPANK ROCK - "YoYoYoYoYo" - The best thing to happen to hip-hop in years, Baltimore's Spank Rock takes underground rap and makes it fun again. Packed with low-budget, speaker-bending bass thumps and the kind of lyrics you simply can't go near in a family newspaper (suffice to say our boy Spank likes the ladies, a lot -- graphically,) this record truly represents the spirit, drive, & energy that made hip-hop so captivating in the first place. Play LOUD.

Spank Rock - Rick Rubin (click below for video)

#4 - BELLE & SEBASTIAN - "The Life Pursuit" - Belle and Sebastian are quite possibly the wussiest band in the world. It's hard to find a B&S review that doesn't use words like "twee," "fey," or "precious" when trying to describe the Scottish group's polite brand of art school pop music. The rules are simple: you either love Belle & Sebastian or you make fun of them. That said, "The Life Pursuit" finds the group expanding their repertoire into mildly glam rock territory, and ends up being their most exciting effort in years.

Belle & Sebastian - White Collar Boy (click for video)

#3 - THE GUILLEMOTS - "Through the Windowpane" - It seems like every year, a band comes along that surprises the heck out of me. The Guillemots feature an English singer, a Brazilian guitarist, a Scottish drummer, and a Canadian bassist. Their music is equally multi-tiered and confusing, yet somehow coalesces into a true pop masterpiece. Unorthodox instrumentation, stellar vocals, and magnificent tunes all add up to the most impressive debut record of the year.

Guillemots - Trains to Brazil (click below for video)

#2 - OF MONTREAL - "Hissing Fauna, You Are The Destroyer" - Okay, I'm cheating here. This one doesn't come out until January, but their label was kind enough to furnish a copy back in September, and it's barely left my CD player since. Perfectly balancing unabashedly fun, over-the-top glam showmanship with lyrics that paint a haunted picture of 30-something married life, it's a dance album with smarts -- disco you could write a dissertation on. Shy of putting a gun to your head and forcing you to a record store, I don't know what else I can do to get you to support this gift of a band.

Of Montreal - Wraith Pinned to the Mist (an old song, but hey, this record's too new to have a video yet!)

#1 - THE BROTHER KITE - "Waiting for the Time To Be Right" - It's as if someone entered my brain, carbon-copied my musical tastes, and figured out a way to assimilate them all onto one record. This virtually unknown band from Rhode Island have basically made Shane: The Album. Fuzzed-out jangly guitars conspire with Beach-Boys-esque blissed-out vocal harmonies, plus the kind of truly epic hooks that make neck hairs stand on end. In short, it's everything I've ever wanted out of music. But don't take MY word for it, go to www.myspace.com/thebrotherkite and listen for yourself.

The Brother Kite - "You're Not The Only One" (the poppiest tune on the record - click for video)

COLUMN: Shout-Outs!

Deeeeck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la laaa, la la l...

Whaa? What are you doing here? It's Christmas weekend, go open a present or something. Leave me alone.

Excuse me? You need a column? THIS week? Forget it, bub, I'm knee-deep in ham and like an hour into "A Christmas Story." For the fifth time today. I can't write a column.

Umm... "not an option?" I "HAVE" to write a column? "Disappoint my fans?" What fans? Jimmy down at the gas station? The girl who sends me the naked Polaroids? Frankly, I've got better thi--

Okay, okay. Fine. Sheesh. I suppose there's one thing I've needed to do. Actually, Christmas IS about more than stuffing your face and opening presents. It's about appreciating those around you who bring you happiness and warm fuzzies. With that in mind, indulge me in some holiday thanks to:

• MOM & DAD, the greatest support staff a guy could ask for. Oh, and since she won't get this mailed to her 'til after the holidays, I can break the surprise from last week's column: I bought my mom an iPod for Christmas. And then I opened it up before I wrapped it and loaded it up with ASTONISHINGLY bad music that my mother somehow finds enjoyable: Michael Buble, Celine Dion, Barbara Streisand, etc. I can't believe any of these terrifying vocalists spent time on my hard drive. Which brings me to:

• MY CO-WORKERS, for also listening to all this unlistenable junk, thereby allowing me to borrow -- ahem, sorry, PURCHASE* (*procure in a perfectly legal, non-copyright violating manner) -- all of this aforementioned terrifying music.

• BILL GATES, for installing a volume control on my computer, thus saving my ears from the evils of Celine Dion. Now give me some money. Please.

• MY BOSSES -- Barb, Kelly, Nick, Mike, & Joe -- for filling my heart with sunshine. And because I'm a huge suck-up.

• CHRIS GREENE, my "work wife," for baking me homemade lasagna and meatloaf and chicken enchiladas in the work Christmas gift exchange. Onion-free, no less. (My onion hatred knows no limits, thereby making it a challenge to eat 80% of Earth's home-cooked meals.)

• MYSPACE.COM, for providing an answer to the epic question, "I'm soooo bored. What can I doooo?" Friend me at www.myspace.com/excellentshane.

• BRUCE CAULKINS, my best friend from high school. We'd lost contact back in 1993-ish, and found each other on Myspace earlier this year. And it's like we never stopped talking.

• J.J. ABRAMS & DAMON LINDELOF, for creating "Lost" and giving me a reason to make it through the week. Now enough pussy-footing around. Who the heck are the Others? Tell me. TELL ME!

• SEAN LEARY, for being the most creative person I know and the greatest human being to bounce ideas off of. "You should try to submit some columns," he said to me years ago. "But they'll probably turn you down," he also said. It's okay, man, I've learned how to selectively listen.

• JASON SCHLAUTMAN, for being my best friend for 18 years running. It's a tough job, folks, to ENJOY hanging out with someone as inept at basic life skills as I am. I'm pretty sure he's changed more tires on MY car than his own.

• MRS. KATIE HOLMES CRUISE, for giving me WAY too much column fodder this year. Don't worry, someday you'll escape his evil clutches, and when that happens, I'll be right here.

• NATHAN WILLIAMS, the only human being who can go to lunch with me every day and then suffer a bullet wound to the skull every night. Usually from my sniper rifle. Man, I love playing "Call of Duty" on X-Box Live.

• CO-OP RECORDS, for giving me the incentive to get up, drag my sorry butt to work, and earn a living. Were it not for my music addiction, I'd be living in a box somewhere.

• LINNEA CROWTHER. One day, I'll wake up and realize that we ARE soulmates. Until then, our Friday lunches are becoming the stuff of legend. Mark my words, someday soon you'll see her name on the spine of a best-selling children's book. When that moment comes, buy it. Even if you don't have kids.

• HARMONY FOLEY. For being my newfound favorite person in the world. Of course, I have to say "world" because she's been in Beijing, China for the past half year. There's a column and explanation on this one coming, gang. Suffice to say I'm a happy guy for the time being.

• TERRY TILKA, RYAN MCKEE, THE ENTIRE STAFF, & ALL THE REGULARS AT 2nd AVE. in the Rock Island District, for making me feel 9 feet tall every weekend. Of course, that might be due to the DJ booth being 3 feet in the air. Still, there's no better side gig than making you people dance. (But can we pick a different song? I'm starting to grow reeeally tired of bringing sexy back night after night.)

• ALL OF YOU, for strangely giving a rat's posterior about what a geeky, awkward, chubby social misfit has to say week after week. All I've got to say THIS week, though, is have a Merry Christmanukkwanzaafestivus. Have a great holiday, gang.

COLUMN: Fa La La Ho Ho Ho

WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS TO ME:
A Holiday Essay By Shane

• LIES, DECEPTION & TRICKERY. OK, sure, it might not sound like the holliest or jolliest of Christmas tidings, but in MY family, it's an essential part of the holidays.

"So what did you get me for Christmas?" my mom usually begins asking in early December.

"Bwaa ha ha," I reply. "I got you a sumthin'."

"What kind of sumthin'?"

"A sumthin' you'll like."

"So there's just ONE sumthin'?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Might be a bunch of sumthin's."

"Oh, and I wanted to ask you one other thing," she'll say, deftly changing the subject.

"What's that?"

"What did you get me for Christmas?"

Yes, nothing really brings home the holiday spirit quite like a month of mind games over what we buy one another. Some holidays, I'm not altogether happy with what I find for the parents.

This time, though, I've found the perfect gift for my mom. I'd love to tell you about it, but she has a mail-order subscription to the paper (the woman would pin up every column I write if only she had a refrigerator door big enough,) so I can't divulge. Sorry.

But I will say that it's a sumthin.' That may or may not involve several other sumthin's. And Mom, you'll like it. Bwaa ha ha.

It's not as though I'm the only evil one in the family. One year, every time I'd ask what I was getting for Christmas, my folks would reply, "A box of rocks if you're not careful."

Well, Christmas morning rolls around, and I wake up to find one huge present under the tree. I decimate the wrapping to find ... a box of rocks. Very heavy rocks.

Of course, at the bottom of the box was a gift certificate to feed my ever-growing music habit, but still, I learned from an early age never to underestimate the power of The Parents.

• MENTAL ANGUISH. This involves shopping for my dad, who is, without doubt, the hardest person to buy for in the entire world. Shopping for my dad usually involves walking into stores like Lowe's and Menard's, which for someone like me is like visiting a foreign country.

When I ask my dad what he'd like for Christmas, the response is usually, "Product #XJ792A1" from some bizarre woodworking/handicraft/things-I-know-nothing-about catalog o' the moment. I suppose it's fun to get what you WANT for Christmas, but shouldn't there be some element of surprise?

Not necessarily, as my parents proved to me one year in college. They showed up unexpectedly at my dorm room door and took me on a massive Christmas shopping spree.

We drove from store to store and I was literally like the gulls from "Finding Nemo": "Mine! Mine! Mine!" It was the best time ever ... until the END of the trip, when they dropped me off at the dorm.

I went to open the trunk full o' booty to find my folks going, "Nope. Christmas is two weeks away -- we've got wrapping to do!" And then they drove off, leaving me empty-handed and anxious. Patience is a virtue, my fanny. It's torture.

• FREAKISHLY AWFUL DISCO MUSIC. As a card-carrying music nerd extraordinaire, I'm required to possess an eclectic collection of Christmas music. My all-time favorite dates back to high school.

My friend Bruce and I were thumbing through the bargain bin at Musicland when we found it. An album cover featuring a scantily-clad babe in a Santa hat holding an electric guitar, and no credited performer. The title? "Christmas Party Dancing."

It was an immediate must-own. On the disc was a treasure trove of nightmarishly awful disco versions of your holiday faves. "I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" starts with a "Ho ho ho" before a chorus of disco babes yell, "HO MAMA!"

In short, it's the tackiest thing ever. And for the last decade, I've tortured all of my friends with it annually. My goal is to put it on EVERYONE's list of "What Christmas Means To Me." If you ever see it, buy it at all costs (especially when that cost is probably gonna be less than $5!) Speaking of music:

• THE TRANS-SIBERIAN ORCHESTRA. Only because they're the SECOND tackiest thing on Earth. What becomes of these poor people once the holidays are done? In December, they can sell out the Mark.

But come Jan. 1, they disappear back into the night, taking their long hair and freaky holiday diddies on the lonely road back to Trans-Siberia, where I imagine they share a house with Mannheim Steamroller and play cards until Thanksgiving when they can be relevant once again.

• WARM FUZZIES. No matter what, Christmas is still the best time of the year. Twinkling lights, warm cookies and smiles on faces.

It's all so corny I have no recourse but to fall into its trap and say things I'd NEVER say in normal circumstances: I wish ALL of you a happy holiday. Give to charity. Watch the smiles on kids' faces. Hug your families. Then figure out what Christmas means to YOU.

COLUMN: Taco Bell

Dear Nobel Prize Committee: I'd like the Peace prize, the Science prize, and the rest on a gift certificate.

That's right, I have made a Discovery of Great Importance. That's in caps because one day it will be in textbooks as the event -- no, the Event -- that changed our way of life.

You see, as a humor columnist, it's my mission to keep track of all things bizarre, surreal and funny. Being the anti-social nerd that I am, I'm more of a human observer than a human, umm, do-er. So while you go about living your happy life, I'm the guy with the notebook making fun of your happy life. Make sense?

Well, my non-stop research has finally paid off. I'm proud to announce that I have officially discovered the epicenter -- the home, the hub, the Big Bad Momma -- of all things hysterically surreal and funny.

I speak, of course, about the Taco Bell drive-thru.

I can tease Taco Bell, I really can. I have that right, since I'm pretty sure that I'm personally responsible for 10 percent of their annual sales. I eat at Taco Bell a LOT. And I'll continue to eat at Taco Bell a lot. But, without fail, I do it with a smile on my face, because Taco Bell invariably makes me laugh.

Let's start with the basic premise: the menu. Taco Bell, as yummy as it is, boils down to seven ingredients: Meat, beans, rice, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese and guacamole. And practically everything on their menu is nothing but those seven ingredients either held, fried, or melted together in new and exciting ways.

I like to imagine the Taco Bell Research and Development Dept. as one guy named Fred who, every time Taco Bell needs a new menu item, spins a wheel telling him what to do with the seven ingredients. "Oookay, we're gonna take some (SPIN) meat and put it in a tortilla with some (SPIN) beans and rice ... then let's deep fry it and wrap it in a pita with some (SPIN) guac ... then we throw it a bowl with (SPIN) lettuce & tomato and then melt (SPIN) cheese over it. We'll call it ... THE GORDLUPARITO! No, wait, let's toss on some sour cream and make it the GORDLUPARITO SUPREME!"

Of course, we true Taco Bell connoisseurs know that it doesn't matter how they put the seven ingredients together, just so long as they fill the bag with packets of that magic sauce. Yes, the taco sauce at the Bell is truly a food group of its own. Heck, one Fourthmeal alone can provide you with your daily recommended allowance of Mild, Hot, AND Fire. And conveniently, each packet contains the perfect amount of sauce for exactly: two-thirds of a taco. This results in the coordination-a-palooza wherein I attempt to hold a half-eaten taco while simultaneously tearing open a new sauce packet AND defending my spicy treasure trove from my taco-smitten cats.

But the greatest part about Taco Bell will always be the drive-thru. Yes, nothing says "Feed My Hunger" quite like rolling down your window to the pre-recorded slurred mumblings of a disgruntled employee: "Thankyouforcrossingtheborderwouldyouliketotryournew cheezygorditaorderwhenyoureready."

But that was then, this is now. Somehow, Taco Bell has managed to make their drive-thru experience even WEIRDER. There's a new corporate directive, and I found out about it when I pulled up the other day to hear THIS:

"Hi. How are you?"

That's the new Taco Bell greeting. Simple, to the point, and incredibly off-putting. Umm, how am I? Impatient, unamused, and hungry is how I am. Do I need to answer? Is Taco Bell now the fast food establishment that CARES? Look, I've seen a LOT of fast-food windows in my day, and never before have any of them asked of my personal welfare. In an appropriately weird way, I was touched.

"Umm," I replied. "Well, let's see. I've got kind of a plugged nose, I'm only tracking at 60 percent of my sales goal at work, and I won't even get into the girlfriend issues. So overall, not so hot. How are YOU?"

Silence. A whole lot of silence. And then?

"Could you repeat your order, sir?"

Sigh. "Number 3 with a Pepsi," I said dejectedly. The Taco Bell didn't REALLY care how I was. The Taco Bell just wanted my money. But, really, that's OK, because I just wanted its tacos.

It's a symbiotic relationship that I'm OK with. Me, give money; you, give tacos. And as long as THAT relationship stays intact, I'll put up with the seven ingredients, the woefully undersized sauce packets, and even the nosy personal inquiries.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a border to run to.

COLUMN: Sickly

Ah, yes. The holiday season is upon us already. Once again, chestnuts roast on open fires while Jack Frost shovels snot out of my nose.

That's right, we're just an eyeblink past Thanksgiving and I've already caught the inaugural holiday cold. Forgive me if I'm not my usual jovial self this week -- I fear I'm a bit brain-addled. Do you see that picture of me that runs with the column? Just imagine that, but with a Vicks inhaler stuck up each nostril. Yes, there's nothing like a little phlegm to really boost the sex appeal.

The other day, I was talking to someone who had a nasty cold. In fact, that's where I probably caught this beastly one from. Anyways, that person -- and you know people like this, you might even be one -- said to me, "I never take any medicine when I get sick."

This person clearly is insane. I, on the other hand, am SO sane that I'm crazy. My bathroom cabinet rivals some of the best medical facilities on Earth. You name the malady: if there's an over-the-counter cure for it, I own it.

Don't believe me? Fact: Among the items in my medicine cabinet, you can find a tube of Preparation H, a bottle of saline solution, and some Primatene Mist. Another fact: I have never had hemmorhoids, contact lenses, or asthsma in my life. But heck, just like the Boy Scouts, always be prepared, I say.

My cold-fighting regimen begins with the dreaded Tickle. The second that the back of my throat itches, I'm off to the health food store. This should be a column of its own, as the sight of me in one of those places is about as natural-looking as me in Victoria's Secret. Shane and health food simply do NOT get along; but Shane and amazing herbal hocum-pocum is a relationship to behold.

I've never been one to fall prey to scams. I'm smart enough to know that I can't make a million dollars overnight in real estate like the infomercials tell me. I know that dialing 1-900-whatever will NOT give me an accurate psychic reading. I know that no pill on Earth will make me lose weight as long as I sit on a couch all day.

That said, I will tell you with the utmost of confidence that most of the colds I start to catch can be warded off by quickly taking a tablespoon of Elderberry Syrup. This probably has as much scientific backing as alien abduction, but it completely works. Trust me.

When I was a kid, my mom had a subscription to Prevention magazine. Prevention is like Scientific American for the hippie herbalist sect. If there's a weed growing in your backyard that has the off-chance of curing leprosy, you'll read about it in Prevention. In fact, I imagine the writing staff of Prevention to be folks who just wander around in the woods, sticking random bits of nature into their mouth to see if suddenly their ills are remedied.

Some of it is proven science - just ask the ladies at Heritage Natural Foods, where a simple question about homeopathic medicine can result in a junior alchemy lesson. Some of it I raise a wary eyebrow to. Beware the logic that runs like this: "I've eaten dog poo every day my entire life, and I've never developed psoriasis. Ergo, eating dog poo prevents psoriasis!" Needless to say, thoughts along this line leave a bad taste in my mouth.

But medicine doesn't just exist to remove my symptoms; it's there to make me feel pro-active. Sucking on a zinc lozenge might not have any effect on my stupid cold, but at least it makes me feel like I'm fighting it. Were it not for herbal whatzits, I'd just sit there and be miserable.

Actually, though, zinc is the ONE thing I won't do; after you take one of those lozenges, everything you eat for the next day tastes decidedly zinc-y. Eww. Instead, this time I'm trying the zinc nasal spray, which you shoot into your plugged nose to make it feel... more plugged, I guess. But at least I'm being pro-active.

This particular illness, however, the herbals didn't cut it. The cold rained down like, umm, cold rain (hey, YOU try to think up similes when you're sick.) So now I'm pulling out the big guns. Advil. Sudafed. Syrups that end in "-tussin." And that stuff tastes so gross, it HAS to work.

Yet right now all I want to do is suck down some chicken-noodle soup and snuggle under a blanket with my cats and some really bad TV. And hey, I called in sick today, so I can do just that.

Ho ho stupid ho.

COLUMN: Crush

I'm officially depressed.

Sometimes it's just frustrating to read the newspaper. I mean, I TRY to be your worthy and loyal humor columnist, but it's hard when I'm surrounded in our publications by awful, awful news. In fact, the top story of last week was so unsettling that I'm still a bit shook up. I mean, it's a meeting of two world powers that's bound to impact our society dramatically for years to come.

I speak, of course, about the unholy union of Tom Cruise to my beloved Katie Holmes. Or Kate Cruise. Or whatever abomination she is now. And I can no longer deny the pathetic truth: my odds of hooking up with her are dropping by the minute.

For what it's worth, I thought it was pretty clear that I had called "dibs" on Katie long ago. Did Tom pay his dues? Did Tom sit through all 6 seasons of Dawson's Creek even though it was clearly written for people half our age? Yes, THESE are the kinds of sacrifices that I've made for my obsession.

But it was all for naught; the dream is over. My precious Katie has been driven from me by the one man better at lip-synching to Bob Seger in his underwear than myself. I have no choice but to wish them the best and hope that they live Scientologically ever after.

This DOES mean one thing, though. I have to have at least ONE unhealthy celebrity crush... but I need some help figuring out who gets to be the new recipient of my wanton lust. Let's examine the leading contenders:


• SCARLETT JOHANSSON - Well, she's cute, she's blonde, and she digs Woody Allen. Hmm. I could see this working. Then again, every magazine in the world is dubbing her "Sexiest Woman Alive" or whatever. This means the competition could be fairly high. And the moment I declare my obsession for her will probably be the moment she gets swept off her feet by Jake Gyllenhall or Matthew McConaghey or that kid who plays Harry Potter. I don't know if I could go through the pain again.


• THORA BIRCH - I'll admit it, she was WAY cuter than Scarlett in that "Ghost World" movie. But that might have been the last movie she's made, and that was half a decade ago. I'm starting to fear she's dropped off the planet.


• KATE HUDSON - She just got divorced from the Black Crowes dude. But they were together for a looong time (in celebrity marriage terms,) and that must mean one thing: she has a high tolerance for bad hippie music. I'm sorry, but even if I was dating the hottest girl on the planet, if she tried sticking a Phish disc into my CD player, I'm walkin'.


• HAYDEN PANETTIERE - Otherwise known as Claire The Cheerleader from "Heroes." Cute and blonde: there's a plus. And she's always in the gossip pages because she parties it up with the Lohans and Hiltons of the world, so she might go for a weekend club DJ like me. Just ONE teeny problem: so she's 16. Umm, yeah. Ask me again in 2008.


• TAYLOR SWIFT - I saw her sing the national anthem on TV the other day and I was smitten. There's only one problem with liking a country artist: she's a country artist. Eww. With the proper musical influence, though, I could cure her of that afflication... Wait, sorry, what's that? SHE'S 16, TOO? You've got to be kidding me. Doesn't she sing about dancing all night to Tim McGraw in a little black dress? SIXTEEN? Man, maybe my problem is that I'm just apparantly sleazy.

• BRITNEY SPEARS - Because if there's one person out there who apparantly digs sleazy guys, it's her. And gosh knows, I've been looking for a good way to kickstart my aspiring rap career. If K-Fed can sell 2,800 albums worldwide with songs like "Dance With A Pimp," I'm sure I can move at least 100 copies of "I'll Show You A Humor Column (Baby.)"


• ANGELINA JOLIE - She looks like she could beat me up, and let's be honest, that's kinda sexy. But she also likes to hang out in Africa. Know what? It's HOT in Africa. If I'm going to hook up with a rich celebrity, I'd prefer to go the mansions- and-manservants route, thanks. (Perhaps me and K-Fed have more in common than I thought.) Plus there's the whole Brad Pitt thing. To lose to Tom Cruise and then have to face Brad Pitt would be unthinkable. No, I need someone a little more -- umm, how do I say it? -- DESPERATE. Someone I actually might have a shot with. That's why I've made my decision, and am proud to announce my new celebrity crush:


BEA ARTHUR. That's right. She's golden, mature, and she's MINE. So BACK OFF, Gyllenhall. Hands off, McConaghey. This is one crush you will not steal from me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some "Golden Girls" reruns to attend to...

Oop, Dang It.

I KNEW there was something I was forgetting last week... and it was to upload my column to the blog! Hopefully I'll get a chance later today.

(I'll be honest. I usually upload my columns from work. I use my first break at work every Tuesday morn to give my column a final once-over before I send it to press, and then I hop onto my blog and upload it. But now my bosses at the day job have asked me to stop accessing my blog on THEIR time. Granted, it's a total process of, oh, about 30 seconds per week, but still... it's a fair request, and I'll abide by their rules, as my column has always been a touchy subject around the ol' workplace. See, too many people are concerned that I'll be writing columns willy-nilly on THEIR dime, when -- no offense -- I couldn't think of a LESS creative place on Earth to write than my crazy, messy desk at the day job. No, in order for me to get column crazy, I need MY home computer. MY desk. MY Slinky that I play with voraciously as I write. Ergo, I just need to change my habits and upload my columns from my apartment before I go in every week. Apologies while my blog runs a little behind - I've always been resistant to change, now's no exception!)