COLUMN: Bat

There are certain things in life that I am uniquely qualified to handle. Need a DJ? I'm your guy. Want to know 13 different methods of varying legality to download a song? Call me. Overcome by the urge to lose badly at Pop Culture Edition Trivial Pursuit? I'm here to help. But when it comes to pretty much anything else in life, I'm an abject failure. Now I've discovered another thing I'm decidedly bad at.

Dateline: Tuesday. It began like most tales from my life: on the couch. Tired from a busy day at work, I had just plopped down for some late night TV time before bed. Just a carefree, gentle drift into slummmmberrrr... and then I looked up and saw the pterodactyl.

Things got blurry after that. A cat hissed. Someone screamed... probably me. A coffeetable got knocked over. Hyperventilation. Next thing I knew, I was standing in my kitchen, holding a pillow for dear life, and trying my absolute best to make sense of the previous fifteen seconds.

Was I awake? YES. Was I under the influence of hallucinogens? NO, unless someone spiked my Raisin Bran. Had I just been attacked by a prehistoric bird in my living room? YES. Well, maybe. Okay, so perhaps it wasn't a pterodactyl, and maybe it hadn't attacked me so much as flown around my ceiling. Come to think of it, I hadn't exactly seen feathers.

It was a bat. And it was flying around in my house. And I don't seem to recall inviting it in.

I am an educated person with a liberal arts background, and therefore I know a few things about bats. They are mammals. Their poo is called guano. They navigate using sonar. Oh, and they are hellspawn winged-rat atrocities with a wanton bloodlust for human flesh. I carefully assessed the situation and implemented an immediate action plan, which was to run outside yelling something that sounded like "EEEEEEEEEEE!"

I had enjoyed my time as a homeowner, but that was all over now. My house had a new landlord, and he was furry and airborn. There was nothing left to do but find a hotel and start life anew when I saw my neighbor's kitchen light flick on. I bet he wishes now he hadn't come down for that midnight snack.

"RUSS!" I whisper-yelled. "HELP! I HAVE BATS IN MY BELFRY!"

Note for the future: This is probably NOT the phrase you should utter when you'd like your neighbor to take you seriously whilst wandering into their yard sock-footed at 12:03 a.m. holding a pillow like a weapon. Luckily, Russ was MY neighbor and this sort of thing was par for the course.

Minutes later, he and I were cautiously bat-hunting our way through my house. For an hour straight, we searched walls, shelves, nooks, and crannies, but nary a bat, vampire, or Ben Affleck was to be found. I did the only thing I could think of: whine about it on Facebook. It didn't take long for friends to start chiming in with advice.

Chief among them was to "open all your doors and windows and turn off all the lights." Which I presume would allow me to forget about the bat because I'd be too distracted by all the spiders, mayflies, feral cats, serial rapists, and whatever else might decide to creepy-crawl on in while my castle gates are open to all of nature. No thank you.

If you're unafraid of bats, talk to me again AFTER you've Googled them. If you're lucky, you'll find sentences such as, "If the bat was present in the room of a sleeping person, the bat should be captured and given to government officials for rabies testing." It was clear I would never be sleeping again. All I could think to do was grab the cats, seal us in the bedroom, and hope the bat was on the other side of the door. Then it was a pleasant night of staring at the ceiling and jumping with every creak of the house.

The next morning, there was no sign of my nocturnal friend. It was time to call backup. My dad can do anything, so that must include hand-to-hand combat with flying mammals, no? He met me at my door, butterfly net in hand. Two hours later, though, he proclaimed my house bat-free. Had I dreamt the whole thing up Donnie Darko style? But just as my parents were heading back home, my friend Dianna came over and immediately asked an important question: "Does your ceiling fan normally have ears?"

Sure enough, there was my batty buddy, sticking his evil little pointy ears out to keep tabs on us all. A quick phone call brought dad back in a hurry, and he and Dianna performed an impressive catch-and-release while my mom and I waited downstairs by the door. You know, to open it and let the bat out, and NOT so that we could run for our lives. That's our story and we're sticking to it.

I guess some people are uniquely qualified to rescue bats and return them to the outdoors, while others are uniquely qualified to flee in terror. I now know which camp I'm in -- I believe the fans of Twilight call it "Team Jacob." At least werewolves probably KNOCK before invading your house.

(In all seriousness, though, we were probably ALL pretty stupid this week. Bats really ARE a prime carrier of rabies, and since I didn't summon a professional to grab my bat buddy and assess its health, I now get to spend the next month watching my cats VERY carefully. Don't fool around with bats, kids. We've all got interesting life stories, but I'd like yours to have a happier ending than Old Yeller.)
   

COLUMN: Sally Kay

Last Sunday, I woke up at 9 a.m., rolled over, and went back to sleep 'til 11. Watched a movie, then walked down to the gas station for coffee. Came back and watched another movie, then hopped in the shower, met up with a friend, and watched another movie. Got home in just enough time to see Miley Cyrus embarass herself in front of the nation. Threw a load of laundry in, ate some dinner, and watched another movie.

All told, it was the most productive and exciting Sunday of recent memory.

What's happened to me? Once upon a time, I'd like to think that I had a life. I never stayed home. I was always on the go. I did stuff. I challenged myself. I was interesting. These days, I do little more than sit on my couch while life ebbs slowly away.

Is this what maturity's supposed to be like? I used to make fun of my parents for being homebodies and now I've become one. I had just about convinced myself that a non-eventful life went hand-in-hand with adulthood... when I got an e-mail from Sally.

Dos Equis got it wrong -- my friend Sally Kay is the most interesting person in the world.

The year was 2000. A friend of mine was getting married and there was much hoopla in the air. Or maybe it was just humidity. We were in a gorgeous reception hall smack in the middle of a suburban Chicago state forest. Everything was magical except for one fatal flaw: The venue had no air conditioning, and they'd decided to get hitched on the 9th of The Month When Earth Was Attacked By The Sun.

Other than climate control, no expense was spared. The food was stellar, a Beatles tribute band was on-hand, and yours truly was in charge of DJ duties. That's where I was, ghastly and smelly, more sweat than human, when I first saw her. Sally Kay was one of the bridesmaids, and she was the whole package. A wee pixie of a girl, she came in with a smile that could stop time and a laugh that made you want to hug strangers.

THEN we started talking. This girl was a rare breed indeed: someone who actually knew more about cool music than me (gasp). She laughed at all the right jokes, listened to all the right music, and at the end of the night, as we sat in the grass behind the venue not caring that we were both sweaty hot messes, it was the closest I'd ever felt to zen. I was a smitten kitten.

Which meant, of course, that I'd never see her again. After the wedding, I went back to Rock Island and she went back to Kansas. True to her word, she soon sent me a mix of her favorite bands. I did the same, and that was it. We never spoke again. But when I saw her pop up on Facebook a while back, I friended her and found out why she drifted away so quickly.

It turns out she really DID drift away -- on a boat.

While I've been sitting at a desk worrying about finances and learning to enjoy the daily rapport between Matt Lauer and Savannah Guthrie, here's what Sally Kay's been up to:

After college, she moved to Slovakia for a year and a half. Then she came back to New York City for a while before finding a writing job in Budapest that led her to Morocco, Spain, Portugal, Poland, Slovenia, Romania, and Hungary. From there, a six month trip to South America turned into a year. Afterwards, she took a job crewing on a boat in the Bahamas that then traveled to Mexico. Then she spent the next six months backpacking the U.S. before finding a cheap flight to Thailand. After a year in Asia, she went to Australia where she joined another crew that dropped her off in South Africa.

These days, she's on a boat that just sailed up the length of the Erie Canal and is now leaving Detroit this weekin hopes of becoming the first Japanese catamaran to  circumnavigate the globe.

I, meanwhile, have been watching "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo." Sally probably doesn't even know what a Honey Boo Boo is. Or a Snooki. Or a Miley Cyrus.

At this point, I don't know whether to be jealous or grateful. It would be amazing to travel. I'd love to see the world from a vantage point other than the pages of National Geographic. It would be mind-bendingly awesome to experience different cultures and discover just what it is that unites us all together on this big blue marble.

But then there's the realist in me. The me that feels awkward walking into a Chinese restaurant, let alone China. The me that has a hard time falling asleep in any bed that's not my own. The me that enjoys sitcoms and couches and food I can recognize. The me that gets a little wobbly in the knees after more than a few minutes on a boat.

For Sally, it's not just the dream of a lifetime -- it's rapidly BECOMING her lifetime. Onboard the Umineko, her current ride, she's in charge of the galley and tells me it's a daily adventure.

"The biggest difference," she wrote me, "is that if you don't have an ingredient or a piece of equipment, you can't just run to the store to get it. It might not even be at the next marina. Often you have to rig makeshift gear or get creative with substitutions. And, of course, do all of this while the boat's rocking back and forth on the high seas."

Not to mention the fact that you're trapped on a tiny boat with a small crew for months on end. It would do my head in. How's she manage?

"I thankfully have never gotten claustrophobic on a boat," she explained. "Catamarans actually have quite a bit of space, and you can always go on deck and see the vastness of the ocean. Still, maybe you should ask me that after the passage from Panama to the Marquesas."

Which I plan on doing just as soon as I find out what a Marquesas is. I have no clue, but I'm going to guess that it's someplace a heck of a lot more interesting than my living room.

So I will avidly try to keep in touch with my friend Sally Kay, the girl that got away. Far, far away. And every once in a while, I'll pine to be onboard that tiny boat, living a life of adventure and excitement with the most interesting person I know. I'll never be that courageous, but I think her life will always be a constant reminder that there's a world outside my living room that I should make a concentrated effort to see more of time and again... well, as soon as this episode of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo gets over.

If YOU'D like to live vicariously alongside Sally and her adventures, I strongly urge you to check out her blog, SallyInTheGalley.net. She'll be updating on the Umineko's attempts to circumnavigate the globe while sharing fun and easy recipes perfected on the voyage.

COLUMN: Debbie Gibson

I really thought this week's column would write itself.

For a neurotic like me who thrives on self-deprecation, nothing could be better column fodder than opening my mailbox to find an invite to my 25-year high school class reunion. The prospect of thrusting myself back into that throng was simultaneously terrifying and exciting. And when I got the offer to DJ the thing, it upped the ante to an altogether new level of terrexcitement.

You see, a long time ago in a Galesburg far away, I was a (gasp) nerd. Uncoordinated, socially awkward, desperate to fit in, last picked in gym class, and pretty much the kryptonite to anything that might ever be considered cool. I'm pretty much that same guy today, just with fewer dodgeballs being chucked at my privates on a routine basis.

I was never in with the in crowd. Don't cry for me, though, Quad Cities -- it wasn't all bad. Once the cool kids learned that I could DJ, I got my fair share of party invites. And besides, I had my ragtag group of fellow outcast friends who I wouldn't trade for the world, and we had our fair share of fun. I had four really close friends in my graduating class, and if all of them were to show up, this reunion would be epic.

Which means that they didn't. Mark couldn't get the day off work from paramedic duties in Kansas City. Brian's wife was on a trip to Japan and left him in California with the baby. Bruce was in Chicago, probably hanging out with Cyndi Lauper or Blondie or some other awesome 80s hero that he strangely always seems to meet (but at least I'm not jealous except that I am.) Will, who's now a teacher down in Burlington, DID show up with his wife, and it was fantastic to catch up, especially since we'd fallen out of touch over the years.

Still, these were not good odds. Me, my date, Will, his wife, and a sea of people who really didn't care a whole lot for us in 1988, let alone now. This could be a serious soap opera moment. Would we be ostracized? Would the jocks still be the jocks and the nerds still be the nerds? Would old rivalries flare up? Did anyone bring a dodgeball?? No matter how it played out, it would make for an excellent column.

Except that it didn't. It was, to sum up, excruciatingly uneventful and pleasant. What I thought would be a ball of stress turned into a fun, low-key night with old friends. Will and I had a blast. I got to catch up with some folks I'd completely forgotten about. Everyone was nice, no one was an embarassment, and it was a decent night out. The real star of the show was the food. Two of my classmates opened up a barbecue joint in town, and no joke, it's the best BBQ I've ever eaten (and I've eaten my share.) Free plug ahoy: C&R's Smokehouse in Galesburg -- it's worth the drive.

My favorite part of the evening, though, was just getting the opportunity to dust off some 80's records that I'm embarassed to love. I learned how to mix in the era of "You Spin Me Round" and "Oh Sheila" and it was great to give those old tracks some legs again. And above all else, I finally had the chance to once again loudly and proudly rock some Debbie Gibson.

I took a lot of heat in high school for my Debbie Gibson obsession. After all, I was the guy who wasn't afraid to play the Sex Pistols at school dances. My favorite bands at the time were The Cure, Depeche Mode, New Order, and the sorts of music you're supposed to listen to while you wear black and watch each other's ankh necklaces glimmer in the candlelight. But goth tendencies or no, I've always had a penchant for good dance tunes -- and when I first heard Debbie Gibson's "Only In My Dreams," I declared it one of the best songs of all time ever.

Of course, my hipster alterna-goth friends gave me insane amounts of grief, but I didn't care. I'll defend that song as long as I live. None of her other singles were ever that catchy, but I remained a fan (mostly just to spite my friends.) I covered a wall of my room with Debbie Gibson posters and a Debbie Gibson calendar and held my ground. To this day, I've bought every piece of music she's ever released.

So when I played "Only In My Dreams" at the class reunion, it hardly surprised anyone. But when I got a Facebook message a few days later from one of my old classmates, the news surprised ME. Debbie's coming to Chicago, and soon. My first celebrity crush is coming to a convention called The Hollywood Show, where -- for a nominal fee, of course -- you can meet and greet your favorite celebrities. Provided, of course, that your favorite celebrities include any of the following:

Debbie Gibson, Kristy and Jimmy McNichol, Mackenzie Phillips, Barbara Eden, Ken Kercheval, Bill Daily, Tippi Hedron, 2 of My Three Sons, the kid who got his tongue stuck to the lamppost in "A Christmas Story," The Landers Sisters, Greg "BJ and the Bear" Evigan, the guy who designed the "I Dream of Jeannie" bottle, Dennis the Menace, and a reunion of the film cast of "Jesus Christ Superstar." I know, I know -- so much starpower under ONE roof, right?

Even I had to admit that Debbie's star had faded of late, but I didn't realize it had reached twenty-bucks-for-an-autograph sorta levels. After all, we're talking about the star of "Giant Shark vs. Mega Octopus" AND "Mega Python vs. Gatoroid." Surely she deserves a better fate than posing for photos with rabid Greg Evigan fans, no?

I'm not one to be immune to the lure of fame. Part of me still wants to write the Great American Novel and have arenas full of people come to see me DJ. I'd love to have a home in the Hamptons where I could throw lavish parties with my executive chef and have an executive driver to make sure Lindsay Lohan gets home okay.

But if the flipside of fame means that twenty years after THAT, I'd be shuffling from one convention center to the next, charging people forty bucks for the privilege of meeting me while sitting at a table alongside the "Gangnam Style" guy, the "Charlie bit me!" kid, and, heck, probably STILL Greg Evigan? Maybe fame isn't so awesome after all.

I was worried that my class reunion would make me feel old and ostracized. Instead, it made me feel blessedly like a normal joe. I didn't feel OLD until I learned that my favorite teen idol now hocks her photos for forty bucks. But a part of me will always have a soft spot for Debbie Gibson, and I hope she revitalizes her career and has a wonderful second act. Just don't let it start for another couple weeks -- I don't want her autograph price to go up just yet.

COLUMN: Mervy

After 42 years, I finally thought I had the hang of this only child thing. Whenever I tell people that I grew up without brothers or sisters in a country house miles away from any other kid, I'm amazed that the phrase I hear the most is, "Oh, I feel so sorry for you!" Those people are nuts.

As far as I'm concerned, I had it good. Being an only child rocks. I had all the attention, all the love, and all the presents. I never had to share. I never had to watch someone else's favorite TV show. I've never had a wedgie, wet willie, or purple nurple in my life.

Decades later, it's just as awesome. MY house is the only one that gets dad's full home improvement attention. I have no brothers-in-laws or sisters-in-laws that I have to pretend to like. And I STILL get all the presents. I wouldn't trade my upbringing for anyone else's, ever.

I think people must assume that I spent my formative years sitting in a lonely room watching paint dry. Not true -- mostly because I've never painted anything in my life except for Dungeons & Dragons miniatures, and that paint dries QUICK. I didn't have any siblings or any friends in the neighborhood, but I didn't need that nonsense. I had my imagination.

I am told that I had an imaginary friend, and his name was Mervy. I'm not really sure what caused our friendship to wane, but it must have been one evil spat, since I've cast all memory of the poor fellow from my brain. But if you really want to see me squirm, put me in the same room as my mom and ask her about Mervy. She remembers Mervy like they were old college buddies. I have zero recollection, and I'm the one who made him up.

I do, however, remember the cars. When I was a kid, I had a fetish for Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars. Some people collect those cars and leave them in their packaging in hopes that the price will inflate and they'll one day be able to retire thanks to a plastic Corvette. Not me. I had those suckers out of the box before I even got home, and I'd play with them until they were chipped, beaten, and tireless. Each one had a distinct personality. And I don't mean I came up with little imaginary drivers for each of them. No, it was the cars themselves that had personalities -- and who needed siblings when you had a drawer full of anthropomorphic cars?

My cars had better things to do than race down a track. No, not when there were crimes to be solved. That's right, my cars were detectives. Well, when they weren't being superheroes. Or hypnotists. Quite often, this mean mini-van would steal Princess Datsun and it would take a ragtag team of family-style sedans to save her. And so many of my childhood memories may have floated off into the mist, but I will ALWAYS remember the summer when, against all odds and wagers, all 70 of my Matchbox cars qualified for Wimbledon.

The point is, I was never bored. There's no real down side to being an only child -- well, except for the small problem that I never learned how to live with anyone else ever.

I've had blessedly few roommates over the years, and each time it's ended in tears. My freshman year roommate was a high school friend who ate all my food and slept with his eyes open. My sophomore year I lived in a triple with two of my best friends. By the end of that year, one of them had hurled a bottle of Palmolive at my skull and the other hasn't spoken to me since. My junior year roommate was an exchange student from Greece who ground his teeth so loud you'd have thought a wild badger was amok in our room.

Cohabitation has been the death knell to every relationship I've ever had. That's when love takes a back seat to pet peeves. She might be my soul mate, but it doesn't change the fact that I HATE THE WAY SHE BREATHES. STOP BREATHING LIKE THAT. IN... OUT... IN... OUT... YOU'RE DRIVING ME CRAZY, what with all the free air you're just imbibing willy-nilly and this irrational thought that you get to have HALF of MY bed. Just... just... honey, we need to talk.

I spent almost two decades since college in an apartment to myself, and now I've got a whole house to myself. Last week, I played host to one of my best friends and his wife, who were in town on a visit from Japan. For 8 days and nights, they stayed right here at the International House of Shane, and it only took about 2 of those 8 days before I kinda wanted to hurt somebody.

It wasn't their fault in the slightest. I love both of them dearly, I'm so happy they came for a visit, and I can't wait until the next time they do it again. I just had to tell myself things like, "Hey, don't get irrationally mad about the fact that you can't walk naked out of the shower into the closet to pick out clothes. It's no big deal." And who cares that they always left the toilet seat cover down or accidentally let the sloppy joe leftovers sit out overnight or left congealed bacon grease sit on my stove all week or inexplicably used 14 rolls of toilet paper in 8 days? Not this guy. My friends are awesome and we all had a blast.

So when my friend Stuart needed a place to stay when he comes next month to run the Quad City Marathon, I gladly offered my house. And when my friend Kelly called to say she's coming next month on a business trip, I insisted she stay at my place. Because I'm an awesome friend and I love having houseguests and I am in no way a spoiled, self-centered isolationist forever scarred by my inexperience at sharing and cohabitation. I am a well-rounded only child who's perfectly fine with houseguests.

Mervy's the one who hates them.

COLUMN: Chris & Fabi

We've got it pretty good. The U.S. is an amazing country, and the Quad Cities is a pretty great place to live (just don't ask me on those days when it's either 105 or -5, or when I pull into the drive-thru of the local Taco Bell and am told they're inexplicably "out of meat.") But I think we sometimes get in a rut and fail to appreciate the great things about daily life in this land we call home.

I've had an interesting reality check this week, and it came in the form of a week-long houseguest and her very first trip to America.

One of my oldest and dearest friends bummed us out a few years back when he accepted a teaching job in Japan. He explained it was finally his chance to capitalize on his Asian Studies major and embark on a fulfilling career path of adventure in a foreign land. I was pretty sure he just wanted a solid opportunity to go mack on cute Japanese girls.

It turns out we were both right. Indeed, he moved overseas to a fulfilling career that he loves. And sure enough, he promptly hit on a cute Japanese girl. Interestingly, though, she turned out to be Brazilian. He speaks English, she speaks Portugeuse, and neither are especially fluent in Japanese. Yet somehow it works, and that girl is now his wife. Last week, my friend made his first return visit to the States and brought the missus along for the ride, which means I've had a front row seat to a foreigner's very first experience in America.

My goal for the week was shallow, self-centered, and simple: I would show off the absolute best we had to offer. She falls in love with the Quad Cities and I get my friend back stateside, especially since I'm now worthless at video games without him to get me past the hard stuff. I had my work cut out for me.

My first reality check happened mere minutes after I'd picked them up. "Well, this is officially your first day in America," I turned to her. "You're in Chicago. What would you like to see first? Willis Tower? Wrigley Field? Lake Michigan?" Her answer? "Wal-Mart." Congratulations, America, this is your new international legacy.

Her most exciting discovery in America appeared to be watermelon. Apparantly in Japan, watermelons come the size of cantalopes and cost upwards of $20 a pop. By the time they left, she'd indulged in watermelons, a carton of watermelon juice, watermelon gum, potholders that LOOKED like watermelons, etc. I will never look a gift watermelon in the mouth again. After this week, I might not even look at a watermelon again.

Prices on most items blew her mind. Japan sounds like an expensive place to live. According to my friend, CDs are well over $20, a DVD can run twice as much, and Playstation games are upwards of $75. But I guess it's give and take. His income is taxed at a flat 5%, and a recent visit to a Japanese dentist ended in six filled cavities, two crowns, and a bill of less than $100.

We tried our best to take her to as many American eateries as we could. We got thumbs up to: Taco Bell ("tasty!"), Arthur's ("mmm!"), Buffalo Wild Wings ("super tasty!"), Hu Hot Mongolian Grill ("super tasty!" AND three photos upped to Facebook), and Whitey's did its job and left her speechless. The only two places that DIDN'T cut the mustard? May the gods of pizza have mercy on my soul, but sorry, Harris was a strike-out ("TOO SPICY SAUSAGE!") And you know those delicious rolls at Texas Roadhouse with the cinnamon butter? She couldn't even get through one bite. ("NOT tasty. Butter should NOT be sweet!")

Worse yet was when I needed a snack and fixed myself a PB&J in the kitchen only to realize she was staring at me as though I were eating toejam. "Peanut butter with JELLY? That is CRAZY!!!!" She wouldn't try it. For what it's worth, I wouldn't try the bag she brought of something called "Tasty Squid Snack!"

She was incredibly sweet, shy, and soft-spoken for the entire visit, until one evening we had stopped at a gas station when she cried out so loud the whole store turned. That was the moment she discovered the magic of the Big Gulp. "This is a glass?" she asked incredulously. "In Japan, we would call this a BUCKET!" MANY photos ensued.

One day, I took a shortcut home. "Sorry," I said, "This is kind of a bad part of town." "You don't know what a bad part of town is," she replied scoldingly. Later that night, she showed me photos of homeless camps and a famous video from her hometown of Sao Paulo. In it, you see a guy pull up to a pharmacy and run in with a gun. While he's robbing the place, someone else comes along and steals his getaway car. When the confused robber runs out with bags of cash and no car, HE gets robbed at gunpoint by another thief who makes off with the cash. "THIS is a bad part of town." Fair enough.

I spent the week trying to tell her how awesome America is, she spent the week trying to rally for the Land of the Rising Sun. "You should come to Japan," she told. "In Nagoya, Japanese girls love American men. You could meet girls who want to date you, you could meet girls who want to marry you, or you could meet girls who will take jewels in exchange for [expletive.]" Umm. Hmm.

Eight days later, they were off again. Since all we did was eat and shop, I'm pretty sure she now thinks America is a gluttonous country full of all-you-can-eat rabid consumerism, and heck, maybe she wouldn't be far off. Still, I think we win if for no other reason than we prefer Harris Pizza to Tasty Squid Snack. I don't know if they'll be moving here any time soon, but she DID just update her Facebook status to: "Leaving the midwest. A magical place and I hope to see you all again soon."

Maybe sooner than she thinks, once I find a plane ticket and procure enough jewels.

COLUMN: Gun Control

I tend to avoid hot-button topics like the plague in this column.

That's not to say I don't have opinions. If you'll let me, I'll talk your ears off about politics, gay marriage, violent video games, or whatever you fancy. Just not in the newspaper.

We've already got an editorial page full of folks WAY smarter and far more qualified than myself to talk about the ways of the world. If you wanna read about stuff like that, go there. If you want funny cat stories, I'm your guy. Besides, I'm shallow and pathetic and crave your undying affection at all costs. I don't want to say the wrong thing and lose any of my precious fanbase. I'd rather stick with my trusted rule of thumb where the only people I stand a chance of upsetting are dog lovers and Tom Cruise fans.

That said, occasionally something comes along that inspires me to take a stand for what I believe in. And this week, that something was the taste of cold steel.

It was Thursday night and I was heading home from an especially exhausting day at the office. My brain was fried and I was running on auto-pilot. It was only by a last-minute burst of synapses that I remembered I was dangerously low on toilet paper at home, so I altered my path to head for the nearest drugstore.

I reached a stoplight just as it turned red. At the time, There I sat, sitting first at the light to go straight, when a car pulled up alongside me in the left-hand turn lane.

When it comes to cars, I know precisely: nothing. Here's a list of ones I could pick out on the street: VW Beetles, PT Cruisers, Hummers, Mini-Coopers, and the Batmobile. Beyond that, as far as I'm concerned, all you other people drive the same vehicle.

But this car was different. It was fancy. It was dark blue and shiny and had tinted windows and a spoiler and looked like the sort of thing that people would inexplicably pay big money to see Vin Diesel drive on the big screen. It was a head-turner, and I was a head-turnee.

So there I was, brain in neutral, waiting for the light to turn green, checking out this fancy car with its fancy tinted windows. That's when the fancy tinted window on the rear passenger side opened a crack... and out popped the double barrel of a shotgun, pointed directly at my head.

There are times in life when moments occur that allow you to find out what kind of a person you REALLY are, and this was one of them. A million thoughts could have coursed through my brain at that moment. I could have been a hero and thrown my door open, jumped out, opened the back door of the fancy car and wrestled the gunman to the ground. At the very least, I expected to have my life flash before my eyes and reflect even momentarily on the people and places I love.

Instead, here was the only thought my brain provided: "Well, this just figures." I'd been in whiny mode all week. Whining about long work days, whining about money, whining about friends, and here I was, potentially my very last thought on Earth and using it to whine about dying. I suppose I am nothing if not consistent.

If you've ever wanted a solid wake-up call when you're zoning out, try having a gun pointed at your face. I didn't know if my would-be assassin was a random stranger or a well-planned attack by a legion of vengeful Tom Cruise fans -- all I knew was that I didn't want my legacy to be police searching my house in vain for clues about my demise. "Everything looks normal, Captain, except for the fact that he was totally and completely out of toilet paper."

So I did the only thing I could think of, which was also a pretty stupid thing: I gunned it. I threw the car in gear and went into the intersection blaring my horn. Thankfully, the driver of the oncoming car was less brain-dead than me and managed to swerve to a stop before t-boning my passenger side. And, as THAT driver was justifiably flipping me the bird, I turned back to the fancy car in just enough time to see the rear window all the way down, a small child holding what was clearly a plastic toy gun, and the driver of that car pointing and laughing hysterically like it was the funniest thing in the world. I, meanwhile, considered it a personal triumph that I hadn't wet myself.

I fumbled for my phone to call the cops, but it was pointless. I didn't get the guy's plate number, he was already halfway to Moline, and what could I have said? "The car? It was, umm, blue. And shiny. The driver may have been Vin Diesel." Instead, I continued to the drugstore parking lot while having a nervous breakdown.

I'm not anti-gun. It's a freedom afforded by our constitution, and I get it. I grew up with a few in the home (although I think my dad would probably die rather than point any of them towards anything with a heartbeat.) I have an uncle who keeps a ready bag by his door for the day his militia comes calling. Skeet shooting looks like great fun. I just know guns aren't for me. I can barely operate a remote control. If I owned a gun, I'd shoot myself in the leg in no time.

What I AM anti-, though, is the prevalence of guns in our culture. I certainly don't like realistic-looking ones being pointed my way, even if they're toys. And I really don't like that my irresponsible response was to dart into traffic and potentially cause someone ELSE to get hurt.

It's a good thing I avoid hot button topics like the plague, or else I'd be tempted to tell you that I've never understood why anyone other than undercover cops should have a need to carry a concealed weapon. It's a good thing I don't like to ruffle feathers, or else I'd probably tell you that you don't need a semi-automatic military-grade weapon to hunt Bambi or protect your home. It's a good thing I'm a humor columnist, or I'd tell you the saddest truth, which is that we now live in a world where I see the barrel of a gun from a passing car and no longer assume it's just a toy.

Instead, we'll just all have a laugh at how a 7-year-old with a plastic gun almost made me pee myself.

COLUMN: Carlos Danger

Nothing stinks more in this line of work than having a boring week.

My amazing job allows me to recount stories about the weird inane things that I'm lucky enough to encounter while meandering through life. Even if I'm having an awful week and something hideous happens, the silver lining is that it usually makes good column fodder in the end. But what about those weeks when NOTHING happens, good OR bad? For the past seven days, it's been so hot outside that I've done nothing with my free time but sit on the couch and zone out to bad TV.

Good thing, then, that the world has taken care of things this week and brought the funny in droves.

It started with mankind's greatest cinematic achievement of all time: SHARKNADO. How anyone survived this white-knuckle thrill ride to a hellscape of unimaginable horror is beyond me. My friends and somehow I made it through the terror with nothing more than the clothes on our backs, a steely resolve, and an abundant supply of gummy sharks.

When I first learned that Syfy was adding to their canon of disastrously bad disaster movies with something called "Sharknado," I was elated. Potential plotlines swam through my head faster than a dozen sharknados. Let me guess, a tornado strands a party boat of college students on a deserted island where their own means of survival is swimming across shark-ravaged waters with the help of TV's Tom Wopat? Maybe a tornado strikes a top secret military facility, releasing their man-eating combat robo-shark (also played by TV's Tom Wopat) onto an unsuspecting public?

It turns out I was being WAY too creative. The real plot of Sharknado is as simple as its title: a tornado forms in the ocean (which actually makes it a waterspout but "Sharkspout" sounds lame) and sucks up an infinite number of sharks, flinging them into residential California where they chomp on as many beachfront suburbanites as possible. And the only man who can stop them is Steve from "Beverly Hills 90210," who at one point (spoiler alert) chainsaws his way out of a shark's stomach after being swallowed whole.

They've yet to create a word to duly express the awesomeness of this movie. There was never an explanation as to why 1000 sharks were just hanging out off the California coast in the first place, no explanation why these sharks seemed to care more about biting people than the fact that they were asphyxiating out of the water, and no explanation why the school bus of trapped kids was being driven by Cousin Oliver from the Brady Bunch. In short, it was the best thing ever.

For about a week. Then Geraldo had a birthday. Once a respected investigative reporter for ABC's prestigious 20/20, Geraldo Rivera has spent the past 25 years or so systematically destroying any shred of credibility he once had. Whether it's breaking into empty bank vaults, getting his nose busted by Nazi skinheads, or accidentally airing the secret locations of American troops in Iraq, Geraldo's nothing if not efficient when it comes to ruining his reputation.

Now he's turned 70, and what better way to celebrate than by tweeting a nearly naked photo to a world now incapable of un-seeing it. I suppose it's commendable that the guy's in pretty good shape for 70, but still, he's 70. This was pretty high on my list of unnecessary sights to ever behold. Thank God he's wearing a towel, but it's a towel hanging about six inches way too low and in serious danger of almost exposing the world to a vault I don't EVER care to see the insides of.

Being a fat guy, I guess I can't relate -- but even if I went on "The Biggest Loser" and got myself down to fighting form, I really don't think my first response would be to drop trou and go, "WHOO! CHECK ME OUT, WORLD!" I choose to live my life in a mature manner of utter denial of my appearance and trying desperately hard to NOT look down while in the shower. Dear Santa, please bring my friend Geraldo a pair of cover-alls... and I do mean cover ALL.

So Geraldo definitely got the award for best naked selfie, a title he proudly held for about four days. That was before the world was introduced to its newest superhero. A legend who single-handedly revived my faith in comedy and gave each of us a reason to live through an otherwise boring week. My new favorite person on Earth: Carlos Danger.

I first became aware of New York Congressman Anthony Weiner when a sex scandal forced him to resign from office. Believe it or not, I kinda felt sorry for the guy. Back in 2011, Weiner took a picture of himself in all his, umm, Weiner-ness. He meant to send the pic to an internet hottie he was chatting up, but instead tweeted it out to the general public. Not good. I blame Microsoft. After all, they're the ones who put the "REPLY ALL" button so darn close to the "REPLY" one. Still, not a smart thing to do, Weiner, especially when you've got an innocent wife at home.

That said, where does it say that pervy philanderers can't do their jobs well? Charlie Sheen seems to be doing okay. And this sort of thing seems to happen to European politicians constantly, but over there, they go "tsk, tsk" and find the nearest rug to sweep it under. Weiner screwed up bigtime, but he seemed contrite about the fiasco and I supported his recent decision to run for New York City mayor. Mostly because I don't live there.

But earlier this week, ANOTHER sex scandal came to light. Even after the guy resigned from Congress in disgrace, he kept right on sexting internet girls and sending them pictures of his Anthony Weiner. It got worse when I read a transcript of his texts, which I don't recommend unless you WANT a case of the cooties. These texts take you on a magical journey to an entirely new realm of skeevy. And not the kind of skeevy hidden under a brown paper bag in your gas station's magazine rack. No, these are the kind of gross comments you would immediately assume were written by a 14-year-old boy in the throes of puberty.

Best of all, he was sending all this icky nonsense to girls... using the alias "Carlos Danger." Let that sink in. Carlos Danger. Try to say it without laughing. If there aren't at least five garage bands out there now named "Carlos Danger," I'll be horribly disappointed. Carlos Danger is NOT the name of a sexy internet lover. Carlos Danger sounds more like the guy Starsky & Hutch call on to infiltrate the barrio drug trade. Maybe I'm stating the obvious here, but why bother inventing a cool sexy porno name when your REAL name is Tony Weiner? I'm just sayin'.

So please please please, New Yorkers, do the country a favor and elect Carlos Danger as your next mayor. I shy away from politics in this column, but I strongly endorse anyone named Carlos Danger as mayor of any town I don't live in. It'll come in REAL handy on those boring weeks when we have nothing else to laugh at. Take it from me, your loyal columnist, Pedro Peril.

COLUMN: Nunchucks

I have a friend who takes great pride in the fact that he is a self-proclaimed "freak magnet." It's his assertion that all things weird, wacky, and random just seem to gravitate his way and happen before his eyes. Over the years, he's born witness to riots in shopping malls, seen Santa Claus (or someone dressed as such) trolling for pornography, witnessed a new mother feeding her infant baby soft drinks, and was once kidnapped on a first date.

This doesn't sit well with me.

You see, I've spent 42 years of my life carefully developing my swollen ego and shallow sense of self-importance, and my egotistical brain would like to think that the world revolves around ME. Ergo if there's a freak magnet in the house, it should be yours truly, thanks much. It's MY assertion that my friend gets the pleasure of witnessing occasional weird and cool stuff in his life mostly because he's lucky enough to be friends with me. Or maybe he just hangs out at too many shopping malls. Either way, he's no freak magnet. Or so I thought.

Then last weekend happened. Let me set the stage. It was a Friday night and, for once, I was plan-free. That's why I found myself in the car with Friend Jason, driving around the Quad Cities aimlessly in search of something to do. After a fruitless hour wasting gas and watching other people clearly having more fun than either of us, I was out of ideas. In desperation, I flipped my phone open and sent a message to Facebook-land:

"HELP! BORED! Anybody doing anything worth doing?"

At first, the replies were sporadic. Then two messages came in. The first was from my friend Celeste. She was at an area pub with her hubby and some mutual friends and wanted us to pop by. The second was from my freak magnet friend, who was equally bored and wondered what we were up to.

As a general rule, I'm not much of a bar-hopping kinda guy. Unless the place has an empty DJ booth in need of beats, I'm usually more at home IN my home than in some random loud bar surrounded by inebriated yahoos. But since my house was busy winning awards for Mostest Boringest Place in the Whole Wide World Ever, I gave in. Within minutes, Friend Jason and I were on our way to meet up with the Freak Magnet and head for the pub.

I was bracing myself for the worst. Drunken smelly louts peacocking their machismo. Cute girls absolutely ignoring me like usual. Me not being able to hear anybody over some obnoxious unending song that'll either be Phish or a band trying to sound like Phish. Maybe someone will invite me to play darts or pool so that an entire room of strangers can bear witness to my absolute and total lack of coordination. Good times.

We got inside the door and immediately spotted Celeste and her friends. As we walked over, a tap on my shoulder introduced Freak Magnet, who arrived mere footsteps behind us. That's when Celeste came up.

"You got here just in time," she said. "...for the nunchuck battle."

Okay, maybe my friend IS a freak magnet after all.

Rock Island is a great town, but sadly, I've found it to be somewhat lacking when it comes to contemporary spontaneous outdoor ninja warfare. Not any more. Within minutes, a car pulled into the lot and out popped two honest-to-gosh ninjas. Well, they had ninja t-shirts on at least. And they were formidable dudes with equally formidable names: Jimmy and Cookie, henceforth known as Rock Island's elite roving ninja strike force.

I've seen at least two or three kung fu movies in my day, so I figure I'm somewhat of an expert when it comes to ninjas. And if there's one thing we experts know about ninjas, it's that they're stealthy little buggers. You know, you're walking down the street minding your own business, and then WHAM ninjas jump out of the darkness and proceed to ninja the heck out of you. They're all about invisible covert stealth -- which is why these guys were packing nunchucks with flashing rainbow-colored lights on the ends.

I also don't seem to recall the part in any of those kung fu movies where the ninjas did their ninja-ing to a boombox cranking Michael Jackson's "Rock With You," but that didn't stop Jimmy and Cookie. What followed was a full exhibition of nunchuckery to an entirely bewildered crowd, but it didn't take long for them to win us over. I was rooting for Jimmy, but sadly it was Cookie who took home the grand ninja prize... of a different t-shirt. Before it was over, another dude nearby up and started breathing fire. I couldn't make this stuff up.

Now, just in case you DIDN'T watch those three kung-fu movies that I did, nunchucks are basically two small wooden clubs connected at one end by a chain. In actuality, I fear I know precious little about martial arts weaponry -- but I do know, in the grand scheme of things, that nunchunks look difficult to master.

Sure, I get the advantageous combat strategy of smacking somebody upside the head with a wooden club, but what if you MISS? I'm no physics major, but I'm pretty sure that thrusting one of those sticks forwards means that eventually it's going to reach the end of its chain and double back on the thrustee, no? I'm fairly sure the most impressive feat of nunchuck mastery is somehow doing it without the chucks coming back and racking you in the nuns. I'm not exactly in the market for having a baby, but I don't want to take the option off the table via wooden club, either.

But most impressive of all was that nunchucking happened, and happened randomly in front of me, without fanfare or a calendar of events. Just your run-of-the-mill, no-warning, no-nonsense neighborhood nunchucking. I won't tell you the name of the bar, because in reality, mixing alcohol with combat weaponry probably isn't considered safe, smart, or too particularly legal. But Cookie and Jimmy appeared to be employing at least a modicum of safety, and I don't think rogue ninja battles are commonplace at this otherwise fine and legal establishment that probably never even knew its parking lot was playing host to good-natured urban melee.

It was just a crazy night, and that's precisely what I love about the Quad Cities. You never really know what's on the menu. Maybe my friend really IS a freak magnet. I'll have to settle for being one of the freaks.

COLUMN: Chicken Roulette

I've always been a big fan of games. I'll admit it: I own a visor that only gets worn for Monopoly. I've skipped classes and called in sick to work [note: PRE-Dispatch/Argus, of course] for the express purpose of playing video games. I once hosted a session of the card game Rack-O that lasted for 10 straight hours. An epic round of Rail Baron once cost me a dear friendship. And if you've ever participated in a charity trivia event, I have probably beaten you. Badly.

I take gaming seriously, but we may have just crossed a new threshold: I've invented my own game. It's full of risk, reward, strategy, and, above all, suspense. A game where the agony of defeat might just be all too real a turn of phrase.

It all started with an empty wallet. You ever have one of those weeks where every bill comes due in one masterfully spontaneous symphony of suck? That was me last week. Top it all off with the sudden expense of a flat tire and presto -- say hello to Broke Shane.

I'm not a big fan of making a dollar stretch -- all you have to do is look at my bank account to discover just how bad I am at it. (Note: Please do not ACTUALLY look at my bank account. One of my friends had her identity stolen last week by a thief in Maine. It doesn't sound fun, and trust me when I say that stealing MY identity at the present moment wouldn't even score you enough gas money to GET to Maine.)

It was a long week 'til payday and I had to put a stop to the wallet bleed, so I came up with a plan. Rather than waste money eating out for lunch every day like usual, I needed to brown bag it for a bit. That's why I went to the grocery store and invested my remaining coin in a big bag of frozen chicken breasts. I got home and threw it into the crock pot at 4 p.m. By the time it hit midnight, I had a pot full of tender chicken that pulled apart with ease. Bachelor cuisine at its finest, and I could survive off this stuff for days.

When I first left home a kajillion years ago, my mom made sure to impart upon me an encyclopedia worth of cooking tips -- of which I believe I remember about three. One was, "Don't put food in the refrigerator until it cools." I honestly have no idea why this is. It wasn't something awesome like, "Don't put food in the refrigerator until it cools... OR IT'LL EXPLODE!" Maybe putting hot food into a cold fridge wrecks the taste, or maybe it makes food spoil faster. I have no idea why you're not supposed to do it. I just know my mom told me not to, and that's good enough for me.

So I took the chicken out of the crock pot and set it in a storage container to cool down for a few minutes. And then I fell asleep.

If cats could talk, I'm sure I would have been their #1 topic of conversation on Monday. They sure seemed intrigued as to why I woke up in a start at 6:30 a.m. screaming, "OMIGOD! CHICKEN!" and bolted for the kitchen. It took me precisely thirty seconds to put a lid on the chicken and throw it in the fridge, but had the damage been done? I had just taken a ten-dollar investment and let it sit out on the counter for six hours.

And that, my friends, is how I invented the new high-stakes game I like to call... CHICKEN ROULETTE.

There's another nugget of wisdom I recall from my mom. It was something like, "Chicken is really good for you... EXCEPT WHEN IT KILLS YOU." My mom really hammered this one home. I don't know if she just assumed that her idiot son would immediately start feasting on raw chicken like sushi or what, but thanks to her frenzied warnings, I usually leave poultry cooking to the professionals.

It might be finger-lickin' good, but if those fingers touched it in its raw form, you will surely die of e.coli. This is why every time I grill chicken, I end up cooking it down to a shriveled little carcinogen that's probably just as toxic.

But what of cooked chicken that's accidentally left out all night? I guess there comes a time in every bachelor's life when he has to look deep within himself and ask the question: Am I too chicken to play chicken with some chicken?

I assessed the situation. The potentially funky poultry passed both look and smell tests (because, as we all know, bacteria is always day-glo orange and stinky.) Also, I keep my house so cold it's practically a refrigerator in here anyways. And I've eaten so much crummy fast food over the years that I may have built up a tolerance to most standard variations of food poisoning. Or maybe I've wrecked my system on so much bad food over the years that one iota of salmonella could kill me dead. A sick day from work might be nice, but projectile vomiting might put a damper on the holiday.

I opted for my favorite game show tiebreaker: I phoned a friend. Many of them, in fact. Answers ranged from: "YOU DIDN'T EAT IT, DID YOU?" (a vegetarian friend who I think is just horrified by chicken in general) to "just chase it with some vodka and that'll kill all the bad stuff" (a fellow bachelor) to "I don't THINK it'll kill you. You'll PROBABLY be fine" (my mother, surprisingly, but note the disclaimers.)

Sometimes, you've just got to bite the bullet. Or, in this case, the chicken. Over the past 48 hours, I've now played chicken roulette four times. As I type, there might be a listeria rave in my gastro-intestinal tract. So far, so good... but I'll admit that my stomach seems a little wonky right now. I'm hoping it's just from all the worrying. It turns out chicken roulette might be full of suspense, but not in a fun way. I don't really recommend it as a party game, unless you're up for answering "so what did YOU do this weekend?" with "Oh, not much. Well, other than killing all my friends."

I shoulda stuck with Monopoly. I just hope this chicken doesn't stick with me.

COLUMN: Visitations

Death stinks.

I realize a sentence like that is about as revelatory and headline-worthy as other such breaking news items like "the sky is blue," "the Earth is round," and "Tom Cruise is simply awful."  Still, it must be said.

This past year has been rife with people in my life passing away, and most of them before their time. Not that I'm a big fan of that phrase, because really, is it ever anyone's "time" to depart this realm? If I had my druthers, and my health, I'd be perfectly okay with remaining alive until further notice, and I'd reckon most of you feel the same. The great beyond might be a much better place, but I'm honestly in no big hurry to find out. I've always been one to resist change.

But even more unfair than our inevitable demise is the fact that as we get older, more and more people that we care about are taken away from us. It may be an unavoidable fact of life, but it still stinks. If there's one place on Earth I hope I don't set foot in the foreseeable future, it's another stinkin' funeral home.

Last week, I wrote a column about how, in most social situations, I'm incredibly gifted at being incredibly awkward. Nowhere is this on display more clearly than when I have to attend a visitation. By the time I'm in the door, I'm already stammering and breaking out in an uncontrolled sweat. In weird situations, my usual defense mechanism is to crack jokes and look for humor in the situation -- but, as a general rule, the interior of a funeral home is, by and large, a joke-free zone.

Instead, I'm left to somehow fend off the sadness and try to stammer out words of compassion, encouragement, and support for family and friends, all while trying my absolute best not to sweat all over them. It's an entirely awkward and uncomfortable experience. But this is probably a GOOD thing. If you're the sort of person who's completely at ease and comfortable at visitations, you are most likely a Class A weirdo-pants. Or you are a funeral director. And, honestly, to dive into that career path by choice, you might still be at least a SMALL bit weirdo-pants.

But it's not as though I learned funeral awkwardness on my own. For that, I had a coach.

When I was a kid, my great-grandmother suffered a debilitating stroke. My memories of the woman are a bit cloudy, but what I recall was everything you'd want a grand-grandmother to be: a chubby, smiling, boisterous lady who earned my affection through a non-stop supply of hugs and candy. A resilient woman, she went on to survive the stroke in a vegetative state for over a year. I may have just been a little kid at the time, but even then I knew how awful it was to see this vibrant woman connected to life support.

I don't remember much about my great-grandma's funeral, but I do remember what happened a few months later. My dad was out of town when my mom was reading the paper and suddenly stood up.

"Go put on some nice clothes," she told me. "We need to go to a visitation."

My mom had spotted an obit in the newspaper, and the deceased was my great-grandma's former roommate from the nursing home. She and her family had been nothing but nice to us during our time together, so my mom wanted to return the favor by paying respects.

There was just one problem. As we rounded the corner to join the receiving line, I saw my mom ever-so-slightly go from sad to panic. She looked at me. "IT'S NOT HER."

Sure enough, my mom had the name wrong. It turns out my grandma's old roommate was alive, thriving and surviving. Instead, we were in line to express our condolences to the family of a total stranger. "Follow me," my mom whispered as we exited the line and tried to sneak out unnoticed. We would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for that pesky funeral director who stepped in-between us and the exit.

That's when my mom showcased something I'd never seen: her acting skills. Yes, my mother -- the light of my life, the woman who taught me everything, the person I looked to for strength, guidance, honesty, and wisdom -- quickly assessed the situation and came up with the best and most mature possible strategy: fake crying. "I just need a moment outside to collect myself," she told the funeral director, hand to her face, pretending to sob.

You would think a funeral director would point us in the right direction, perhaps even open the door. You'd think a funeral director would know when to back off and let someone in fake grief fake-grieve in private. Not THIS guy.

"Here," he motioned. "Let me take you to one of our quiet rooms where you can have a seat and reflect. How did you know the deceased?"

"No, no," my mom said awkwardly. "I just need to step outside."

I might have been little, but I knew comedy gold when I saw it.

"Mom, it's okay," I said. "Let's go to the quiet room. You need a tissue."

I'm pretty sure my hand still hurts from the death grip she put on it, but it was worth it to watch my mom squirm her way out of this mess. Eventually Mr. Overly Helpful turned away and we stealthily scuttled off into the night. As I recall, it took an extended layover at Pizza Hut for my mom to get properly un-mortified and lose the red from her cheeks.

You'd think we would have learned our lesson. But some twenty years later at my grandfather's funeral, the minister was not on his A-game. At one point, he told us that my grandfather was likely being embraced by a whole clan of Connors. Comforting, except that my grandfather's family was the COOPERS. Knowing my grandpa's beloved short fuse, my mom and I both simultaneously pictured him yelling at a heavenly room of strangers, "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? GET AWAY! SHOO!" which made us both inappropriately start to giggle mid-funeral. Which we both tried to cover up... as fake crying. What can I say? I guess I learn from the best.

In the end, there's no point in feeling awkward at visitations, because it's an awkward time for everybody. Last week, I lost a friend -- but instead of feeling awkward, I found myself surrounded by her family and sharing the love for a lady who touched many lives. Earlier this year, another friend of mine died who was a big theatre buff. Her visitation included show tunes and a beautiful enlarged photo of her -- dressed in zombie gear crawling out from behind a tombstone. It was the exact way she'd want to go out, and that's the important part.

So here's to you, Rose, Peggy, Brian, Russ, Leevon, Kenny, Ruthie, Jesse, my cousin Jenni, and everyone else gone too soon. Leaving you might have been awkward, but knowing you  was a pleasure.            

COLUMN: Country

It always amazes me when I see people who look perfectly comfortable in their surroundings. I don't know how it's done. I think I'm just naturally gifted at being really, really awkward.

Some folks are photogenic and warm up to a camera. Others float through life with an aura of comfy coolness. But look in the background of those pics. That's where you're bound to find that one accidental photobomb who looks horribly ill-at-ease. You know, the guy with the weird expression that says "I don't belong here" mixed with "I may have spiders in my pants." The guy so out-of-place that you'd swear he's been Photoshopped into the situation directly from his home world of Weirdtopia? That's usually MY role in life. I bring the awkward, and I bring it hard.

Nowhere is that more evident than when you stick me in the country.

It's no big secret that nature and I tend not to get along very well. Winter's too cold, summer's too hot. If it's icy, I'm bound to slip in it. If it's green, I'm bound to be allergic to it. If it's an insect, I'm probably terrified of it. If it's a bee, I'm terrified AND allergic. Rain makes me wet, snow makes me shiver, and the sun gives me a rash. As far as I'm concerned, there are about two good weeks of weather all year and the rest is for the birds.

I suppose, then, that I should gravitate towards big city life. After all, if there's one thing that keeps Ma Nature in check, it's a concrete world. Pollen doesn't grow on blacktop, and that pesky sun stays at bay thanks to all that sweet smog. It's paradise on Earth, right?

Well, not quite. I also hate sharing space with lots of people -- and sadly, they've yet to invent a lightly populated metropolis. Big cities might have tons and tons of neat stuff to do, but that also means there's tons and tons of people DOING that stuff. The traffic is insane and half your life's just wasted getting from A to B. Maybe I just need to stay in my living room forever and find a job where the only interaction I have with society is when the pizza guy rolls up.

But sometimes, I surprise myself.

It was late on a Friday afternoon when my friend Linn called me at work. I had zero plans for the night and was looking forward to a beached-whale evening on the couch. Linn had other ideas. In fact, she had an extra ticket for the Barnstormer concert at Codfish Hollow that night. A few minutes of peer pressure later and I found myself in a car on my way to (gasp) nature.

Everyone should experience a Barnstormer show at least once in their life. Codfish Hollow is a farm hidden in rural Maquoketa, and for a few weekends every summer, it transforms into one of the most unique concert venues in the Midwest. Upon arrival, guests park in a pasture. From there, it's just a game of dodge-the-cowpies to get to the hayrack ride that takes you down the winding treacherous road to the Hollow.

At the farm, you're free to roam the grounds, view the art installations, and check out the live music, which happens no-frills style in a barn that's almost entirely free of any air circulation whatsoever. You usually end up witnessing some of the greatest musical moments of your life, but you do so while sweltering elbow-to-elbow with hundreds of the sweatiest, smelliest hipsters you could possibly dream up. It's not just nature, it's every aspect of nature that I hate, all tied together in a sweaty, stinky bow.

Then why do I love it so much?

On the way there, I was Joe No-Fun. I was the guy insisting we bring lawn chairs. I was the guy sucking down Claritin and covering my body in Deep Woods Off. I was the guy complaining about EVERYTHING. Then why was I also the guy who stepped out of the car into the middle of a cow pasture to feel entirely at ease? Suddenly I didn't care about anything. The stress of the work week, the worries about whether we'd left something at home, the fear of looking awkward around others... it just melted away.

I guess when your biggest worry is whether or not you're about to step in cow poo, you really don't have much to complain about. It was fun being with friends in that pasture, it was fun on the hayrack, and it was fun being sardined inside that God-forsaken oven of a barn. I wasn't just dealing with nature, I was actually (gasp) enjoying it. Okay, when a bee flew by me, I still ran away like a chicken, but I did it without screaming like a little girl. That's a triumph.

By the end of the night, I had some serious un-Shane-like activities under my belt. I hung out in the sun. I hiked. I played horseshoes (Note: anyone who thinks horseshoes is a wussy sport needs to have a chat with my right shoulder. It's two days later and I still feel like I pitched a no-hitter over the weekend.) I poked a hornet's nest. I tromped out into the middle of a field of fireflies to check out the Supermoon. And at the end of the night, when the skies opened up and rain poured down, I welcomed it. I was a sweaty, smelly mess -- and I kinda loved it.

Anyone who knows me wouldn't believe how much fun I had in the boonies. But there's one thing that a lot of people don't know about me: I grew up in the boonies. A 50-acre farm, to be precise. Well, not a FARM by definition, I guess, because we didn't farm it. My folks just liked the country -- and so did I. I remember days of hiking around pastures trying not to scare the bulls. I remember eating wild raspberries off the vine in our woods. I remember playing in the creek when a rough green snake swam between my legs -- and at the time, I thought it was COOL instead of terrifying. I remember swingsets and bike rides and dirt and sweat and bugs and clouds and stars and grass.

At some point, I lost touch with country me. I'd estimate it to be about the time I discovered video games. Country me didn't stick around long that weekend, but it was nice to make his acquaintance again.

I'm certainly not made for the country, but I'm not made for the big city, either. I guess I'm both Donnie AND Marie -- a little bit country AND a little bit rock & roll. I'm more of an in-between, and I guess that's why I like it here in the Quad Cities. We're big enough to never be boring but small enough to escape down a gravel road when the need arises.  

So maybe I'll always be the awkward guy who never wholly fits in. But I'm okay with that -- they call it a HAPPY medium for a reason.

COLUMN: Cat Mayor

Somebody asked me the other day why I've never considered running for political office. I'm pretty sure the maniacal laugh I responded with was answer enough.

For one, I know there's video of my college years out there somewhere, and I'm pretty sure TMZ could have the footage online by the time I even set up a podium for my first press conference. Thanks, but I prefer my life relatively scandal-free, thanks.

And I suppose there's the small matter of me not really knowing a thing about politics. I like to think that I'm plugged in and fairly well-rounded in my political leanings, but that's hooey. Truth is, if it's not on the front page of this paper or the first ten minutes of "The Daily Show," it's usually out of my loop or over my head. Besides, I'd like to think that you people deserve someone in control of your fiscal future who's capable of doing simple math without having to count on his fingers.

More than anything, though, I don't deal well with confrontation. If I get a negative comment on a performance review at work, my stomach ties up in knots, I pace around the house, and can't sleep for a week. When you run for office, random strangers end up hating you just because your favorite color is either blue or red. I can't take that kind of pressure. Not many people could.

That's why politicians are an entirely different breed of animal. And in Mexico, they're actually an entirely different breed of animal.

July 7th is election day across Mexico. And in the eastern town of Xalapa, the leading candidate for mayor is an orange-eyed black and white kitten named Morris. He might only be 10 months old, but he's already got 110,000 Facebook followers and a successful line of campaign t-shirts that read "YES WE CAT!" According to the Associated Press, Morris stands a fair chance at winning the election behind his campaign motto, "Tired of Voting for Rats? Vote For a Cat."

A witty way to protest a political system rife with corruption? You bet... But then I got to pondering. And you know what? When it comes down to it, I don't know if you could come up with a candidate better suited for a mayoral position than a cat. Think about it:

• Food shortages would never be a problem. There would be NO greater concern to a cat administration. I'm pretty sure my cats can tell you exactly how many pellets of cat chow are currently in inventory based on one shake of the bag alone. You run low on food and there'd be heck to pay at the next city council meeting.

• Civic defense would be a way of life. My cats have two primary motivations in life. Food is first. Second is making sure of what's going on Outside, and specifically making sure that Outside never comes Inside and that Outside knows that Inside belongs to Inside. Occasionally Outside will send a feral ambassador for a back porch screen door summit. It never goes well. My two indoor cats appear to mostly hate one another, but they will forever remain a unified front against Outside.

• Cat Mayor would NOT play by the rules. Cats have no rules. "Don't claw the furniture!" Cat Mayor laughs at you. "Don't jump on the kitchen countertop!" Cat Mayor does not compute.

• Cat Mayor would be a tough negotiator. Last week, I fell asleep on the couch. Silly me forgot to ask my cats' permission first. Worse yet, I had the unmitigated gall to nap my way through dinnertime. BAP. Zzzz. BAP. I'm pretty sure I'm asleep but I'm also pretty sure there's a paw hitting my head. BAP "Mrow." BAP BAP "Mrow." "SHUT UP STUPID CAT!" BAP. "Mrow mrowwwwwwwwr." Guess who won?

• Cat Mayor would take things to new heights. The other day, I watched one of my cats confidently climb the stairs to my loft bedroom, nimbly jump onto the tiny precarious ledge of the loft, and instantly lose her balance and tumble off. But before I could even go "OMIGOSH" and run to her aide, she managed to push off of the staircase handrail, do a mid-air 360 ollie, land in a forward somersault on the couch one full story below, and casually look over at me like, "What? I TOTALLY meant to do that."

• Cat Mayor would know how to command attention and clean up his own messes. There is no worse noise on Earth than that of a cat hacking up a hairball. And when that noise invaded my slumber at 4 a.m. the other night, I was duly grossed out. Yet my naive little semi-conscious brain thought, "Don't worry. It'll stop soon," and I attempted my best to sleep through it. That was when the simple realization hit me like a horror movie: THE NOISE IS COMING FROM ABOVE YOUR HEAD. Sure enough, I was asleep on the couch and my cat was inches above me on the backrest about to vomit directly onto my face. How I summoned the fortitude I will never know, but in the blink of an eye, I reached up, grabbed the cat, and blindly heaved her as far away from my head as I could. I heard her safely land and hack up what I'd reckon to be a level 5 biohazard. The next morning, the floor was spotless. I'm not asking any questions.

• Cat Mayor can turn on the charm. I'm pretty sure if an axe murderer stormed into my house and chopped me into itty bitty pieces, my cats would still put on the big sad eyes, flop over, and mandate a belly rub. If the axe murderer had FOOD, new alliances would instantly be formed. It's like any good business relationship: you scratch MY back, and I'll... demand that you keep scratching it.

• And lastly, Cat Mayor wouldn't need a fat cat donor when Cat Mayor IS a fat cat himself.

Pshaw, you say. Surely, Shane, there's no way a town could survive with a feline mayor. I'm being ludicrous, right? Right?

It turns out our friends in Xalapa are behind the times -- especially if you've ever been to Talkeetna, Alaska. It's a small village and tourist destination at the base of Mt. McKinley. Oh, and for the past 16 years, it's been presided over by a tailless cat named Stubbs, the duly elected mayor of Talkeetna. And, according to various news stories written on Stubbs over the years, his approval ratings remain high to this day. Sure, he sleeps a lot, and he definitely sheds more than your average mayor, but during his reign, he's kept taxes low, checks in with area businesses on a daily basis (especially the ones serving food), and isn't afraid to interact with tourists.

So, Mayor Pauley, you can rest in the knowledge that I'm not coming for your title any time in the near future. I cannot, however, speak for either of my two housemates. I'm pretty sure one of them is giving me a stump speech right now. Either that or she wants food. Either way, I have to go.

COLUMN: Newton

I believe that everyone on Earth has two sides: the person we want others to perceive us as, and the person we actually ARE. I'm not exactly sure about the person who I actually AM (I like to think of him as a work in progress,) but I most certainly know the person I'd like to be perceived as.

He operates on an entirely higher plane of cool that some can't even comprehend. He's funnier than the average bear, but he's also just a little bit aloof in that distant and mysterious way. He's a well-traveled ladies man who loves exotic food, cutting-edge music, avant-garde art films, and you just KNOW he has a library full of classic literature in his house. He is equal parts Holden Caulfield, Jack Kerouac, and Robert Downey, Jr.

The real me is a teeny bit different. I'm only funny if you give me a laptop computer and an indefinite amount of time. I'm not aloof -- I'm just too shy to talk to you. I'm afraid of airplanes and I can't hold eye contact with a pretty girl. My definition of exotic food is Taco Bell, I secretly enjoy the music of Chris Brown, my favorite movie is "Twister," and the largest library in my house is the stack of water-logged Entertainment Weeklies I keep by my toilet.

Holden Kerouac Jr. I ain't.

No matter how much I yearn to be the coolest guy in the room, it'll never happen. I'm just me. A guy who's afraid of bees and bugs, routinely breaks out in heat rash, hates to get his hands dirty, and sleeps with socks on. A guy who doesn't know how to change a tire or swim or snap his fingers or keep his shoes tied.

And, yes, a guy who loves NASCAR.

I know, I know. I can't explain it either. I'm a card-carrying liberal Democrat who drives a European car laden with bumper stickers supporting both Obama and the Human Rights Campaign. I should hate NASCAR.

But I can't help myself. I don't know if it's the speed, the excitement, the danger, the strategies, or what. All I know is that I like stock car racing, and not just a little. It's one thing to tune in to the races, but I read the blogs and follow the Twitter feeds. I call in to NASCAR talk radio. I'm currently in a close second place in my NASCAR fantasy league (yes, they exist.) And, every once in a while, if I'm feeling especially brave, I go to a race.

Maybe you spent last Saturday racing for the cure or gumbo'ing your ya-yas. Me? I was in Newton, Iowa for the Dupont Pioneer 250 NASCAR Nationwide Series race, where I learned many truths about the reality of being a NASCAR fan:

* Fellow NASCAR fans are, by and large, really nice people, occasionally to a fault. We got to the race early and got stuck in line next to a guy with clearly nothing better to do than make 150 new friends. Talking at roughly the volume of a stock car to absolutely anyone daring enough to make eye contact, we learned all about the murders in his hometown ("They'll git the guy, mark my words, what with the D&A and all. With D&A, they can go back and check out what George Warsh-ington was up to if they wanted!") We learned about his daughter's neck goiter (she's doing much better.) We learned that his wife was running late (and/or packing up her earthly belongings and heading for the hills whilst the getting was good.) Still, I'll take THAT guy over the usual beer-spilling frat-boys I end up next to at most rock shows.

* Iowa Speedway workers are, by and large, really nice people. We were concerned that we'd miss the autograph signing, so the staffer at our entrance unlocked the gate early, searched all of our bags early, and scanned all of our tickets early, all so we could run straight to the autograph line when the time came.

* NASCAR drivers are, by and large, really nice people. We made it to the autograph session and managed to score a couple of the much-coveted admission wristbands. I got to meet Brian Vickers, Elliott Sadler, Trevor Bayne, and a dozen other drivers. ALL of them were unbelievably nice. I couldn't help but think of the hours I spent in college trying to meet my favorite musicians only to discover they were arrogant twits.

* NASCAR sponsors really enjoy giving away free stuff. Fill out a quick survey from Sprint and get $5. Fill out a quick survey from Chevy and get a free t-shirt. On an entirely unrelated note, I hope Mr. Bud Weiser enjoys his Chevy brochures, and if a certain rival publication starts receiving telemarketing calls about their cell phone service, it should be dismissed as coincidence.

* Thanks to the sponsor trailer, I know for sure that Dupont Pioneer products yield "good, clean corn." Not that bad dirty corn we're all used to.

* I should know that if I'm ever out of my element and having a good time, it's bound to rain on my parade. And it did, quite literally, as the skies let loose during the introductory parade of drivers.

* If you think stock cars are loud, try sitting in the second row when they bring out the jet dryers. I've long since destroyed my ears on a steady diet of dance music over the years, and even a grizzled vet like me was sitting there with earplugs AND my fingers in my ears every time those wheeled deathmobiles rumbled by.

* Whoever sings that "Rain is a Good Thing" song is a liar.

* How does the Iowa Speedway make up for an eventual rainout? Apparantly by encouraging felony drunk driving. "BEER FOR THE ROAD?" shouted umpteen vendors at us as the crowd headed dejectedly to the parking lot. Many took them up on it. Turns out it was okay, though, because I'm pretty sure you could have passed out drunk, gotten a good night's sleep, and waited out the hangover while still in line to leave the parking lot. There's a chance I might still be there now.

Maybe I don't really like NASCAR. Maybe I just like waiting in line after line, all capped off by some extra waiting in the parking lot to get the heck out of Newton and head home while resisting the urge to bump-draft traffic on the interstate.

Holden Kerouac Jr. would NOT have been amused.

COLUMN: Triad

Sometimes it's good in life to take a break, sit back, and focus on that which matters the most: Pop music.

I am an unabashed music nerd. It is my hobby, my passion, and I'm pretty sure it's the reason I exist. My life-long love of audio has shaped my friendships and my existence.

And this week, it's shaped my column.

Eight hours ago, I was in my car headed for the office. Like every workday morning, my iPod was blaring away on random shuffle. Some people keep their mp3's meticulously sorted by genre, mood, artist, etc. Not me. I have 12,000 songs loaded into my iPod, and I think it's more fun to just throw them all together into a random hodge-podge. When I press play, I don't know if I'm going to be met by a lush ambient soundscape or slammed with soul-scraping European techno.

Today, however, I was hit with a classic: "Triad" by the Byrds.

It's a song I first discovered one day while absent-mindedly stocking shelves at my old record store job. I was swept away by its dreamy melody and hazy meandering. It's a perfect pastiche of 60s psychedelia and JUST the song I needed to gently ease my mind into another work day. Then, for the first time ever, I paid attention to the words.

For someone who claims to be one of the area's leading listeners of music, it turns out I have a bad habit of zoning out song lyrics altogether. There are tunes out there deeply imbedded in my heart that I couldn't BEGIN to tell you what they're about. I might know the vocal line, sure, but only phonetically. In-a-gadda-da-vida, anyone? Shoot, I can even croak along to "99 Luftballoons" even though it's in German. Sometimes a tune's so good that the artist could be singing about murdering puppies and you'd never realize it.

You do it, too -- admit it. What classic rock fan hasn't screamed along with the radio in their car to, "A modern day warrior, mean mean stride! Today's Tom Sawyer, mean mean pride!" Does ANYONE know what that song's supposed to be about? Rush wrote it, and I'll bet THEY don't even know. Half the song's indescipherable, but it doesn't stop us all from singing along. "Exit the warrior of today's top soil who gets high on YOU and some space invaders get right on through the prison of your YOUTH!" Or something like that. Who cares, it's still awesome, right?

When in doubt, I just assume that the artist is far more poetic, talented, and expressive than I'll ever be, and the true meaning of the song is just too deep for we mere mortals to comprehend. Unless, of course, the song in question is "Gangnam Style," in which case the correct response is to simply shut up and dance.

Analyzing lyrics is for suckers anyways. Sometimes it gets you into more trouble than it's worth. I was a huge fan of medieval fantasy books as a kid, and back in middle school I heard this song on the radio one day. It was a majestic tale of elegantly dressed paladins on a seemingly endless quest to win the hand of the fair maiden. I imagined gallantry and swordplay, dragon-slaying and valor. I went to school the next day and told my nerd friends about this great song of medieval chivalry.

Then I found out that the Moody Blues song in question was "Nights in White Satin" and NOT, in fact, "KNIGHTS in White Satin."

Which brings us to "Triad."

I missed out on the 60s, so I'm not exactly an aficionado when it comes to The Byrds. That said, they're one of those bands that pretty much EVERYBODY respects. They sang jangly, thought-provoking folk songs that didn't just reflect their generation, they helped shape it. You know, "there is a season, turn, turn, turn," and all that. The Byrds were one of the first pop bands to be more thought-provoking than hip-shaking.

So when I heard the lush psychedelia of "Triad," I assumed it was some introspective song about soul-searching and getting along with your neighbor or some such. With a name like "Triad," I figured it might even have some kind of Biblical allegory.

Well, I was right on both counts. It's DEFINITELY about getting along with your neighbors... in the Biblical sense.

It turn turn turns out that what I thought to be an innocent little 60s head trip is, in fact, a relatively lame plea for group nookie.

"You want to know how it will be / Me and her, or you and me / You both stand there, your long hair flowing / Your eyes are alive, your mind still growing / Saying to me what can we do now / That we both love you / I love you too and I don't really see / Why can't we go on as three?"

Yowza. My iPod's made me do a lot of things over the years, but this might be the first time in history that it's actually made me BLUSH on my way to work. Where was Tipper Gore when THIS stuff was on the radio, eh? I don't seem to recall The Byrds showing up on any PRMC hitlist. You'll burn an Ozzy Osbourne album but jangly ol' Roger McGuinn's free to sing about getting his polyamorous jollies any time he fancies? A time to kill, a time to heal, a time to laugh, a time to weep, and when that's all done, apparantly a time to getcha-getcha freak on.

As I continued listening, it just got ickier.

"We love each other, it's plain to see / there's just one answer that comes to be / sister lovers, water brothers / and in time, MAYBE OTHERS." Now, I enjoy when my mind paints a colorful picture of something -- unless that colorful picture is of David Crosby being someone's "water brother." Ew. I'm pretty sure I just got cooties.

Of course, nowadays Britney Spears can ride the same topic matter to the top of the charts and Lil Wayne could out-offend this track in his sleep (which, coincidentally, is how I think he records MOST of his material.) But this isn't the music of the ADD-addled shock-and-awe 2010's where a song like A$AP Rocky's "Problems" can reach the Top 40 chart with no fewer than 81 vulgarities in 4 minutes.

No, this is a song that's now 46 years old. So next time your grandmother tells you that you're going to H-E-double-hockey-sticks for that Marilyn Manson CD in your collection, I know JUST the song to start humming back at her. After all, if listening to a Judas Priest album can turn you into a devil worshipper, then maybe listening to "Triad" at one point turned your grandma into... EWW. DOUBLE COOTIES. Sorry I brought it up.

The worst part about all this is that now "Triad" is stuck in my head on auto-repeat and I've found myself singing along to it randomly all day today. So if you're out grocery shopping tonight and stumble upon a chubby 42-year-old warbling off-key to himself about orgies, I'm not crazy, I promise. I'm just a music nerd.

COLUMN: Couscous

I've been called a lot of things over the years, but "party animal" has never been one of them. If I had to choose between a life of being constantly surrounded by friends vs. a lifetime of isolation, I'd probably choose the latter... and maybe a good book or two.

Don't get me wrong, I love my friends to pieces and my life would stink without them. But I grew up an only child, and I learned from an early age how to appreciate a vast amount of quality alone time. I've just never been one to put on a party hat and race to where the action is.

But if I'm the one THROWING the party, it needs to be legendary.

It started in junior high. As the only kid in my clique lucky enough to live on a 50-acre farm, shindigs of varying size were a natural occurrence at my place. Whether it was water balloon tag in the summer or epic sledding parties in the winter, my house was a primary destination for weekend fun. There were cows to terrorize in the pasture, creeks to jump in the woods, and computer games to play when we realized we were all a bunch of nerds who preferred virtual nature to the real thing.

In high school, I was far from one of the cool kids, but it didn't stop our ragtag posse from throwing envelope-pushing parties as often as possible. Some were stunning failures (it turns out our "Strobe Light Only" party was less cool and more retina-damaging.) But some, like our epic senior year scavenger hunt, will hopefully live in Galesburg party infamy.

Speaking of infamy, if you asked anyone who went to my college at the turn of the 90's to name their favorite weekend destination, I'd wager a whole week's pay that over half would mention my old frat house. What looked like a standard dilapidated dwelling on the outside hid a nearly full-functioning dance club on the interior. With the kind of creativity that could ONLY stem from enterprising college students, the kitchen would transform into a DJ booth, the living room a dancefloor, and the basement...? Well, some secrets are best left OUT of the mainstream media, thanks. I'm not claiming it was smart, I'm not even going to claim it was entirely legal, but good gravy it was fun.

In case that last paragraph didn't sully your impression of me entirely, here's where I tell you that AFTER I graduated college, a friend and I supported ourselves for a couple years causing measurable damage to your children's hearing by introducing rave culture to the Quad Cities. It was as simple as finding a space, hauling in the best sound and lights and DJs that we could possibly afford, and letting the beat drop from sundown to sunup. But what looked like a dangerous slice of counter-culture on the surface was actually a serious business model, complete with permits, licensing fees, uniformed security, and profit margins.

So I guess when I sit back and think about it, this only-child loner DOES have a knack for entertaining. Ergo, when a friend suggested that I throw a get-together at my house over the Memorial Day weekend, I was down. My house, after all, has all of my requirements for a Grade A hootenanny: lots of open space, a decent stereo, and a soundproofed basement that ensures no neighbors come a-knockin'.

What sorts of trouble would we get ourselves into? Memory loss? Public nudity? Farm animals? NOTHING's off the table for this party veteran, am I right? (High-five.) And sure enough, by the end of the night, my friends and I had taken things to a new level of untold debauchery. Forget the amateur nudity, skip the farm animals, and ignore all rules. That's right -- we went straight for the hard stuff.

We got our couscous on.

It turns out there really IS an age when a night of thumping bass, animalistic hedonism, and next-day regret starts to sound LESS appealing than a good meal with pleasant company. I guess that age is 42. It's apparently time to put me out to pasture, because I had a thoroughly enjoyable evening with little more than a kitchen full of good eats and a living room full of good friends.

No scandalous drama ensued. No one got especially naked. Worse yet, I didn't realize until everyone had left that I hadn't even turned on any music. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME??

Instead, I cooked. That's the one hobby I've picked up in middle age: learning what this room with all the stoves and sinks and refrigerators is for. In my old apartment, it was the Empty Pizza Box Storage Room. Now that I've got a house, and especially one with a machine that washes the dishes for you, I'm realizing that I'm not entirely inept at cooking.

It's one thing to grill out some burgers. That was Old Shane. New Shane (or, more appropriately, Older Shane,) left the burgers and brats for an afterthought. First I grilled out an array of vegetables with a balsalmic maple glaze, packets of dilled summer squash, fanned potatoes, and yes -- a summer salad of fresh cilantro, cucumber, and couscous. Guess who's been watching the Food Network?

I now know what it's like to party it up as a 40-something, and it actually involved me saying the words: "Sorry there's no room in the fridge right now - my broccoli is marinating." Somewhere as we speak, Spuds MacKenzie's rolling in his doggie grave.

This is not to say, however, that Shane's Culinary Shindig 2013 was without any envelope-pushing excitement. Presumably in response to my intentions of consuming vegetables (an act which goes entirely against nature,) nature in turn replied by unleashing Weatherpocalypse on us roughly five minutes after firing up the grill. Most of my masterful grilling ended up taking place under a raincoat and galoshes. And if anyone asks, all the dishes I served were "basted in a reduction of hydrogen and oxygen" and not "covered in rainwater" and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I guess you'd have to ask my friends if it was a good time or not, but I'm going to call the night a success. I got lots of compliments on my handiwork, no one appears to have been struck down by e.coli, and I made it through recipes more difficult than my usual peel-back-foil-stir-and-continue-microwaving frozen meal prowess. And heck, I'm still a party animal, because guess what? After everyone left by the polite hour of 11:30, I decided to take a relaxing bath. And yes, I'm proud to admit there was nudity involved. High five!