COLUMN: WIsconsin Pt. 1

Last year, I went on a road trip to Missouri and stopped at an all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant. Upon my return, I wrote a column that may have questioned the fiscal prudency of such an enterprise in the Show-Me State -- because, at least based on that afternoon's clientele, folks down there know how to eat.

I thought it was a funny column and it drew a few funny responses from folks with Missouri connections, but it also got at least one former Missourian mad enough to demand an apology for my admittedly insensitive stereotyping of an entire populace. And I did apologize for poking fun -- it wasn't my intention to mock anyone, let alone a whole state, especially given the fact that I'm a card-carrying member of the chub club myself.

Ergo, you'd think that my days of careless sweeping stereotypes were behind me. You would think. Instead, I'm about to make another one of those controversially unfair and broad generalizations, so get your letter-to-the-editor typing fingers all warmed up, coz here it comes:

BY AND LARGE, PEOPLE FROM WISCONSIN ARE ALL SUPER DUPER NICE.

There. I said it. It's committed to paper and too late to take back now. I'm sure that right now, someone somewhere is reading this going, "Hey, I'm from Wisconsin and I'm proud to be a total rude jerk-off. How dare he accuse me of being nice? Ooh, he makes me MAD..." Don't worry, I've already cleared space on my desk for your letters.

But this time, there's ample reason for my stereotyping, and it all started last week while I was still in good ol' Rock Island. I was on my way to work, driving absent-mindedly down 7th Avenue, when I noticed one of the rims on the weathered old truck in front of me. Specifically, I noticed the rim because it was near horizontal, hanging onto the tire for dear life.

"Oh jeez," I thought to myself. "One more bump and that thing's gonna go..." BUMP.

Just as I'd predicted, the truck hit a pothole and the rim went flying off, nearly defootitating some innocent Augie student headed to class. The driver of the pickup just went rolling on, not even noticing what had happened. At the next stoplight, I found myself beside the truck, so I motioned to the driver and rolled down my window.

"Hi!" I said. "Hey, just in case you didn't see, you lost one of your rims back there by the last intersection. It's probably still laying back there on the sidewalk."

I am super awesome, I thought to myself as I imagined them handing me my Good Samaritan of the Year medal in a ceremony of much pomp and circumstance. I don't know anything whatsoever about cars, but I know that some people pay absurd amounts of money for custom rims. Those dumb little circles can be super valuable, and here I was taking the time to alert the driver. I didn't expect much. Maybe a thank-you, maybe a smile, maybe an I-am-the-mayor-of-this-town-and-for-your-selfless-act-of-kindness-I-bestow-upon-thee-a-key-to-the-city. Instead, here's what I got in response. Ready?

"@#$% YOU!"

It took me by such surprise that I literally went, "Wait, what?"

"YOU HEARD ME! @#$% YOU, @#$$^%!!"

The first unprintable was an obscenity. The second, a gay slur. Awwwwesome.

I rolled up my window and kept driving. At every stoplight we hit, I stared straight ahead while I could see the redneck yokel out of the corner of my eye still yelling at me. At one point, he made as if he was going to leap out of his truck and assault my car. At another point, he leaned out and spit all over my passenger window.

The moral of the story? People suck. For the rest of the day, I couldn't shake the image of this random jerkwad irrationally screaming at me so venomously that the veins in his forehead looked like they were about to leap out his skin in a desperate and suicidal bid to escape life attached to such a schmuck. And, without bringing this column down to woe-is-us levels, it got me thinking about society.

I mean, what on Earth happened to decency these days? Common courtesy, social niceties, and just plain being human to strangers and your neighbors alike. It seems like the more and more I go through life, the less and less friendly people become. At some point, you have to start drawing conclusions. Either (a) I am so dislikable of a human being that I instantly bring out the worst in people like moths to a light, or (b) we as a people are becoming measurably schmuckier.

I'm not saying we're all at the level of irrational road rage like my newfound foul-mouthed friend, and I know there's still a lot of truly decent folk milling about out there. But think about this. How many times have you made a head nod or issued a casual "w'sup" to a stranger to have them totally ignore you? Or check out of a store and have the clerk act like it's truly paining them to wait on you? How many times have you had a stranger let a door swing in your face? Or drive past you like you're invisible when you're trying to merge or turn left through oncoming traffic? Some days, I'm lucky to get an "excuse me" if somebody bumps into me. More and more, we're losing touch with our decency.

But here's the thing. Last weekend, I surprised my girlfriend with an early Valentine daytrip to Milwaukee to see one of her favorite musicians. And I kid you not, the moment we crossed that border into Wisconsin, the weirdest thing happened: People started behaving better.

I first noticed it when driving. I hate big city traffic, and merging onto a crowded interstate gives me acid reflux. I was ready for the usual Chicago stomp-on-the-gas-or-die technique, but as I merged onto I-94 in downtown Milwaukee, I saw three different cars suddenly slow down and change lanes to make room for me. Two of them gave friendly waves, like, "Hi! Welcome to the interstate!"

I stopped at a gas station. "Hi! Welcome to Speedway! Do you have one of our discount cards? It could save you a few cents off that Coke! No need paying full price if you don't have to!"

At the place we stopped for dinner, the wait staff and bartenders grinned and danced around to the radio as if serving people was the highlight of their day. At the concert, we laughed and talked with strangers. Even the rough-and-tumble bouncers at the concert were helpful and courteous. That's when it hit me.

Maybe society isn't altogether hopeless -- maybe it's (gulp) just us. Who knows, maybe there's jerks aplenty all over Wisconsin and we were just lucky enough to miss them. Maybe the Wisconsin jerks are having a secret summit with all the skinny Missourians. Either way, it merits more investigation.

The one thing that DID grate on our nerves in Wisconsin, though, was our uninvited British guest. More on her next week.

COLUMN: Grammy Picks

It's a good thing I'm not a gambler by nature -- 2011 is NOT starting out well for my mojo.

I called pretty much ALL the bowl games wrong. I was convinced the Bears were headed to the Super Bowl -- and when they didn't, I could at least take solace in knowing that the Steelers would surely stomp the Packers into the ground. Heck, I even "guaranteed" my friends that last week's evil storm would dump over 20" of snow on us in one day. When it comes to predictions this year, I have NOT been wired in.

But there's one thing I'm known for prediction-wise, and it happens TONIGHT -- the only time of year when I turn from mild-mannered columnist into Shane the Greek. It's the annual showcase for me to demonstrate my knowledge, apply my many years of study, and impress you all with my mighty might. For tonight, dear friends, are the Grammy Awards.

Now, I realize that in some circles, folks don't routinely place heated bets with their friends about the outcome of music award shows. Actually, I realize that most forms of unlicensed gambling are both ethically and legally wrong, so I certainly don't routinely place heated bets with my friends about the outcome of music award shows. But as the fanciful and whimsical storyteller that I am, let me craft for you an entirely fictional Shane who DOES place fictionally heated bets with his fictional friends about the outcome of fictional award shows. And let's just say that fictional Shane is fictionally AWESOME at it -- and netted a sweet pot of $23 fictional bucks for winning last year's Grammy pool.

Every year, fictional Shane goes to an invite-only party on Grammy night. On the guest list, a glittering array of Quad City music nerd illuminati: record store owners, musicians, DJs, entertainment writers, concert venue employees, and a guy who once built an entirely purple room as a shrine to Prince. On the surface, it's an annual get-together of old friends over home-cooked chili and bad jokes. But seething underneath, it's a high-stakes competition, as everyone in attendance has one whole dollar riding on the outcome of the awards. Pick enough winners, and you might be able to afford enough gas to get home that night.

And, while I've only won the sweet $23 pot once, I've come super close on many an occasion. Close enough that I feel confident enough to share my 2011 Grammy picks with you all, just in case YOUR fictional friends want to have a fictional wager over one of the worst award shows of the year. Let's look at the major categories:

RECORD OF THE YEAR:

Nominees: "Nothin' On You," B.o.B feat. Bruno Mars; "Love the Way You Lie," Eminem feat. Rihanna; "@#$% You," Cee Lo Green; "Empire State of Mind," Jay-Z & Alicia Keys; "Need You Now," Lady Antebellum.

Who Should Win: Cee-Lo all the way. Even if you didn't think it was the best song of the year (which it WAS,) you've got to root for a tune so anti-establishment you can't even say it's name on the radio.

Who Will Win: B.o.B's too unproven and Cee Lo's too controversial. That Jay-Z & Alicia song was the jam, and Lady Antebellum made a heck of a crossover this year, but I always say if it's close, go for the most boring song of the lot -- that's why my money's on Eminem & Rihanna.

SONG OF THE YEAR:

Nominees: "Beg Steal or Borrow" (Ray LaMontagne); "@#$% You" (Cee Lo Green); "The House That Built Me" (Miranda Lambert); "Love the Way You Lie" (Eminem feat. Rihanna); "Need You Now" (Lady Antebellum).

Who Should Win: About a million other songs from 2010 that weren't considered. Of THIS list, though? Eminem.

Who Will Win: Record of the Year is given to producers and artists; SONG of the Year is given to songwriters. The first step is to look for any sappy love song that's used in a movie where (a) the world's at war, (b) a boat sinks, or (c) Bette Midler learns an important life lesson (double bonus points if her character dies by the film's end.) Sadly, this year, Bette lived. Ergo, you have to go with the schmaltziest song of the bunch, and that's Lady Antebellum.

BEST NEW ARTIST:

Nominees: Justin Bieber, Drake, Florence & The Machine, Mumford & Sons, Esperanza Spalding.

Who Should Win: No one, since this category's the kiss of death. Marc Cohn, Paula Cole, Debby Boone, Milli Vanilli... all once declared by the Grammys to be the great hope for our musical future. In 1976, the world saw debut records from Blondie, The Ramones, Boston, and Tom Petty. Too bad the Grammys didn't. Their Best New Artist that year? The Starland Vocal Band, makers of "Afternoon Delight," perhaps the most hated song in the history of songs. In 1979, The Cars and Elvis Costello were Best New Artist runner-ups to... A Taste of Honey, who, if I'm not mistaken, released upon the world the disco anthem "Boogie Oogie Oogie" before promptly vanishing into a puff of insignifigance. So if we're saying that Best New Artist is thereby Most Likely To Immediately Disappear, the answer is simple: for the sake of saving modern music, don't just stand there - give the award to Justin Bieber as fast as we can hand it to him.

Who Will Win: Drake, who also SHOULD win if we're judging on talent.

ALBUM OF THE YEAR:

Nominees: "The Suburbs," Arcade Fire; "Recovery," Eminem; "Need You Now," Lady Antebellum; "The Fame Monster," Lady Gaga; "Teenage Dream," Katy Perry.

Who Should Win: A tiny band out of Rhode Island called The Brother Kite, who put out an album last year called "Isolation" that had more emotional depth and sonic brilliance than any of these records combined. But since the world's not fair, we've got to pick from these five, and the clear victor is Arcade Fire.

Who Will Win: Easy. Arcade Fire scares the bejeepers out of most mainstreamers, so look for them to take home all the alternative rock awards but not the big prize. Lady Antebellum should sweep the country categories, but their efforts to crossover to the pop world were only marginally successful. Lady Gaga's record was just a teaser for her real album out this year. And Katy Perry? Well, with apologies to Russell Brand, she's just awful. Put your money on Eminem -- Grammy voters will pat themselves on the back and call each other edgy for voting in a rap album despite it being one of Slim Shady's more boring releases.

So there you have it. I'm not saying I've picked a sweep -- indeed, there have been years where I've called every single one of the big categories wrong, so don't come yelling at me if you place fictional high-staked bets of your own by following my advice. But clearly, I'm on a roll this year -- just ask your Super Bowl champion Pittsburgh Steelers (umm...)

COLUMN: Bad Day

Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

I woke up today in a fairly optimistic mood. The weekend was spent cleaning (and, let's be honest, belatedly de-Christmasing) the house and notching another charity trivia night victory in the belt. The birds were singing, the cats were purring, and sunshine was streaking through the window. It was a "Zip a Dee Doo Dah" kinda morning. Little did I know that the soundtrack of the day should have been more like Norweigan death metal.

On most mornings, I find myself spending 2.5 minutes running into the gas station for coffee and provisions, and on most mornings I find myself getting to work 2.5 minutes late to face the evil deathstare of my boss. But on this particular day, I thought ahead. Coffee and provisions were already waiting for me in the refrigerator, and I congratulated myself on this newfound maturity and early arrival to work.

Of course, when I arrived at work, one side of the parking lot was blocked by a utility truck, ergo I had to drive the long way around to the other entrance... to find it blocked by a partially unloaded tractor-trailer. By the time I sorted out how to get IN the parking lot, I was 2.5 + 2.5 minutes late to my desk.

As I tried super hard to avoid the aforementiond evil death stare, I noticed the blinking light of my voicemail, letting me know a message was waiting. Awesome, I thought. Maybe I'd score a new sale right away. Maybe it was someone calling to say how much they loved this column. Nnnnope. Instead, it was a message from some yahoo -- excuse me, I mean, some CHERISHED LOYAL SUBSCRIBER OF OUR PAPERS -- who took offense at last week's football-related column. I'm gonna take a wild stab and guess they're a Packers fan. I'll spare you the details, but it ended with the guy inferring I would spend eternity in Hell, calling me "pitiful," and hanging up. Neat-o!

Now, there's a lot of things one can brace oneself for at 8:30 in the morning. Being told that you're destined for Hell? Didn't see that one coming. Normally, my usual response to something like this would be to sit indignantly and mutter phrases like "Well, I never!" and "The nerve!" while fantasizing about crafting the perfect incendiery vitriolic rebuttal e-mail that would likely cost me my job. But as I sat there trying to get a good mutter on, my eyes kept focusing on a few unrelated numbers and words on the QCOnline.com homepage in front of me. Namely, the numbers "12-18" and the words "inches," "snow," and "tomorrow." Say WHAT?

As you'll recall, last week's column was about forcing my girlfriend the football-hater to suffer through the Bears' NFC Championship defeat. Well, THIS weekend Amy got her revenge by making me sit through countless reruns of "Desperate Housewives," a 100% girly show that, thanks to her, I am now sadly 100% addicted to. This would have made for a funny column of its own -- except for one thing. Because we spent all weekend plugged into reruns on Netflix, I missed the fact that Weatherpocalypse (dubbed better by someone on Facebook as The Snow-torious B.I.G.) was bearing down on the Quad Cities.

At work, as in life, we all have roles to fill, and one of the roles I dutifully perform is that of Weather Worry-Wart. If there's even a cloud looming in the sky, I'm the one to pronounce it The Greatest Storm in the History of the Midwest and spend much of the work day staring at radar screens and informing coworkers of our eminent demise. Well, here it was, a storm that really MIGHT be The Greatest Storm in the History of the Midwest, and I didn't even know it was coming. I immediately went into panic mode.

Provisions? Check. Snow shovel? Check. Rock salt? Check. Candles? Check. Flashlight? Well, it's around here someplace. In all honesty, I'd just gone grocery shopping and I'm pretty much fine for about the next 14 days of food, but my brain still wants to hoard. "Do I have enough oranges? I don't want to get scurvy!" I don't even eat oranges.

The one thing I didn't have, though, was enough Coke to see me through a possible snow-in, so after I got off work, I hustled to the drug store for some soda. On the way out, I saw the shining neon of nearby fast food and decided to buy my girlfriend and I one last pre-apocalypse meal. I called her up for input.

"Hey, I'm gonna buy dinner at [an un-named fast-food restaurant that specializes in fried chicken.] What do you want?"

"Ooh, make sure you get cole slaw!"

No problem. I pulled into the drive-thru lane and placed my order. After a lengthy wait, I made it to the window, paid for our meal, and then was greeted with this:

"Uhhh, sir? We outta chicken."

"Um, okay," I said. "Like, as in, altogether out? Like you maybe shouldn't be open or taking people's money?"

"One moment." Slam! goes the little window. Two minutes pass and she returns.

"Oh, don't worry, we found some. But, umm, we out of cole slaw."

I don't know what was more disturbing - the fact that they were out of cole slaw or the fact that they "found" some chicken. Found it WHERE, precisely? Still, I took a deep breath and settled for some corn on the cob. "Okay, sir." Slam!

Two minutes later: "Umm, sir, while I was tellin' you that we was out of cole slaw, we ran outta corn. How about some green beans?"

At this point, I just wanted out of there. "Yeah, that's fine," I said. Slam!

Two minutes later, and I swear to you I'm not making this up: "I am SO sorry, sir, but we're out of green beans."

So my last meal pre-Snowgeddon consisted of some "found" chicken, cold mashed potatoes, and some congealed mac-&-cheese, which appeared to be the only menu item actually in stock at the restaurant. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

Who knows what the future may hold. By now, you know the answer, but as I write this, the snow is just beginning to fall. Maybe the big one will miss us entirely. Maybe we're about to get a record dumping. Maybe I'll catch scurvy. Maybe the restaurant will find the rest of its lost chicken. Maybe I'll spend eternity in Hell for hoping the Packers get crushed by Pittsburgh.

For now? I'm going back to bed.

COLUMN: Da Bears

"@#$%!" I announced to no-one at all.

"HONEY!" scolded my girlfriend with a stern expression. "Stop getting so worked up! It's just a stupid game!"

There are lots of things that one can do with one's Christian schoolteacher girlfriend of outstanding moral turptitude, and hurling obscenities just isn't one of them.

But if there was ever just cause to holler out some verbal naughties, it was this. Amy was wrong - this wasn't a stupid game. This was THE game. It was barely four minutes old, and already the Green Bay Packers had mowed down the Chicago Bears' defense and strolled right into the endzone with nary a problem. It was to be NOT a fantastic afternoon in front of the TV.

I will freely and publically own up to the fact that I am an unapologetic fair-weather sports fan. You know, the kind of person that REAL sports fans despise. Apart from my inexplicable year-long fetish for NASCAR -- a character flaw for which I've apologized quite enough times, thank you very much -- I tend to shy away from sports. I'll read the occasional story and watch the occasional highlights, sure, but truth is: most games are booooring.

But once one of our local team succeeds at enough boring games to potentially make it to the BIG game? Well, suddenly things start getting a little less boring. And when I started to hear whispers of the Bears actually being good enough to make the playoffs? Well, that was when the usually-dormant testosterone in my body started waking up (look out, facial hair!) Suddenly watching the last few games before the playoffs started to take priority. Suddenly I started feeling bad for not owning a single piece of Bears outerwear except for a (shiver) Rex Grossman jersey that lives its life in shame on my closet floor. Suddenly "the" Bears had morphed into "our" Bears, and I needed to see this playoff run through.

It all led to this moment -- and of all the teams in all the world to face in the NFC Championship, the good guy Bears (OUR Bears) were up against the pond-scum devil-spawn known as the Green Bay Packers. Forget the Super Bowl, THIS was The Big Game. And for a while, I'm not sure what was worse: watching our Bears get soundly trounced by Cheesehead Nation, or having to watch the carnage with my girlfriend.

For as little as I know about the world of professional sports, when I'm with Amy, I feel like Shane the Greek. Sports aren't just absent from her radar, they're absent from the world in which she lives. Still, she knew the importance of this game AND she's pretty cool, so while I was watching the tragedy unfold in high definition, she sat on the other side of the couch surfing Facebook.

Except a funny thing started happening. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept seeing her glance up at the screen. Again... and again. Weeeird, I thought. Maybe she's getting into it. Maybe she just thinks Jay Cutler's hot. Eww. Still, she picked one heck of a bad game to gain sudden interest in football. It was pretty clear from the get-go that our Bears did NOT bring their A game to Soldier Field last Sunday. And when Cutler went out with a bum knee early in the third, it was pretty much over. But not for Amy.

"So, what's that mean?" she asked out of the blue.

"What's what mean?"

"When the man said the Bears were 3 and out."

"They weren't able to convert their third down possession. So now they have to kick it away."

"But they're losing. Why would they give it to the other team? STOP LAUGHING AT ME!!! I don't even want to watch this stupid game and I have absolutely no idea what's going on and I just wanted to know and you're treating me like I'm stupid."

"Okay, I'm sorry," I apologized. "Each team has four tries to get the ball past that yellow line. But if they barely move the ball the first 3 times, they can use their fourth try to kick it so that the other team gets the ball waaaaay down there at the end of the field."

When the Bears' second-string QB called it a day, so did all my remaining optimism. Out strolled third-string quarterback Caleb Hanie and it might as well have been a singing fat lady.

"I don't even know anything about this guy," I told Amy.

"I don't like him," she replied. "He's got a 70's porn mustache."

The substitution brought to mind many questions: What was Lovie Smith thinking? Was Jay Cutler seriously injured? And why does my Christian schoolteacher girlfriend know what a 70's porn mustache looks like?

Shockingly, Hanie brought some life back to the flailing Bears. His first outing resulted in a Chicago TD, and he was working on a second when a pass got intercepted by 348-pound Green Bay lineman B.J. Raji, whose endzone dance actually helped lessen the blow.

Amy was silent until five minutes later when she turned to me with clenched teeth and uttered, "If we lose the game because that fattypants stole the man's ball, I'm gonna be mad."

The rest of the game was entertaining -- not in its contents, but in the fact that someone was relying on ME to explain it. I got to teach about punt returns ("they kicked it out of bounds? Can they DO that?") and onside kicks ("that sounds CRAZY!") and when Hanie connected with Earl Bennett for a late touchdown run, I wasn't the one screaming the loudest.

And when Sam Shields made the game-winning pick-off to seal the deal for the Packers, I've never been prouder of my girlfriend, who stood up with all her moral turptitude and summed up the afternoon perfectly:

"NOOOOOOO!!! KILLLLLLL HIIIMMMM!!!! RIP HIS HEAD OFF AND STOMP ON HIS HEART!!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!"

And then she turned to me.

"Why do you WATCH this? I'm shaking, my stomach's in knots, and I feel sick!"

"HONEY," I replied. "Stop getting so worked up. It's just a stupid game, remember?" I think I just made my girlfriend into a Bears fan. Gulp.

COLUMN: Weightwatching

Well, I was worried that the moment I turned 40, life would become an immediate downhill slide into the sweet and loving embrace of death. It's good to know that karma hasn't let me down. A tragedy of epic proportions has befallen me, and there's little I can now do to prevent the remainder of my life from being a cacophony of misery and woe. "It's a new day," indeed: My girlfriend has joined Weight Watchers.

Now, before I open up myself up to any number of lawsuits, letters to the editor, and/or lynching parties requesting my head placed on any number of sticks, a clarification: Weight Watchers is the only diet plan on Earth whose positive results I have witnessed first-hand. From what I know, it is a cherished, intelligent, and scientifically validated weight loss program. It's also an organization that appears to care about the health and welfare of its members. Plus Jennifer Hudson looks totally bangin' now, so good on them. Just so we're perfectly clear, I am in NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM criticizing Weight Watchers or any of their programs and/or members.

I just hate it when the people around me get sucked into their vortex of healthy living. Let me explain.

I know that Weight Watchers works because when I was a kid, I saw my mom lose 98 lbs. on their program. She was such the ideal member, in fact, that she was one of the finalists for Illinois Weight Watcher of the Year back in the day, and had to go give speeches and motivate other members towards their goals. I was, and still am, proud of my mom for her accomplishments.

What I wasn't figuring, though, was how her success at Weight Watchers would destroy my adolescence.

It started without any warning. There I was, sitting in front of my trusty Apple IIe, innocently attacking some orcs or something, when I felt my stomach growling. I put the game on pause, ran out to the kitchen, opened the cabinet to grab some snacks, and... the horror.

No chips. No cookies. No Twinkies, Cup Cakes, or oatmeal creme pies. At my mother's silent encouragement, Little Debbie had just packed up and moved out overnight, ending our relationship with nary a goodbye. In her place? Little circles of marginally-edible packing foam that someone somewhere had the gall to call "rice cakes." I took one bite and barely made it to the trash can.

Now, I'm not even a big fan of Rice Krispie Treats -- and that's rice held together by molten marshmallow goodness. Imagine that same rice MINUS the marshmallowy goodness (and, heck, ANY kind of taste whatsoever,) being held together by what I can only surmise to be the dark power of Lucifer.

And that was only the beginning. The lies came next. Some of the better ones:

"After a while, Diet Coke tastes better than regular Coke." LIE. Not only is Coke the world's greatest liquid and the key to my life-force, Diet Coke tastes like a horrible, horrible error at the Coke factory.

"You'll NEVER believe this sausage is made of TURKEY!" LIE. I like turkey. I like it just fine. But call a spade a spade, people. Turkey tastes like turkey. And no matter if it's cut to look like bacon or sausage or a cheeseburger, it still tastes like turkey. Don't try to fake me out. Just say, "Hey, we're eating turkey tonight." I'll go "yum!" But if you go, "we're having bacon and sausage tonight" and then present me with a deformed turkey, I won't be amused.

"If you season this baked zucchini juuuuust right, it tastes exactly like a french fry!" LIE. Either that or my mom never ever figured out how to season the baked zucchini juuuuust right, because it pretty much juuuuust sucked.

It came to a head one night when I got home from school to find the house smelling of what could only be described as a culinary experiment gone horribly, horribly awry.

"You'll love this," my mom lied. I'm not sure what she was taking out of the oven. It was green, spongiform, and quite possibly alive. "It's a celery casserole!" she exclaimed proudly.

My mom served me first and tidied up the kitchen as I sat staring at this plate of multiple greenish hues of unknown origin.

"Nope, I can't do this," I said. "This looks like puke, it smells like puke, it is NOT going in my mouth."

I don't remember exactly what followed, but it wasn't good, and probably involved finger wagging, voices going up by half octaves, and the dread usage of my full name (Mom only ever pulls out my middle name in the heat of battle.) There was no choice -- I had to eat it.

I put one forkload in my mouth, which was exactly long enough for my tongue to go, "No, no, this shouldn't be here at all." It even FELT gross. Mushy casserole mush loaded with bits of crisp, crunchety celery. You know the guy on the Food Network whose job it is to travel the world and eat incredibly disgusting exotic food? Even he wouldn't have been able to keep this nonsense down.

I started whining again by Bite #2. By the time I'd managed two or three more, I won't kid you -- there may have been tears involved. I tried swallowing without chewing and nearly died when celery began pasting itself to my esophagus. Finally my mom made her way to the dinner table with her own glop of goo. "You're so dramatic," she scolded me. "This is really good. See?"

That was when I got to watch her take a bite. And hold it in her mouth. And try to go, "Mmmmmm! See?" She tried, she really did. Instead, she spit hers out onto the plate and said, "Okay, where should we order pizza from?"

Even though my mom came to HER senses, what's to say my girlfriend's not headed down that disastrous slope? One of the best parts of going to her house is that there's usually always some kind of cookie/cake/ice creamy deliciousness in her kitchen. It's only a matter of time before I go her freezer for some ice cream and find myself staring at a box marked "Pasteurized Frozen Digestible Tofu Non-Dairy Dessert Product." Et tu, Amy?

She's already got her points counter and menu planner. The other day we went out to eat and she pulled packets of Truvia out of her purse -- just like my mom. Next, it'll be packets of fat-free salad dressing, trust me.

My life is now deja vu, but I suppose I can't complain. There's nothing wrong with taking strides to live better. And if there's one person in this picture who needs to watch weight, it's yours truly. Instead, though, I'll live in denial and continue to whine that my girlfriend's turning into my mother, despite her promise of NEVER presenting me with a celery casserole.

I just think she'd be better off focusing on REAL problems -- like finding out why all my clothes appear to be constantly shrinking and ill-fitting.

COLUMN: Dream

In last week's column, I had a good 'n' proper 1000 word whine about turning the dread 4-0. Little did I know just how exciting a birthday it would be.

As I was busy whining about how my life was over, forces were at work. Chief among them: my girlfriend, her family, my family, and my friends, working together to create a birthday shindig of epic proportions.

It wasn't a surprise party -- I knew about it in advance. But I had no clue how cool the end result would be. A hall was rented, food procured, the obligatory embarassing baby photos donated by my mother, and even my two favorite local bands booked. As party day approached, I had actually forgotten all about the horrors of my evaporated youth and was instead focused on having an amazing night with family and friends. That was when the evening turned into something straight out of a dream.

I was on my way to the party and, like usual, running late. I decided to defy my age by cranking the iPod up to levels that tested the structural integrity of the Beetle. I was so busy rocking out that I barely saw the figure dash across the street in front of me.

I slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. I watched in horror as my front bumper clipped the man, sending him onto my hood, over the roof, and flopping onto the pavement behind me. Minutes before, I had wondered how I would be spending my 40's. And now, thanks to my distracted driving, I now knew the likely answer: PRISON. I leapt out of the car and steeled myself for the grisly scene that surely awaited me.

But as I reached the back of my car, I saw no traumatic display of entrails. Only, in the glow of the taillights, a stunned figure sitting up unexpectedly from the pavement.

"Omigosh!" I yelled. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," came the reply. "But I need your help."

"Do you need to go to the hospital? Should I call 911?"

"No, no telephones," said the voice, now sounding a bit more familiar.

"Aren't you...?"

"Vince Vaughn," said star of stage and screen Vince Vaughn. "And you just hit me with your car."

My mind was spinning. How? Why? What on Earth was Vince Vaughn doing in the Quad Cities dashing across a deserted street after dark? It really WAS like something out of a dream.

"Can you give me a ride? I've got to meet a friend."

"Sure thing," I said. He climbed into my car and gave me simple directions to a nearby office park.

"Wait here, I'll be right back."

The people at my party might wonder where the heck I was, but when I tell them I hit Vince freaking Vaughn with my car, methinks all will be forgiven. Just then, the car door opened, but Vince wasn't alone, as a second man climbed in back.

"MATT DAMON?!?!" I said in astonishment, looking at the familiar face in my back seat.

"No, I get that all the time," he replied. "My name's Bourne. Jason Bourne."

"Matt Damon's just one of his aliases," explained Vince. "He really IS a secret agent, and we need your help."

After Vince's explanation, it all made sense. The two were in town to thwart a plan concocted by Sarah Palin and, strangely, Jimmy Carter to funnel money to corrupt members of Congress via the sale of blood diamonds from Sierra Leone. Their mission: intercept these diamonds and expose the conspiracy.

"You need to come with us to pose as our Midwest friend, otherwise it'd be suspicious for just the two of us to be travelling together," said Vince. See, TOTALLY made sense.

"Umm, I guess," I said. "Where are we going?"

"Hawaii," they said in unison. The next thing I knew, I was on a plane for Hawaii. It took forever, too. Had to have been at LEAST five minutes before we got there. We landed at Hawaii, and I drove them to a local jewelry store. In minutes, they came out fleeing with bag in hand, but something was wrong.

"We've been compromised! Head for the airport!"

By the time we reached the airfield, police were swarming everywhere. We had no choice but for me to pose as a kidnapper, holding my hostages, Vince and "Matt." My demands were simple: a fueled plane and a federal no-fly zone over Hawaii to thwart pursuit. I knew the no-fly zone had been enacted when giant lasers shot into the sky and created a green laser field over the entire island. We jumped into the plane, Vince took the pilot's seat, and we were airborne.

Once clear of danger, Vince and Jason/Matt put on chutes, told me their identities couldn't be compromised, gave me instructions to fly the diamonds to a secret base in Greenland, and parachuted away. Unfortunately, Vince Vaughn had failed to ask me whether or not I was trained to pilot a small Cessna over open water, a skill which I fear I remain woefully under-educated on. That's why I decided to bail out of the plane myself, once I saw a rescue speedboat on the horizon.

The jump was rough, but I made it to the boat and was pleased to find it captained by Cameron Diaz. But when I saw that the other occupant of the vessel was former first daughter Amy Carter, I realized I had fallen into a trap. One swift ninja kick took Cameron overboard, but Amy pulled a gun and fired, causing me to fall off the back of the boat. It was a good thing, then, that the boat had an outrigging that I could grab onto and stealthily ride all the way from Hawaii to Greenland.

It was like something out of a dream. Because, of course, it WAS, which I sadly realized as my cat jumped on my sleeping head just as I was to reach Greenland with the diamonds and hopefully beat the snot out of that evil Amy Carter. But as I sat there on my couch, laughing at the most insane dream EVER, I realized somthing. 40 might have taken away my figure, my coolness, and a little bit of my hairline, but as long as my subconscious is capable of amusing me to THAT degree, it's still a life worth living.

I'd also make a joke about how my party was kinda boring in comparison to Vince Vaughn and diamond smuggling, but I can't lie: I think the party was more fun.

COLUMN: Forty

The other day, I caught a rerun of the spectacularly tacky 70's sci-fi epic, "Logan's Run." Hopefully you've experienced the so-bad-it's-good flick for yourself. If not, the premise is pretty simple: In a Utopian futureworld, mankind lives a pleasurable existence under giant domes where computers cater to your every wish. It's a paradise city where the grass is green, the girls are pretty, and your weird leisure suits of the future come in a dazzling array of pastel awesomeness.

There's just one problem: When you turn 30, a little glowy light in your hand starts blinking and you get rounded up and thrown into an arena where you fly around and get disintegrated by bad 1970's special effects while all your friends cheer.

When I saw this movie as a little kid, I was HORRIFIED at the prospect of a society gone so wrong as to arbitrarily put a limit on human existence. This time around? I was like, "Eh. Kinda makes sense." I'm starting to realize that life's a big downhill slide after 30. Maybe Logan's people had it right all along. After all, who am I to deny my friends a nice fireworks display? Okay, sure, I might be dead, but I'd be spared yet another night of watching a "Billy-the-Exterminator"-a-thon on A&E.

It's time I faced a cold, hard fact. By the time you read this column, I will be FORTY years old. I couldn't even type that sentence without my stomach tying up in knots. The way I see it, by age alone, I am now officially disqualified from the primary motivating factor in my life: I can never be cool again.

Not that I ever particularly WAS cool, mind you. It was just something nice to strive for.

Forty year olds just aren't cool. Name one, I dare ya. At the very best, you can come up with some people who once WERE cool, but lost it mightily when they hit my age. Look at the evidence. Paul McCartney was a cool dude once upon a time. What happened when he hit forty? "Ebony and Ivory." M. Night Shyamalan was once the coolest film director in the world. He turns 40 and - bam! - "The Last Airbender." Brett Favre went sexting. Madonna thought it'd be a good idea to cover "American Pie." Forget Buddy Holly - Don McLean should have written a tragic hit about your 40th birthday: It IS the day your coolness dies.

The biggest problem I've got with this particular birthday? It pretty much makes me over-the-hill for ANY of the activities I enjoy doing. ANY of them. I just wrote out a list of my all-time favorite leisure activities, and every last one of them sounds patentedly ridiculous for a 40-year-old to be doing, unless that 40-year-old is an aspiring child predator. Don't believe me? Let's go through it:

#1 - VIDEO GAMES. When was the last time you saw a 40-year-old playing video games? Steve Carell's character did it in "The 40 Year Old Virgin." But it was a plot device. It was in the movie to point out what his life was lacking and make you laugh at what a sad little dweeb he was. Well I'm 40 years old and I like playing video games and I don't care what people have to say about it. Call me a nerd all you want, but doggone it, I still swear it's cathartic to get home from a long day at the office and shoot some kid in the face on "Call of Duty."

The problem with today's video games, though, is that they're not designed for the gracefully-aging 40-year-old. They're designed for the white hot reflexes of your garden variety hyperactive 12-year-old. That's why in actuality, I'm really quite horrible at "Call of Duty." By the time I've figured out how to aim my weapon, I've already taken a sniper rifle to the chest and can hear some 12-year-old laughing hysterically that I've been "pwned," whatever that means. The other day in a 5-minute round, I had 0 kills and 19 deaths. (Translation to OTHER 40-year-olds out there: That's baaaad.) I'm being edged out of my love for video games by natural selection.

#2 - DJing. I love mixing records at nightclubs. It's my primary passion in life and practically the only hobby I've ever known. Any idea how hard it is to convince a club owner that you're the best DJ in town when you're also the OLDEST? 40-year-old DJ's don't usually work nightclubs; at best, they're the guys in the lame smelly tuxes trying to teach your Aunt Edna how to do the Electric Slide at your wedding reception.

#3 - MUSIC. A terrifying thing happened to me the other day. I normally have my morning alarm clock set to the Top 40 attack of B100 or my pal Jeff James on Star 93.5. But the other night, one of my cats must have brushed the dial, because I woke up to the sugary melodic soft rock of KUUL-FM Oldies. More specifically, it was the soothing melody of "Ventura Highway" by America. And, as I lie there in bed struggling to find my brain's power button, the only thought that went through my head was: "WOW. What a great song this is." I LIKE SOFT ROCK?!?! SINCE WHEN?!?! If you EVER catch me listening to Celine Dion in a non-mocking manner, you have my full blessing to assassinate me in the promptest of ways.

#4 - AIMLESS DRIVING. Nothing clears the head quite like getting in the car with no agenda or destination and just driving. At least, it USED to clear my head. Nowadays it fills with thoughts like, "Gee, I should really add some Heet to the gas tank." "I wonder how the tread's wearing on these tires?" "Did you remember to pack your emergency kit and blanket in the event that your car breaks down?" Maturity is a FUN-KILLER, folks.

So I'm just gonna pretend this week's birthday didn't really happen. As far as anyone's concerned, I'm 39 until further notice. And based on the number of co-workers who went "WOW! YOU'RE 40?!?!" when it came up, I think I'm holding my own for now. I've still got my hair, I'm still relatively wrinkle-free, and I'm still the guy who turns the volume on the car stereo up instead of down. And if you need me, I'll be the guy in a fetal position over in the corner, sobbing and rocking back and forth, probably to the beat of "Ventura Highway." My name's Shane, and I'm in my forties.

COLUMN: Best o' 2010

Somebody asked me the other day what the biggest payoff of having a column in the newspaper was. The fame? The ladies? The creative freedom? The fact that I'm lucky enough to have my own weekly sounding board to prattle endlessly about pretty much anything I fancy? Nope. THIS right here is my payoff: the annual New Year column in which I can shove my eccentric and/or exceptional musical taste down your throats by this, my list of The Best Albums of 2010.

#10 - Alphabeat, "...The Beat Is" (Polydor UK.) America is SO far behind the times when it comes to pop music. I'd love to tell you to march straight down to the nearest retailer and pick up a copy of "The Beat Is." Sadly, you can't get Alphabeat records in North America without importing them (which, it must be said, our local Co-Op Records CAN do. Tell 'em Shane sent you.) The Dutch phenoms have been entirely overlooked in the U.S., and it's almost criminal. Their new record is once again laden with infectious, unashamed pop, evoking ghosts of 90's dance culture like Black Box and Roxette, but with the goofy and lovable charm that makes Alphabeat a true pleasure to listen to.



#9 - Lissie, "Catching A Tiger" (Fat Possum.) Wow. Talk about a local girl done good. We never heard much of Lissie Maurus while she was growing up in Rock Island, but these days you can't find a music magazine that hasn't given considerable press to her astonishing debut record. Now a resident of Oja, California, Lissie's brand of homemade bluesy folk meshed into the 2010 coffeehouse crowd and earned her tours with Lenny Kravitz, and, oddly enough, a Billboard Top 10 dance track thanks to a DJ collaboration. But it's alone with little more than an acoustic guitar where Lissie really shines, with a voice that runs the gamut from Stevie Nicks to Bobbie Gentry and an unparallelled knack for crafting stick-in-your-head gems.



#8 - The 1900s, "Return of the Century" (Parasol.) Chicago's 1900s became instantly buzzworthy in 2007 with their debut release. Back then, the umpteen-membered band was known for their near flawless recreation of folksy 60's pop pastiche. But in true Fleetwood Mac fashion, inter-band relationships crumbled and members walked. Now down to a 6-piece, the more streamlined and focused 1900s wow us with a follow-up that's more concerned about the music than the retro family vibe. It's jam-packed with challenging yet direct earnest songwriting exploding with hooks -- and did I mention it's a concept record about an underworld cult?


#7 - Robyn, "Body Talk" (Interscope/Konichiwa/Cherrytree). When Scandinavian chanteuse Robyn announced her plans to release THREE albums in 2010, we wondered if the feisty diva had finally bitten off more than she could chew. Nope, and "Body Talk," the latter of the three, serves as a best-of from the previous records PLUS five new songs. It's a full-steam-ahead example of why this small-framed firecracker packs more of a whallop than Madonna or Lady Gaga. She's a superstar in almost every other country in the world, and with just a little luck (and a huge 2011 tour in the works,) the US will soon follow.


#6 - Kanye West, "My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy" (Roc-A-Fella). So let's recap: You call the President a racist on live TV, then you follow it up by stage-crashing the MTV awards and making America's sweetheart Taylor Swift cry. And you do it all while declaring yourself a more important performer than the Beatles. Career suicide has never looked easier. So what do you do next? Hold on, I'm-a let you finish, Kanye West, but you just made one of the best rap albums of ALL TIME. There's a part of me that wants to hate the boorish ego of Kanye West, but it's that same ego that drives him to make the most revolutionary, creative, and ground-breaking hip-hop of our time, and this just might be his "Sgt. Pepper."


#5 - Sleigh Bells, "Treats" (Mom+Pop/N.E.E.T.) Every once in a while, you just need a record to get your frustration out and perhaps test the structural integrity of your car audio system. "Treats" is NOT Mozart, but it's the most fun record of the year. It goes like this: Derek Miller had just left the hardcore band Poison The Well and was making ends meet by waiting tables at a Brooklyn restaurant. In walks Alexis Krauss, a former singer with the failed girlgroup Rubyblue. The two get to talking and Sleigh Bells is born. The formula is simple: Krauss sings sugar-sweet pop hooks while Miller assassinates them all with a sonic maelstrom of jagged guitars and drum machines so intense that no speakers are safe. It ain't rocket science, but it's as loud as one.


#4 - Tame Impala, "Innerspeaker" (Modular.) Most people think of cool bands as always hailing from big city scenes (Seattle, London, New York City, etc.,) but sometimes the most creativity comes from bands in fringe areas without a scene to influence them. Perth in Western Australia is about as fringe as you can get, and that's where Tame Impala were stuck making bedroom records for their own pleasure until a demo on Myspace led to a bidding war and loud critical buzz. Worthy accolades, too, as "Innerspeaker" runs the gamut from Beatles-esque psychedelia to 70's arena rock. Easily the most adventurous record I've heard all year.


#3 - Yeasayer, "Odd Blood" (Strictly Canadian.) Yeasayer are one of those bands easily written off as weird for the sake of weird, mixing tribal percussion with vaguely mystical lyrics - you know, the kind of stuff for hipster kids to power up their cool factor and drive their parents insane at the same time. But a weird thing happened on this, their second album: the band discovered the power of pop music. When their Eastern influences meet killer pop hooks, the end result is an uplifting record of unsurpassed charm and catchiness. If The Talking Heads were still around making music today, they'd probably sound a lot like these guys.


#2 - LCD Soundsystem, "This is Happening" (Virgin/Parlophone/DFA.) When music critics first hailed James Murphy and his one-man dance showcase as the Coming of the Great Musical Messiah, I wasn't buying into it. Finally, I get it. On his third (and purportedly final) LCD Soundsystem record, Murphy channels the ghosts of Eno, Bowie, and Iggy Pop, then rams them head-first into a drum machine. The end result is a thinking man's dance record that works just as well in your headphones as it does coming out a subwoofer at your favorite club.


#1 - The Brother Kite, "Isolation" (Claire.) This unknown little band from Providence, Rhode Island won my heart with their last record, but when the band announced they were ditching their trademark wall-of-sound in favor of a more sparse and intimate feel, I was horrified -- until I heard the end result. "Isolation" brings with it all the pomp and explosiveness that made me fall in love with The Brother Kite, but by trading in their layered guitars for a more subdued approach, the newfound breathing room lets the emotion and intensity in the songs shine. What we're left with is once again nothing less than the best record I've heard all year.

COLUMN: Back to the Manger

"The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts, but is also the return of art to life."

The legendary Oscar Wilde uttered those words in 1885, and ne'er have they rung more true than today. Every weekend, countless performances come to us courtesy of our local theatre scene. Our area perfoming arts collective is a culturally-rewarding underground zeitgeist of passion, sweat, tears, and joy.

Still, for all of the great dramatic fare that graces our local stages, rare is it when a performance comes along that transcends the stage and becomes a living embodiment of pure art. A dramatic presentation so moving, so full of emotional depth that those lucky enough to be in attendance will be fundamentally changed as people forever.

I refer, of course, to this season's most sought-after ticket: Morning Star Academy's K-6 2010 Christmas Program, the epic saga "Back to the Manger."

There's no arguing that this musical tour de force was THE greatest stage production in the history of human existence, but now we acclaimed critics of great acclaim must tackle the impossible question: why? What makes "Back to the Manger" burn with a fiery fervor, captivate with visceral intensity, and do other big words with other big words?

Clearly, it's all due to the performance of the break-out star of the year. "Back to the Manger" is a tale of love,loss, redemption, and a time machine -- but without the pivotal portrayal of Mr. Olson The School Janitor, the entire production would have fallen flat. To find an acting talent to handle such a challenging and coveted role had to be an arduous process, but the actor chosen not only commanded the part, he brought the inner nuances of Mr. Olson to life in a way that left everyone in the audience that night a better person for it.

That actor's name? Okay, fine. It was me.

It was another one of those "hey babe" moments. My grade-school-teacher girlfriend knows just when to spring things like this on me. "Hey babe?" she said, back in, oh, June or something. "My school needs someone to play a tiny little role as a janitor in their Christmas program. Would you do it?"

It's no secret that I'll do anything for my girlfriend.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" I replied. "I'd rather be stung by bees. I'd rather watch a marathon of 'Full House.' I'd rather listen to the complete discography of Celine Dion in quadrophonic surround sound than act in a school play. Sorry, it's not for me."

Thus followed a campaign of puppy-dog eyes and back scratches the likes of which the world has never seen. Eventually, after WEEKS of goading, and I think after some totally unrelated squabble that required a colossal make-good on my part, I relented.

"Fine. I'll be in your dumb little play thing."

"Eeeeeeee!" came the wide-eyed response. "Really?" Sigh. Sucker, thy name is Shane.

Now, when I hear "tiny little role as a janitor," I think to myself, "I bet I'm in the background sweeping or something." But, lo, this role had LINES. MULTIPLE lines, in MULTIPLE scenes. And worst of all? At the very end of the play, I had, like, a triumphant epic half-page speech. It was the "Back to the Manger" equivalent of Linus' monologue at the crux of "A Charlie Brown Christmas." This little role had MEAT.

I got into drama in high school because drama geeks were the coolest of the nerd hierarchy. I had no natural acting talent, but I could remember lines and usually had no problem scoring supporting roles that allowed me to hang with the cool nerds and occasionally put the moves on arty theatre girls.

But in high school, I vowed to put an end to it. During a performance in the round with me in a wee side role, the scene ended with the actors freezing in place before the lights went down. I froze on cue, but I happened to freeze staring directly at a white-hot stage light. When the lights went out, I went temporarily blind, missed the exit tape on the floor, and proceeded to walk straight into the audience, plummeting into the first four rows and shoving my hand down the esophagus of the Galesburg High School version of The Little Red-Haired Girl I Had Longed To Date for Years. It was the epic fail of all epic fails, and the precise moment I decided that the stage was NOT for me.

Yet here I was, ready to tackle the role of Mr. Olson, the money-hungry janitor who builds a time machine that the kids steal to go back in time to teach me the true meaning of Christmas. Oh boy. Well, at least I'm good at memorizing lines...

Correction: At least I WAS good at memorizing lines back in the '80s. Twenty-some-odd years later? Not so much. Eventually, after a rough cram session, I was good to go -- but I've got to confess that, for my pivotal final line, I had the monologue crib-noted and taped inside the Bible I had to carry, which might just be sacrilege, I'm pretty sure. Worse yet is that I forgot to take it OUT of the Bible afterwards, so the next time you're at Bettendorf Christian Church and need to read Psalm 32, there's going to be one confused parishioner amongst you.

Before the curtain, I was taking places backstage with the 11-year-old star of the show who turned to me nervously and asked, "Are you scared? Coz I kinda am!"

"No no," I lied profusely while holding the Bible that I had just desecrated, which I think might be reeeeal bad but I'm hoping someone upstairs will let slide on the basis of good intentions. "I'm just excited and full of energy because we're gonna go out there and do our best and have fun and show everybody the real meaning of Christmas!"

It was the best acting I would do the whole night. Truth be told, I was more scared than every one of those kids combined and already sweating like a jogger. But the lights came up, the kids sang their hearts out, I didn't botch any of my lines, and in the end we were ALL upstaged by a little first-grader who belted out the cutest solo of "Away in a Manger" that's ever been.

All told, it was a success, and it was really cool to see the kids of Morning Star beaming with pride and accomplishment afterwards. I'm happy I got to be a part of it. Well, kinda happy.

"Great job," said the director to me afterwards. "And now that I know you can act, we're gonna be calling on you NEXT year..."

I would, but I've got this Celine Dion CD to listen to...

COLUMN: VanDerGinst Pt. 2

It's been confirmed: I am now officially a Local Celebrity of Great Importance.

I've been trying to tell you people this for years -- and now I've finally got the proof. Two weeks ago, yours truly was a celebrity bartender at the 2010 VanDerGinst Holiday Bash. I have officially reached the big time. Soon, I will be rubbing shoulders with the upper eschelon of local celebrity icons. Look out, Paula Sands. Step aside, Mary from Good's. Heads up, Orby the Super Van Man. Say it ain't so, Dave Necker. There's a new kid in town.

Actually, I'm guessing our important columnists were busy because offers like this do NOT routinely land on my desk. But land it did, and who am I to deny a charitable event the splendor of my presence? Ergo, I accepted their offer, and my girlfriend and I prepared for a long winter's night of bartending and celebrity-ing.

Too bad I know absolutely nothing about bartending and even less about being a celebrity. We'd have to wing all that. The first step was to get ready for the event, a process so epic and time-consuming in nature that it required LAST week's column to report in detail. If you happened to read that, you already know the skinny:

Our last-minute invite caused a last-minute panicked dash to the stores for ANYTHING we could refer to as "formalwear." As I detailed last week, our trek to one of the big box stores ended with my girlfriend in tears and me seething with rage, thanks to The Rudest Store Clerk Ever. For the first time in the history of Shane, I was mad enough to complain to a manager.

The clerk who handled my complaint got on a little walkie-talkie and asked for a manager because "there's an L.O.D. situation." The manager who came up was super nice and apologetic and got our day back on track, but days later, I still can't help but wonder just what "L.O.D." stands for. "Livid Old Dummy?" "Loud Obstinant Diva?" I'm gonna go with "Lively Original Dude Whom It Was A Pleasure To Assist" but they just didn't want to say L.O.D.W.I.W.A.P.T.A. on the walkie.

Regardless, it was time to stop being a LODWIWAPTA and start being a celebrity. We got to the party with plenty of time to spare and --

Wait. I need to backtrack one last time. One of the advantages of being an acclaimed celebrity is that I can now name-drop the other celebrities I know, and I'm pals with local radio guy Red Hot Brian Scott. I had heard on the radio that Red Hot was doing the announcements at the Bash, so I shot him a fun celebrity-to-celebrity text message, something like "TURNS OUT I'M CLBRTY BRTNDING 2NITE. CYA THERE. NEED A HAND?"

I was expecting some kind of "LOL" hob-knobbing response (like we famous people do.) Instead I get: "YES! NEED DJ FOR END OF NITE. CAN U DO IT?!?!" Like that, I was celebrity bartending AND celebrity DJ'ing. The things I do for charity...

So my girlfriend and I get to the event and it's a splendid affair of holiday merriment, fancy dresses, and boatloads of money being raised for a good cause. My fears were alleviated early on, as it turns out that I wasn't celebrity bartending so much as celebrity drink-handing-to-people. Our station served only one flavor of martini, professionally mixed by real bartenders. My job was to take the drink and hand it to the customers while they lined up in hordes for the honor of meeting someone as famous and engaging as myself.

Only one problem: No one there had any clue who I was. Let's face it, the aged photo that runs next to my column is almost a decade old and looks nothing like me. And as I was a late confirmation, my name was missing from all signs and schedules. As I stood there proudly, I realized that I was no celebrity; I was just Some Dude Behind A Bar, a face-less unpaid employee. Awesome.

Still, it was for a great cause, so we soldiered on and had fun with it. Mostly we had fun watching people walk right on by. Eventually, a woman sauntered up to the bar. And nnnnnope, she had no clue who I was. Still, we had fun chatting and I perfectly executed my drink-handing task without fail. I was beaming with pride -- until the REAL bartender a minute later goes, "Wait, did you get her money?"

That's right, I think I'm the only celebrity bartender in history to COST the charity six bucks. I went to re-pay the till from my own celebrity pocket when I realized that, in the rush to get ready, the one thing I DIDN'T remember was cash. Right before my shift ended, the same woman came up for another drink, and this time I got her money. What I DIDN'T get, though, was her drink. While I was turning to execute my drink-handing task, she absent-mindedly picked up the drink already on the table and sauntered off. The drink the bartender mixed as a sample some two hours prior. So let's recap my performance as a celebrity bartender: I give one drink away for free, then charged a customer for a 2-hour-old stale room-temperature martini. I am CERTAIN to get asked back next year.

Eventually, my shift was over and I was replaced by KWQC anchor Jessica Tighe (super nice) and meteorologist Greg Dutra (also super nice, and bonus points for looking like Fred Savage from "The Wonder Years.") Suddenly, a flock of people showed up wanting THEIR martinis.

My girlfriend hob-knobbing with the other celebrity bartenders. She's the one NOT on KWQC.

I must say, my stint as celebrity DJ went far better than bartending. Red Hot didn't miss any opportunity to give me grief, adding more and more faux accolades to my name every time he announced me. I believe I went from "columnist Shane Brown" to "nationally syndicated columnist Shane Brown" (lie) to finally "Pulitzer Prize winning columnist Shane Brown" (biiig lie.) By the end of the night, it was how it should be: shirt and tie crumpled in a heap, t-shirt on, full dancefloor, laughing with friends, raising money for a fantastic cause. And one lone woman in the crowd came up and told me how much she liked reading this column, and that was all it took for me to have an amazing night.

I might make a lousy bartender, but I hope VanDerGinst invites me back next year. Maybe I can celebrity-park-cars or something.

COLUMN: VanDerGinst Pt. 1

Every year around this time, I get the itch to find the Christmas spirit. I crave proof that this holiday amounts to more than crass consumerism. I want magic in the air, children laughing, and chestnuts roasting on open fires even though I had one last year and it was super gross. I demand nothing less than the living embodiment of the monologue at the end of A Charlie Brown Christmas. Will 2010 be that year?

It started, as most good tales do, with a phone call.

It was my friend from the newsroom, Jonathan Turner, with an interesting proposition. As most of you know, every year the Quad Cities has a gala Christmas bash put on by our friends at the VanDerGinst Law firm. It's a time-honored and heralded local tradition. Except, of course, for the fact that I'd never heard of it. Let's face it, my idea of a Christmas gala is microwave brownies and reruns of "Elf." High falutin' and cultured I am NOT.

Still, Jonathan was calling me because the folks at VanDerGinst wanted a known face from our papers to serve as a "Celebrity Bartender" at the event alongside other recognizable media personalities. Well, apparantly all the known faces at our papers were otherwise occupied, because the offer strangely ended up my way. I mulled it over for a night.

I know NOTHING about bartending, I have crippling social anxiety when it comes to milling about with strangers, and I'm about as well-known a celebrity as your average house-bound agoraphobic. I was already practicing my "thanks-but-no-thanks" speech.

But I also had a girlfriend who squealed when I told her the news. "Eeeeeee!" she said, "That sounds FUN! We should totally go!" Well, if nothing else, there's supposed to be complimentary "heavy hors d'oevres," and if there's one thing I'm a sucker for, it's some heavy hors. Besides, I figured, it's all for charity -- and maybe by giving back to the community, I'll capture some of that elusive Christmas spirit.

Last Saturday was the big day, and it started off with my girlfriend arriving with a garment bag the size of Rhode Island and a rousing game of "which-outfit-do-you-like-best?" (note to guys: the only acceptable answer here is to say "ALL OF THEM.") Upon her suggestion, I sent a text to my contact at VanDerGinst inquiring about dress code.

"OOH, GOOD THING U ASKED," came the reply. "GIRLS IN BLACK DRESSES, COCKTAIL TO EVENING GOWNS. GUYS IN SUIT, SOME IN TUX, SHIRT/TIE. THAT HELP?"

Well, "Help!" is definitely one word that crossed my mind. In my world, "dressing up" means "a shirt with buttons." When I wear a tie, it means one of two things: "Yes, I would like this job" or "I'm so sorry for your loss." I haven't worn a tux since Prom '88. I was in trouble deep. I showed my girlfriend the message. She took a breath, paused, and just said, "Get in the car. Now." I know when to shut up and when to move, and this was a shut-up-and-move moment.

Some people excel at athletics. Others excel at business. My Amy excels at shopping. She's the only person I've ever met who can come home with a new wardrobe and announce that the whole thing cost twelve dollars. She's a genius at thrifty shopping, and I was just along for the ride. And the credit card. And dealing with rude employees, of which there were MANY.

At one store, I was trying to buy a dress shirt despite the clerk NOT allowing me to try it on. And when I DID finally try on her idea of a perfect fit? Well, my neck is where I choose to store all the leftover pizza for the long winter months ahead, and let's just say my second chin grew a third and a fourth and they were all trying to escape the dreaded stranglehold of that collar.

But nothing could have prepped us for the rudeness of our final bulls-eye: a big box mega-store that shall remain nameless. This store is Amy's natural habitat; she knows its every nook, cranny, and clearance rack. With skillful precision, she swept down the aisles, grabbed five different dresses in a blur, and headed to the fitting rooms. Staffing the area was an over-worked clerk trying to balance two customers AND a telephone call. By this point, we were in a HUGE hurry and the fitting rooms were empty, so Amy bolted into the nearest one. Or would have, had Ms. Clerky NOT had a fit.

"MA'AM! MA'AM! MA'AM! YOU NEED A NUMBER!"

"Really?" muttered Amy under her breath. This woman was impeding our quick-shopping mojo. "This is ridiculous..."

And as the clerk returned to her desk, I overheard one of the customers say, "I'm so sorry that girl was SOOOOOO rude to you."

"Well," replied Ms. Clerky, "This time of year some of us are just jolly and some of us are just grinches!" SAY WHAT? DID YOU JUST CALL MY GIRLFRIEND A GRINCH?! My girlfriend is known far throughout the land for 3 things: (1) Her occasionally insufferable niceness, (2) her love of Christmas, and (3) her love of the very store we were standing in. I couldn't keep quiet.

"Actually," I leapt in, "we're just in a big hurry and you looked understaffed and busy and we were just trying to save you some..."

That's when Amy came out of the dressing room and handed her the number tag back.

The clerk shot us daggers and said venomously, "Thannk yooou. You have a niiiice day." It was the closest I've ever heard "You have a nice day" sound like a swear word. It's also the closest I've ever come to wanting to hit a woman. Or a man, for that matter. Or, well, ANYTHING. I don't even know how to hit something. Still, I was hot.

"Put down ALL this stuff and let's leave," I said to Amy. "Now."

"No," said Amy on the verge of tears, "I'm not letting some horrible lady ruin my favorite store."

So we held our grinchy heads high, found our clothes, checked out, and then complained to the store manager until we were blue in the face and red in the eyes. And as much as I hope the world finds Christmas joy, I wouldn't weep for Ms. Clerky if Santa stuck her with coal.

On the lighter side, we now had the clothes, the style, and a newfound holiday bloodlust for violence. Would we find the spirit of Christmas at the VanDerGinst holiday bash? Or would I end up going ten rounds with the coat-check guy? I'll finish the story... next week.

COLUMN: Vinyl

This week's column might be a tough one. I fear I've lost my grip on the English language this week. I've been sitting here in front of this laptop waiting for wisdom to come pouring out of my fingers, but the only thing that my brain has emitted thus far is an off-tune "ABCDEFG." I fear I may be suffering from Post Traumatic Alphabetization Disorder. To fully understand the malady, you need to go on a brief yet fascinating ride into the mind of a self-confessed music nerd.

As I've written before, my project since summer began has been the transformation of my basement into a fully functional man-cave/media center, and we've finally reached a crucial stage. I'm proud to report that, over the past week, the shelving units for my music collection have been installed. The next step? Getting said music collection out of the mountain of cardboard boxes in my basement and into some semblance of alphabetical order. This is no easy task.

I have to own up here. I own a LOT of music. I mean, a LOT of music. There's a fine line between "wow-your-collection-is-quite-impressive" and "wow-someone-from-TLC-needs-to-come-document-your-life-as-a-hoarder," and I fear I may have crossed that line about a decade back. My music collection outgrew my first apartment, then it outgrew my second apartment, and now it barely fits snugly into my house. It is an unwieldly, impressive beast, and, depending on who you ask, is referred to as either "my life's greatest achievement" or "what the hell are we gonna do with this junk after you die?"

Now, I need to interject for a second here, as one of my co-workers just reminded me that it might not be the smartest move to mention one's massive music collection in a public newspaper column if one doesn't want one's house robbed... which brings me to an important sidebar entitled:

Reasons Why I Would Really Prefer It If You Didn't Rob Me
by Shane

(1) As such a goodly portion of my annual income goes directly into the hands of area record store owners, the result is that I have an impressive collection of near-worthless music, but live on the poverty line as a result. If you're looking for high-ticket items to steal, there's far better houses to case, trust me.

(2) Music is quite possibly the most ridiculous of all collectibles. Its resale value is slim to none. The minute you unwrap the plastic off an $18 CD from Best Buy, you've devalued your purchase to about 50 cents. If you're looking for a get-rich-quick haul, used CDs are NOT the way to go.

(3) Besides, what I'm REALLY into collecting are albums and CDs of, as my girlfriend puts it, "whiny British garbage." Most of my favorite bands are UK indie acts never heard of in America, so you should REALLY only rob me if you're a big Britpop fan -- and if that's the case, we should probably be friends instead of the traditional robber-victim relationship.

(4) As I've recently discovered, vinyl records en masse weigh A LOT. Just shuffling those boxes around from point A to point B in my basement is enough to do my back in. Trust me, it's not worth getting them up the stairs. I'm no expert on thievery, but if I were looking towards a career in professional pilfering, I'd specialize in more weightless pursuits, like, say, small diamonds or perhaps rare feathers.

(5) You could totally mess up my alphabetization. Then I'd get seriously mad.

The truth of the matter is, your average hoarding music nerd is often too busy alphabetizing their collection to bother listening to any of it. And now I get to start the organization process over completely from scratch, as all of my precious music was thrown in boxes rather haphazardly when I moved in.

You'd think that alphabetization would come easy for me. After all, I'm a professional journalisty-type dude, right? We're supposed to be known for our amazing grasp of grammar and the English language. When I took my first journalism class in high school, I was handed the ultimate guide to the English language: Strunk & White's "The Elements of Style," whose weather-worn cover still sits on my desk to this day. We know it is the ultimate grammatical resource because it was co-authored by the guy who wrote "Charlotte's Web," ergo I like to think that every time we make a grammatical error in print, a spider dies. Thankfully, as a resident of the Arts & Living section, I'm not quite chained to S&W's non-flinching rules. I don't have to have perfect sentence structure with nouns and verbs. I can write fragmented sentences for effect. Like this one. Or this. Cool, eh?

Too bad Strunk, White, or Charlotte can't help when it comes to alphabetization drama. And oh, is there drama. I kid you not, when I used to work at Co-Op Records fresh out of college, my fellow music nerds and I would have fights - and I mean raised-voice, clenched-fist fights - over where to file certain records.

Take, for instance, The Dave Matthews Band. Where's it get alphabetized, D or M? Since it's a singular band name, tradition says "D." I vote "M," only because Dave has band-less solo records out as well, and it'd be weird to have some of his stuff under D and some under M, no? But if that's the case, shouldn't it follow to put the Dave Clark Five under "C"? That seems weird.

Rappers are a particular headache. Do you ignore the prefixes of "MC" and "DJ"? What about "Dr." and "Li'l"? Kanye West goes under W, but Fat Joe goes under F. Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs changes his name so much his CD's are in, like, 4 different places. Ron C goes under C, but does that mean Jay-Z should go under Z? Missy Elliott gets filed under E, but does that mean Joe Sinister gets sorted as "Sinister, Joe"? It's a slippery slope until Meat Loaf becomes "Loaf, Meat."

These are the things that keep me up late at night. You can worry about the economy and rising Korean tensions and the situation in Darfur all you like. I'm a little busy trying to figure out whether Big Daddy Kane gets filed under B, D, or K.

COLUMN: Booty Got Swag

It's a firmly held belief of mine that everyone on Earth should possess at least one skill that he or she can openly brag about without shame or repercussion. In the grand scheme of life, I'm kind of a weenie. I'm horribly out of shape, often completely bereft of common sense, and my social skills are iffy at best.

But there's one thing in life that I'm proud to be really, really, mind-bogglingly good at: DJing. Whether you're at a wedding or a party, a rave or a nightclub -- if I'm in the DJ booth, you're going to have fun.

Cocky? You betcha, but I've earned it through a LOT of practice. I've been moonlighting as a club DJ for almost every weekend since 1986, so if I wasn't any good by now, there'd be a problem. DJing parties and events fuels me. There is NO greater rush than mixing into JUST the right song at JUST the right moment to send the dancefloor into overdrive. I can't dance, I can't play any instruments, and I certainly can't sing. But for those fleeting moments when I'm in the DJ booth and the soundtrack to the evening lies in my hands, I'm a rock and roll star.

At least, I thought I was -- until some teenagers figured out a way to deflate my ego.

About two months ago, I worked for the final time at the Rock Island District nightclub that I've called home for the past ten years. Since then, I've been freelancing at various clubs around the Quad Cities. While I miss my old haunt, the prospect of change is kind of exciting. When you mix music for the same crowd night after night week after week, you run the risk of putting yourself on DJ autopilot. Instead, I recently accepted one of the most challenging gigs in town. For the past 5 weekends, I've been DJing the final run of the fall season at Energy, the under-21 teen dance club in Davenport.

In the dog-eat-dog, take-no-prisoners world of semi-professional DJing, excelling at a teen club is like reaching the summit of Everest. When you're at a college bar, the music is often the last thing on people's minds. Adult beverages are flowing and a majority of patrons are a bit too preoccupied by the mating rituals of the Drunken Human to fully appreciate the way you just deftly mixed "Sexyback" into "Billie Jean." But when you're in high school, your life revolves around pop culture. You're dead sober, judgemental as heck, and you know every nuance to every song on the Top 40 chart, even the ones you hate. Kids pay ATTENTION, and kids immediately know the difference between a good DJ and a sucky one. When you mix for teenagers, you'd better bring your A-game.

I thought I was ready. I didn't prepare a single thing. I showed up with my usual gear, my usual know-how, and my usual ego. As the doors opened, I hit a few of my better mixes to set the tone for the evening, while the kids lined up at the booth to write requests down. After about ten minutes, I had a full sheet so I grabbed it to take a look. That's when my ego got up and took the first cab home.

I stood there, staring dumbfounded, at a list of about 20 songs -- of which I knew precisely... one. Could it be that your faithful columnist, your pop culture hero, your hip and happening music nerd, was (gasp) UNCOOL?? Clearly I had some homework to do.

Whew. It turned out that most of the songs I didn't know were all non-Top-40 album tracks by a rapper named Soulja Boy Tell 'Em. And now I understood why I didn't know them. Soulja Boy makes juvenile and borderline risque songs that appeal to few except hormonal 16-year-olds who've yet to learn the difference between good and bad music. Like Justin Bieber, if Justin Bieber only rapped about butts.

Don't believe me? Half of the requests were for a gem of his called "Booty Got Swag." Say what? Whose booty got what? When I was a kid, swag meant free stuff, as in "I went to this job fair and got all this sweet swag." But then again, once upon a time, "booty" meant pirate treasure or free stuff as well. "Free stuff got free stuff?" Surely not. That's when I did the uncoolest thing of my life and went to the online Urban Dictionary. And "swag" now means "confidence, style, and demeanor." In fact, with help from the Urban Dictionary, this gem of a song reaches emotional depth of Shakespearean levels:

"Her booty got swag, her booty got swag, her booty got swag"
- Her buttocks have confidence, her buttocks have style, and her buttocks have demeanor.

"Now dip it down then roll with it"
- Which is why they should move about promptly.

"Her booty so big I can hang my chain from it"
- Her buttocks could theoretically be adorned with my necklace.

"I'm good if u wit it I'm wit it"
- How are you? I am fine.

"Souljaboytellem first verse let's get it"
- My name is Soulja Boy Tell Em. I will now rap about our activities.

"She got a donk part two was happenin"
- This fine tune is a sequel to my past song of equal intelligence, "She Got A Donk."

"New money and I got it from rappin"
- I routinely receive payment to discuss your buttocks.

"100 flips wrapped up in plastic"
- I possess a great amount of illegal drugs. Or possibly 100 Filipinos whom I speak of derogatively and cover in plastic.

"Shake it up and down can I grab it"
- I now wish to grope you. Is that acceptable?

"Mic check Gucci bandana, girl I see you in dem sandals"
- My microphone is functioning. I have expensive headgear. You have shoes. I see them.

"Might be too much to handle, Soulja Boy TV that's my channel."
- You are an intense dance partner. I have a streaming internet television station.

"Get it get it get it get it get it get it get it get it get it get it"
- Umm... Get it.

"Twerk twerk twerk twerk twerk twerk"
- I can make silly noises. I am done rapping now.

Clearly, the "American Pie" of our time. The good news is that I'm not uncool. I've just got grown-up taste in dance music. And maybe it's time to head back to employment in a grown-up nightclub. Anyone hiring?

COLUMN: Thanks

Ah, yes, Thanksgiving. The time of year when we put aside our hardships and take stock in what really matters in life -- basketball tournaments and the life-endangering over-consumption of turkey. Ergo, I spend this week's column space giving thanks:

• to TBS, for bringing back our beloved Coco, the true king of late night. And thanks to Andy Richter for sticking around and being the best sidekick on TV.

• to my new house*. (*Subject to change after first snowfall and inaugural snow shoveling session. Which reminds me, how does one of these shovels work? I've got one in my garage, but I've yet to find the "on" switch...)

• to Harmonix, the makers of Rock Band 3, the sequel to the sequel of the best video game ever and the greatest waste of time I've ever encountered in my life. The bad news is that I'm only ranked #113th in the world right now, so I've got a lot of work ahead of me. The really bad news is that sales of rhythm-based music games like Rock Band and Guitar Hero are nosediving right now, which I can't understand. I mean, what marketing campaign makes kids rush out and buy video games better than whole-hearted endorsements from chubby middle-aged newspaper columnists old enough to be their dad?

• to Starbucks, the official fuel of Shane Brown.

• to NASCAR drivers Kyle Busch and Kevin Harvick, for giving me two people in the world to unabashedly hate for little to no discernable reason whatsoever. And yes, I realize that this skewed logic also serves as an argument toward the entertainment value and mass appeal of professional wrestling, for which I am very, very sorry.

• to my dad, for spending a better part of this year as my live-in handyman and remodeler, and my mom, for putting up with it.

• to the staff, lower management, and regulars of 2nd Ave. in the Rock Island District, for a decade of the best weekends of my life. I miss that DJ booth like crazy.

• to the kids at Club Energy, where I've been freelance DJing of late, for making me realize that I am super totally uncool. Note to all aspiring club DJ's out there: If you think (as I do) that you know anything and everything about music, try keeping a pack of 16-year-olds happy for four hours and you'll rapidly realize that, to them, your usual playlist is about as hip as a Michael Bolton record.

• to the divine Miss Amy Gritton, for accepting the role of my girlfriend without reading the fine print that says her worst moments of the week can, and very likely will, be written up in detail for the amusement of 100,000+ readers every Sunday. Love you, honey!

• to "Ghost Hunters," "Destination Truth," "Ghost Adventures," and "Paranormal State," for finding umpteen-hundred different ways to entertain me with the sentences, "Wait, did you HEAR that? WHAT WAS THAT?" I vote that we need an all-paranormal network of 24-7 ghost hunts!

• to Netflix Instant Viewing, for allowing me to watch all of the above shows because I'm too busy writing columns like this when they're actually on.

• to the tiny crack in the sidewalk of the 700 block of 15th Street in Rock Island, for tearing out all the ligaments in my left foot and allowing me a perfectly good excuse to spend most of the summer sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing. Plus the unsightly orthopedic walking boot I was strapped to for two months scored some MAJOR sympathy points from friends, family, and strangers alike.

• to tough actin' Tinactin, because when you're strapped to an orthopedic walking boot for two months, athlete's foot gets real, people. 'Nuff said.

• to the giant carnivorous feral monster cats who live and/or patrol in the yard next door, for making my rotund-bellied feline companions look wee and skinny in comparison. Just please don't eat them.

• to Louis Goldenberg, for inventing the first electric washer. For the first time in my life, I now have one of my very own in my basement. I would kiss your feet, Mr. Goldenberg, were they not all presumably deceased and decaying. I can now erase the word "laundromat" from my vocabulary and never again have to worry about getting Neighbor Cooties on my delicates. Next step: learning how to use it.

• to Wikipedia, for making it really easy to hop online and look up who invented the electric washer so that my readers think I'm all smart and stuff.

• and, of course, to all of you -- for reading my column, for stopping me on the street to share a laugh, and for writing my paycheck. I am humbled and thankful to have such an awesome opportunity to invade your lives every Sunday, and your readership means the world to me. Now get back to work - you've only got four more days to practice your binge eating.