COLUMN: Million Dollars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLUMN: Tofu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLUMN: If I Ruled The World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"IF I RULED THE WORLD..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLUMN: Girls (Tippy Tippy Tippy HIDE!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shane?" one of the girls asked.

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

"I love your fat belly!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm so proud.

COLUMN: Kopi Luwak

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

All the dang news.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLUMN: Chupacabra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OR

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

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

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

COLUMN: Wisconsin Pt. 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.