COLUMN: Hope

Nothing makes me feel older than sitting around and letting my mind wander back to the good old days. And there's nothing like a pandemic to give you PLENTY of time for mind-wandering. When you're stuck on the same couch for the better part of a calendar year, suddenly good old days start feeling like GREAT old days.

Truth be told, I was fairly miserable for most of my youth, mostly of my own doing. I specialized in being the annoying nerdy kid, desperate to impress friends and fit in at all costs. I've grown up a heck of a lot since then, but I'm sure there's a part of me that still yearns for acceptance and hopes people think I'm cool.

Maybe we're all guilty of it. After all, is there any reason to post on Facebook other than to say, "Look at me, am I cool?" It makes me wonder. I'm a music geek through and through, but do I volunteer to DJ parties because I love music or because I love being in CONTROL of the music? This past weekend, I was wasting an afternoon practicing some DJ mixes, and I'll admit it: I cranked the music a little louder than necessary because I knew my window was open and the neighbor kids were playing outside. 

Am I that desperate for acceptance that I need 8-year-olds to think I'm cool? That's kinda sad. I haven't the slightest clue what impresses 8-year-olds these days, but I'm guessing it's NOT house music or the dorky neighbor playing it louder than he should've.

A friend asked an interesting question last week: Who was my first crush? And we're not talking celebrity crushes, because I prefer to overlook the salacious era of "the Debbie Gibson years." Celebrity crushes are silly and adolescent and that's why I definitely don't own every season of Dawson's Creek or find Katie Holmes to be a goddess (cough.)

I can barely recall all my celebrity crushes -- but I certainly know who my first real world crush was.

When I was growing up, my mom had one close friend. Whenever the two of them would get together, I'd usually be forced to tag along. This wasn't a huge sacrifice for me, because my mom's friend had a daughter my age, Maria. I probably SHOULD have had a crush on Maria, but she intimidated the heck out of me. She was smarter than me, more sarcastic than me, and she was even better at video games than me. My adolescent brain couldn't process anyone that cool. 

But one fateful day, our moms got together for an afternoon and I was along for the ride. But Maria had a friend from out of town visiting for the weekend. Her name was Hope. She was from Chicago. And after one afternoon together, I was positive she was my soulmate.

That afternoon was over 35 years ago, and honestly, I barely remember it. I can't recall Hope's face or a single thing we talked about. But I remember she smelled like strawberries, she laughed at my dumb jokes, and I went all wobbly when she touched my knee. And the best part? I wasn't trying to impress her. I wasn't desperate for her to think I was cool. The three of us just hung out all afternoon and had fun.

Afterwards, I asked Maria for Hope's address, and I wrote her an epic love letter, spilling the depths of my soul with romantic prose, passionate longing, and elegantly-crafted expressions of desire. Or, since I was in 7th grade, it probably consisted of "Do you like me? Check this box." She responded in kind with an equally romantic reply (she checked "YES,") so for a few fleeting days of pre-teenery, I had myself a girlfriend.

I took her letters to school, showed my friends, and spent every waking moment pining for her. Well, for about two weeks. In the short attention span of youth, our love was not meant to be and this stallion needed to roam free. But the simple question of "who was your first crush" brought fond fuzzy memories to mind, and I suddenly had an idea.

I haven't spoken to my friend Maria in over twenty years, but it didn't stop me from messaging her out of the blue to see if she was still in touch with Hope. She wasn't -- but she DID remember her last name and the suburb she lived in, which is more than I could recall about my soulmate of yore. That was good enough for a Google search. How great would it be to find her after all these years, see if she ever had fleeting thoughts of me, and find out how her life turned out? It could make a great column.

And it would have, except my Google search immediately pulled up an obituary for someone matching her name, age, and last known location. Ouch. That's a bummer. For what it's worth, Hope has/had a VERY common last name, and it might not even be her. I sure hope this Hope isn't MY Hope. I definitely didn't want a column about good memories turning into a wistful treatise on the fragility of life.

That was absolutely enough research for me. I'm content leaving her fate a mystery. I'm not telling Maria what I found, either. The only thing more awkward than "Hey, I know we haven't spoken in years, but remember your hot friend?" would be following it up with, "yeah, she might be dead." I'd rather just remember what I can about that perfect weekend and the magic of a hand accidentally brushing against my knee.

Take it from me, don't worry about fitting in or trying to look cool. Some days might seem long, but life is short. Don't waste it. I might never be the cool kid in the room, but after all these years, I'm kinda glad that I'm not. If you stop trying to fit in and start being yourself, you might just find your real passion. You might even find some Hope in this world.      

COLUMN: Rachael Ray

Exciting news, all: I have a new BFF.

Sorry, Bruce. You were the first to earn the title of Shane's Best Friend, and I couldn't imagine surviving high school alongside anyone but you. Sorry, Jason. You've been my closest confidant and other-mother brother since fate assigned us adjacent dorm rooms in college. And sorry, Dianna. I know there's one only one person who would come over at 7 a.m. just to help me change the battery in a smoke detector.

You're all amazing people that I couldn't imagine my life without. But you've all been replaced. I have a new bestie... and her name is Rachael Ray.

Some might say I've fallen into a pandemic routine lately. But when you're working from home like I've been for the past few months, there's no such thing as "routine," unless your idea of routine is having to leave a conference call because a cat just vomited in your lap -- which, to the fellow attendees of my Zoom meeting, appeared as if I suddenly and spontaneously glanced down at my crotch, screamed "Ewww!! Gross!!," and disconnected. It wasn't my best moment. 

But as much as I miss my co-workers and annoying them with Belgian house music quietly pumping from my cubicle at 9 a.m., I kinda enjoy working from home. If someone were to walk in here right now, they'd have little clue I'm working. It's me sprawled across the couch like a beached whale as usual. I just have a different laptop in front of me. At 5 p.m., I'm like, "Ahh, quitting time." And all I do is close my work laptop, set it aside, open my personal laptop, and remain in the exact same position. Welcome to my pandemic life.

The only real routine I have these days is waking up an hour before I have to log in. I use this time to saunter into the living room, imbibe caffeine, and catch a few minutes of the "Today" show while my brain boots up. When it's time to work, I simply grab the laptop and hit the mute button on the TV, which stays on throughout the day as my silent work buddy and comforting proof that I'm not the last person alive on Earth. 

But when the Today show ends, it's followed by the smiling Rachael Ray, whose delicious daily dishes are tough to ignore, even when she's muted. I often find myself catching glimpses of fabulous culinary creations, which is hard to take when my fridge contains little more than Lunchables and leftover pizza.

So for the past couple months, I've been taking my lunch hour with my new buddy Rachael. She's been teaching me how to cook, or at least trying her best. Rachael Ray has the amazing ability to make every recipe seem incredibly simple to pull off. At least once a week, she whips up something that makes me think, "I could do that."

As it turns out, sometimes I actually can. I made a decent soup the other day using one of her recipes. Last weekend, I successfully braised short ribs. I recently followed a Rachael Ray Show recipe for sausage & shells that turned out to be single tastiest thing that's ever come out of my kitchen. Am I becoming competent in the kitchen?

Of course, not all attempts are winners. A few weeks back, I attempted a recipe from her website called "Rach's Stupid Good, Silly Easy Sausage and Apple Tray Bake." I opted for a slight variation on the recipe, a creation I renamed "Shane's Stupid Bad Charred Husks of Blackened Things That May or May Not Have Once Been Sausages and Apples But I'm Honestly Not Sure." One minute, things looked fine in the oven. The next, it was culinary cremation.

I'm also starting to think my new bestie isn't entirely honest with her viewing audience. For one, bok choy isn't delicious, it's slimy and gross. And no, Rachael, I can't "add a dollop of Calabrian chili paste" because no one but you has Calabrian chili paste in their pantry.

Last week, Bobby Flay was on, sharing his recipe for Bucatini all'Amatriciana, which I believe is Italian for "spaghetti topped with a buttload of bacon." What's not to love, other than maybe your next cholesterol checkup? Just like Bobby, I carefully added my ingredients to a pot and set it to simmer. Just like Bobby, I checked on it after twenty minutes and added fresh oregano (or maybe oregano from a jar I'm pretty sure I've had since the 1990s, shh!)

But I definitely don't recall any part of Bobby Flay's video where a rogue drop of boiling sauce flies directly into his left eyeball, which was MY experience. And while I was cursing and trying to rinse my eye out with cold water, MORE drops of boiling sauce started flying everywhere around my kitchen. The end result tasted amazing, but it destroyed a perfectly good t-shirt and left behind a Dateline-worthy crime scene in my kitchen. 

Overall, though, Rachael Ray makes a pretty good pandemic pal. I usually can't stomach traditional cooking shows. Nothing makes my eyes roll faster than a studio audience gasping with appreciation at someone adding onion to a pan -- and no show is usually guiltier of fake audience reactions than Rachael Ray. But these are not usual times. Since the pandemic, Rachael and her hubby have been making the show on their own from their mountain home (actually, their GUEST home, but that's a whooole other story my bestie can tell you about.) The homemade DIY format so much better than a glossy studio full of people "ooh"-ing and "ahh"-ing chicken stock as it simmers.

So for the time being, I have a new best buddy, and it's just like most friendships. Sometimes she acts like she's better than me. Sometimes she tells me I need to cut back on my salt intake. We get along great, but sometimes we disagree. A couple weeks back, I said to myself, "Okay, this weekend I'm making whatever Rachael makes today." And then she said, "Welcome to the show! Today we're going to make Onion & Brussels Sprout Pasta," at which point I decided that maybe I needed a different best friend, so I changed the channel and met some exciting new people on CBS. I don't know much about them, but they seem quite young and restless. Wish me luck.     

COLUMN: Vaccinated

I may have been on this planet for some five decades now, but nothing seems more preposterous than the idea of some young person turning to ME for sagely wisdom about life. Frankly, I'm just not real good at this "existence" business. I will never pretend to be better than you, because I know I'm not. I don't even know HOW to get on a high horse.

But yesterday? For one brief second, I got to play the hero. I was brave, and I did a good thing: I got stabbed in the arm. If all goes well, in a matter of weeks, I will be an invincible superhero -- or at least able to shop for groceries within six feet of another human being, and that's close enough.

You should do it, too.

I'm not here to pick a fight with you anti-vaxxers. Nobody wins. Some people are afraid the vaccine isn't safe. Well, fine, I guess. Whatever. I'll put my faith in scienc-y people, because I sat next to some of them in high school and they seemed really smart. For me, it's a risk I was willing to take. "Could I suffer a side effect?" vs. "Do I ever want to attend a concert again?" Concerts won out.

Then there are people out there -- we all have that ONE uncle on Facebook -- who think the vaccine is part of a sinister plot to subjugate us all to the nefarious plans of, I dunno, I guess Dolly Parton and Dr. Fauci. Or the vaccine contains secret tracking chips so Bill Gates can spy on us.

I hate to break it to your over-inflated sense of self-importance, but Bill Gates most likely does NOT care about what you're having for dinner tonight. A similar rumor hits social media every year without fail. You know, the one that claims Facebook is going to claim ownership of all your social media content unless you post something that says, "No, Mark Zuckerberg! You may NOT have my photos!"

Mark Zuckerberg owns approximately eleventy kajillion dollars. He does not need the selfie of you in the red dress at the club. With just the spending money in his wallet, he could probably buy the club, the dress, and pay Kim Kardashian to wear it there. Honestly, if Mark Zuckerberg wants the 18 photos of my cats that adorn my Facebook page, he's welcome to them. 

Are there creepy violations of our privacy happening online? You bet. Do some websites track where we go online? Sure -- but they're mostly doing it in order to serve us ads based on our interests. Websites need to sell ads to make money. And if those sites are going to shove ads in my face, I'd rather they be for products I might actually care about. If Bill Gates really DID just put a tracking chip in my arm, he's welcome to spy on my exciting life ("My God, he's STILL on the couch. It's been ten hours. Do you think he's dead?")

The only fear I had to overcome when it came to getting the vaccine wasn't the vaccine. It was the "getting" part.

I'm terrified of needles. I remember the last time I got a vaccine. It was a booster shot I needed in grade school. I remember the nurse telling me "it's just like a little bee sting." I'm allergic to little bee stings. Little bee stings can kill me. I screamed so loud, I broke all the blood vessels in my face and walked around purple for a week.

But yesterday I did the unthinkable. Of my own free will, I went up to a nice lady and said, "Hello, I'm here for my injection, please." If you go out today, please be mindful -- the forecast calls for freezing hell and flying pigs. 

The down side? I may have caught COVID-19 from the dude next to me in the vaccine line. Mine took place at the grocery store, where there's a helpful smile in every aisle -- and a woman who stabs people with needles. Afterwards, they ask you to stick around for a few minutes, which is admittedly less than resassuring. "The vaccine is perfectly safe, but go wait here for fifteen minutes to make sure you don't die."

Worse yet, the guy ahead of me appeared to already have COVID-27 or 28. The entire time, he was coughing up a lung -- and with each cough, he thoughtfully reached up and pulled DOWN his mask to hack open-mouthed into the air. I was supposed to wait fifteen minutes, but I snuck out after five. I'd rather die of an allergic reaction on MY terms than catch grocery store cooties before the vaccine has a chance to do its trick.

It's trick, by the way, is to make your arm hurt so bad that you forget all about COVID. It's already much better now, but yesterday was unpleasant. I went to pick up a cat last night and about screamed. But it goes away. 

With any luck -- and a lot of needles -- so will COVID. 

COLUMN: Weekend From Hell, Pt. 2

Last week, I selfishly used this column as therapy. I just wanted to whine about my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad weekend. What started as an earnest attempt to organize my kitchen turned into an all-nighter of clutter and chaos. Then I was awakened the next morning after three hours sleep by a malfunctioning smoke detector. 

Little did I know, the fun was just getting started.

After convincing myself that the house was not, in fact, on fire, I spent Saturday organizing music files on my computer, because I am nothing if not a party animal.

But at 8 p.m., I got the chills. Remember the health problems I had earlier this winter? It all started with a kidney infection and me getting the chills. "Swell," I thought while grabbing a sweater and some cranberry juice. That's when my eye happened to catch the living room thermostat. It read 64 degrees. I had the chills, alright -- my heat was out.

I have no idea why, but I headed to the basement like I knew what I was doing. "Yep, that's a furnace," I said to myself, which is pretty much the extent of my HVAC knowledge. It wasn't on fire, so yay for that. I executed the only troubleshooting maneuver I was qualified to do: I turned it off and back on. No dice.

I called a couple 24-hour HVAC places, who were happy to come diagnose the problem for roughly 18% of my annual salary. I knew after-hours prices were steep, but man. If those poor Texans on the news could tough it out, I could, too. I bundled up and went to bed.

Sunday morning, I woke up to a 52 degree interior. Even the cats were looking at me like, "Ummm...?" Ergo, I did what you're NOT supposed to do -- I made a beeline for the kitchen, opened the (electric) oven, and set it to broil. In fact, as long as I was standing there monitoring it, I figured it'd be safe to turn on the stove burners, too.

I had made the beeline for the kitchen before making the morning pilgrimage to the bathroom, so I was standing in the kitchen doing a little jig that was half for warmth and half because I had to pee, so I hustled to the bathroom for a quick second.

The morning prior, I had indulged in a bowl of cereal. What I didn't know is that somewhere in the cereal-pouring process, a rogue Frosted Flake had absconded from my bowl and landed in the well of one of those stove burners. By the time I returned from the bathroom, the aforementioned Frosted Flake was on frosted fire. It was not "grrrrrreat." 

It burned out in seconds, but not before setting off EVERY smoke detector in the house, including the dreaded one in my bedroom. Whoever installed that smoke detector is a sadist. I have vaulted ceilings, and it's on the weeee tippy top. Shutting it off involves an aerial escapade on a telescoping ladder that requires teamwork and a degree in physics just to open, let alone climb. 

I only have one friend who I knew would be awake, and it's the same friend who helped with my kitchen not 24 hours earlier. If you know Dianna Saelens, give her a socially distant high-five and tell her how awesome she is. She arrived with space heaters, batteries, and the willingness to scale a two-story ladder without vomiting. I contributed the best way I knew how: bacon. I handled breakfast duty.

At one point, I noticed one of my poor cats scared out of her mind, heading behind the couch in a space she shouldn't be in. That's when the morning went from bad to worse to... indescribable.

I have three cats. Two are the geriatric sisters I've had for years. The third is the young feral I took in last year. It is NOT one big happy family. Bez, my grandma kitty with bad hips and bad kidneys, has long been the alpha of the house. She is NOT a fan of our young new tenant. But lately, things had been better. The new cat keeps to the basement, Bez patrols the main floor, and there's been less conflict.

When I pulled out the couch, I discovered why. I spend most of my time, especially this past year, camped out on the couch. Whether it's watching TV, working from home, or writing this column, it all happens here on this couch. Yet somehow, I've been sitting here completely oblivious that Granny Bez has been going behind the couch and using it as her own personal litterbox. For what appeared to be weeks.

I get paid to write, and I have no words. How it didn't make an unholy smell is beyond me. How my house wasn't declared a HAZMAT violation is beyond me. The noise I made upon discovering the hidden cache is beyond me. Why I'm even telling you all this is beyond me.  

Two days later, it's all hopefully ancient history. The smoke detector got reset. Space heaters got fired up. My carpet got cleaned. On Monday, I paid a man $260 to walk downstairs, open my furnace, and push a button. My house has heat again. Thankfully, he showed me how to push said button next time it happens, so I'm counting that as PERSONAL GROWTH, people. There is no longer a path to get behind the couch and there are ample litterboxes on every floor.

Who knows, maybe there's a moral in here somewhere. Cats are terrible, except when they're not? Smoke detectors are terrible, except when they're not? Never barbecue breakfast cereal? Or the REAL moral, which is "everyone needs a Dianna." Were it not for her, I might be writing this column from a hotel room.

If there's a better moral hiding in all this, I'll let you find it. I'm going to bed.

COLUMN: Weekend From Hell, Pt. 1

Good columnists usually have a purpose to their writing. Opinions they wish to convey, points they'd like to make, reasons for putting pen to paper. It's a good thing I'm not a good columnist.

Sometimes writing these weekly missives is little more than stress relief, a necessary means to exorcise the past week and purge those memories from my skull. This is one of those times. If you're looking to grow as a person or learn a valuable life lesson, pick a different article. Forgive me, but I just need to whine about my weekend. There are good weekends, there are bad weekends... and then there are SHANE weekends. Set phasers to "complain," Captain Kirk. 

I suppose it all started on Friday. Thanks to the pandemic, I've been getting to know the room I normally pass through on the way to more exciting rooms: my kitchen. After cooking at home far more than usual, I'm getting irked at the lack of storage space in my kitchen. Truth is, I have a ton of cabinets in there - they're just jam-packed with silly stuff I never use. The other day, I had to pull out seven items just to get to my one lonely saucepan. I recently gave up after fifteen minutes of searching for a cutting board I definitely own but couldn't find.

Not once did it dawn on me that perhaps I could reorganize and get rid of some of this junk I never use. When the thought finally crossed my mind last week, it was a revelation. For instance, I have a full tea service in my cabinet. I don't drink tea. I have a mug that says "I Still Look Sexy at 40," which is a SUPER important thing to have because (a) I often rely on tableware to validate my sexual self-confidence, and (b) I'm 50.

On a mission, I walked into the kitchen, opened all my cabinets, and set to work. And by "set to work," I looked at things for 30 seconds, realized I had no idea how to even begin, and promptly gave up. Thankfully, I have a friend who thrives on organization, so I called her to see if she might be willing to help.

"I've dreamt of this day," she said. "I'll be over in ten minutes."

I sort of expected she'd have a system to help free my kitchen of clutter and magically make everything better. And she did. Her system was to empty the contents of every cabinet into an ungodly pile on the kitchen floor. We were at it until 1 a.m. And by we, I mean her. My job was essentially to stand there and argue why I didn't want to throw away a set of cheap wine glasses embossed with the logo of a local home improvement company.

"What if I want to impress a girl one day?" I pleaded.

"No girl will be impressed by wine that offers a 20% discount on windows and siding," she explained while tossing them.

So my Friday was spent top-billed in my very own episode of "Hoarders," which was just swell. We ended up with several boxes for Goodwill and my basement. Best of all, I finally found that cutting board.

NOT best of all? I also found, high atop the refrigerator, a half-eaten cherry pie from 2016 -- or at least the plant-like creation that half-eaten cherry pies spawn into after a half-decade atop one's fridge. It was up there next to a solidified honey bear and the owner's manual from the car I sold seven years ago.

Also: I apparently own FOUR jars of garlic powder. Every time I've ever said to myself, "Ooh, I need garlic powder," I most certainly did NOT. I am now ready and armed to fend off an army of vampires, or at least ensure I will never be kissed again. Also: what is "summer savory?" Does it perchance become MORE savory over multiple summers? I'm pretty sure I purchased it in 1992, when I graduated college and decided that adulting meant owning spices, and we all know how crucial summer savory is to most recipes.   

With my kitchen back to some semblance of order, my friend (thank you, Dianna!) left somewhere around 2 a.m. and I made it to bed a while later, eager for a full night's sleep.

I settled for three hours. At 6:07 a.m., for no reason whatsoever, my smoke detector went off. Not in a you-need-to-change-the-battery kinda way. This was most definitely a YOUR-HOUSE-IS-ON-FIRE-YOU-BETTER-RUN alarm. So imagine, if you will, stumbling half-naked into your living room in an incoherent haze of confusion and adrenaline, when suddenly a voice over your shoulder says, "Mr. Brown?"

I straight up screamed.

My smoke detector is hooked up to my security system. When something goes off, it alerts someone in a monitoring center in who-knows-where, and suddenly that person was talking to me through my alarm system's speakerphone. "Mr. Brown, do I need to send fire response?"

"Ummmmm," I said, still looking for a fire. "I have no idea. I don't think so. But I don't know. I'm asleep. Kinda. Hang on."

I ran around the house, ready to stop-drop-and-roll at a moment's notice. I even ran outside through the snow to check the perimeter. There was no fire.

"I think we're good," I told the spectral voice haunting my living room.

"I will cancel the alarm," she reponded. "I just need your password."

Seriously? I have umpteen passwords for umpteen devices, and you're expecting me to play memory games on three hours sleep, 43 seconds of consciousness, and a battery-powered nightmare machine on the ceiling trying its best to shatter my eardrums? 

I just started yelling potential passwords into the open air, hoping and praying I was picking the right one.

My fifth attempt proved accurate. That's how my weekend kicked off. Me, half-naked in my living room, playing Password with a disembodied voice while my house may or may not have been burning down.

I have no clue why the smoke detector issued a false alarm. The troubleshooting manual says false alarms are most often associated with (a) cooking misadventures, (b) steam from showers, or (c) "less common: bugs in and around your sensor." My cats looked suspicious, but none were wearing chef's hats or shower caps. So hooray, my house wasn't on fire. I just, umm, have bugs? Yay.

I'd like to tell you things got better from there. Sadly, it was just the opening act of the weekend from hell. More next week.

COLUMN: Whee Doggie

If there's a silver lining to be found in this pandemic, it's that isolation and quarantine can often be educational. Every day, I'm learning something new.

For instance, this week I learned there really IS such a thing as 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Until now, I honestly wasn't sure if Saturday HAD mornings.

I've spent the last 30 years moonlighting as a DJ at dance clubs and parties. On most weekends, I'm lucky to make it to bed before sunrise and wake up at the crack of noon. But thanks to the party-pooping pandemic, I'm not jockeying too many discs these days. As a result, I've found myself keeping the same sleep schedule on the weekends as I do during the week. Can't say I'm a fan.

What do people DO at 6 a.m. on the weekends other than sleep? I'm not sure I've figured it out. But this weekend, I saw something I'd never experienced before.

By and large, I am NOT a sports enthusiast. I was always the last guy picked in gym class, I've never found bowls to be particularly super, and I'm the only person I know whose college transcript contains a P.E. credit for "Independent Study Walking." But for reasons I can't begin to explain, I love NASCAR. I've tried to hate it, I swear. I'm fully aware that NASCAR culture stands in direct opposition to, well, everything else about me. But I've long come to terms with my secret shame. I like to watch cars go around in circles. Sue me.

Last weekend was the kickoff to the 2021 NASCAR season, so when I went to bed on Friday night, my TV was still tuned to Daytona coverage. But when I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday, the sports channel wasn't showing action on the track. It was showing considerably less action -- on the water.

I had accidentally tuned into live coverage of a bass fishing tournament. And for two of the weirdest hours of my life, I watched it.

I've never understood the "sport" of fishing. I appreciate that getting out in nature can be zen and tranquil and relaxing. I sometimes enjoy nature, too. I've just never thought, "You know what would make this nature better? If I could kill some of it." (Except wasps. Nature would be lots better with more dead wasps. If ESPN aired a wasp-killing tournament every Saturday morning, I'd set my alarm to watch.)

Now, before the greater fishing community of the bi-state area gathers their pitchforks and demands my head on a fish taco, I know I'm being hypocritical. You can't take me seriously when I have a fridge full of tuna steaks and salmon patties. Fish are tasty, and if catching them is your bag, don't let me stop you. Fish away. Just don't get upset when I don't tag along.

Begrudgingly, I accept fishing as a hobby -- but waking up early on a Saturday morning to watch OTHERS fish on TV in real time? That's where I draw the line. And the rod. And the reel. 

My worry was that a televised bass-fishing tournament would be nothing but people floating around on boats in stoic silence. After watching the riveting action for two hours, I can now tell you with some authority: Yes, that's exactly what it was.

In the first hour, one guy caught one fish. They replayed it five times. They awarded it "Replay of the Day!" It was pretty much the ONLY play of the day. 

Yet despite the lack of any action whatsoever, it didn't stop the pair of tense, hush-voiced announcers from offering crucial insight. The coverage was peppered with commentary like, "He's got a talent for knowing what's on the end of his line," and "there's a hundred thousand cypress trees lining this river, and under one of 'em, there's gonna be a spawning female. And when you find her? WHEE DOGGIE."

Whee doggie, indeed. The competition was intense. At one point, a guy named Gary caught a fish that weighed 4 ounces less than the one caught by a guy named Bryan. But Gary was fishing along the edges of a cypress grove, while Bryan was center lake fishing off some reeds. This was a unique strategy because it had rained earlier followed by quick sunshine, which led Bryan to believe that spawning females would naturally migrate towards a more --

Annnd that's when I changed the channel because I realized I was thiiiis close to finding a tiny element of bass fishing interesting.

But the true excitement came during a commercial break, when I discovered that thankfully, there's still time to enter a draft for the 2021 bass fishing FANTASY LEAGUE. That's right, you can draft a fantasy team of your favorite real-life bassmasters and vicariously live the excitement of standing motionless in a boat for hours. No offense to the world of pro bass fishing, but I just assumed these tournaments were held on a Saturday so these guys could get back to their day jobs on Monday.

Here's where I got my REAL pandemic education of the day: Bryan ended up beating Gary and won the tournament. His total tourney haul of 79 lbs., 7 ounces netted him a take-home of $101,000. I can crack snide jokes about fishing all the live-long day, but no one's ever handed me $101,000 to DJ a party, even though I'm pretty sure I could rock a dancefloor better than Gary OR Bryan.

So here's to you, competitive bassmasters of the world, and any of you weirdos who wake up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday to watch them. Now if you'll excuse me, I have fish sticks to get in the oven. It's almost time for my fantasy league draft. I call dibs on Bryan. Whee doggie.

COLUMN: Live on Patrol

I've spent most of the winter stuck at home enjoying a fun menu of health issues, which has been just swell. And when you're spending most days in the same room on the same couch convinced you're dying, you start to go a little stir-crazy. I've spent months looking for an escape to take my mind off winter, the pandemic, and the fluctuating state of my colon.

I just never thought I'd be escaping vicariously to St. Paul, Minnesota every weekend.

I'm a sucker for Youtube. I usually try to avoid it, because here's what happens:

"Hmm, I'm feeling like a casserole for dinner. Maybe there's a good recipe on Youtube. I'll just log on and type: C-A-S-S... oh, whoa. A live clip of Cass Elliot? I should totally watch that..."

Three hours, the Cass Elliott clip has led to a 10-minute video about the song "Leaving on a Jet Plane," which in turn led to six videos on aviation disasters, which led to a guy documenting his flight from New Jersey to Singapore, which led to a 20-minute cycling travelogue of Singapore, which led to a video on mountain biking, which led to a video diary of a guy climbing Everest, and so on and so on.  

 Next thing you know, I've lost an entire evening with little gained except the knowledge that (a) mountain climbing is a ridiculous hobby, and (b) Bugis Street is the best place to go for authentic yu wan mee pok next time you're strutting around Singapore with a hankering for fish balls. Good to know.

But one of those endless Youtube rabbit-holes led me to this winter's saving grace: Sheriff Bob Fletcher and his buddy Pat.

Unless you're younger than six months old (and if you ARE, congrats on your reading skills,) you know there's been much controversy when it comes to our nation's police. Several high profile incidents of excessive police force have led to civil unrest, protests, and some much-needed discourse on the role of law enforcement in our country.

It also caused two of my guiltiest pleasures -- "Cops" and "Live P.D." -- to leave the airwaves. When you're having a bad day, sometimes there's nothing better than watching other people have WORSE days. Intellectually, I know the cancellations were merited - police reality shows do nothing to alleviate stereotypes, and even if some criminal's an idiot, they probably don't deserve their worst day to be nationally telecast. But darnit if those shows weren't entertaining as all get out, and I miss their presence on TV.

But then I discovered Bob and Pat. Bob Fletcher is the sheriff of Ramsey County, Minnesota -- otherwise known as St. Paul and some other towns less interesting than St. Paul. When Sheriff Bob saw cops getting a bad rap, he decided to take it upon himself to remedy the situation and educate the public about the routine lives and responsibilities of your average officer.

So every Friday night, Sheriff Bob goes "Live on Patrol" -- and takes us with. He streams his entire shift on Youtube, start to finish. Bob does the driving, and his buddy Pat (a data analyst and retired cop) rides shotgun and mans the camera. And by camera, I mean a cellphone. 

The result is pure Minnesota magic. If you're looking for a white-knuckle thrillride, keep surfing. Over the course of an entire shift, Bob and Pat seldom leave their squad car -- except for gas-station corn dogs and soda. 

Have you ever watched Brooklyn Nine-Nine? Imagine if Hitchcock & Scully had their own TV show and you'd be close. What bills itself as a police patrol turns into hours of aimless banter that runs the gamut from gossip to sports to casual discussions about serial killers and carjackings, occasionally interrupted when rolling up on people with a jovial shout of "What's goin' on?" When the duo DOES respond to an actual police call, it's mostly them sitting in their car serving as a backup unit narrating the action. Most of their nights are spent looking aimlessly for stolen vehicles -- I've yet to see them find one. 

I'm a "Live on Patrol" superfan, and I'm not the only one. People are tuning into Pat & Bob by the thousands. Viewers in St. Paul watch for the squad car heading their way, and they race outside with sodas and gifts when the much-loved duo pass by. Watching these big-hearted crime-fighters in the big city is akin to imagining Andy Griffith taking the reins of "Law & Order: SVU." Instead of ticketing jaywalkers, Bob and Pat are more prone to buying them pizza. A random person on the street will turn out to be Bob's wife's cousin's roommate's barber. I'm pretty sure Bob knows everyone in St. Paul.

At first, I thought Sheriff Bob was kind of a yokel -- until I did some research. He's been the sheriff of Ramsey County since 1996, and a quick internet search finds him passionately and professionally defending his department, the role of police, and his livestreams. When the county board voted to slash his police budget, he sued them. When he's not telling you about his favorite hockey game from 1986, he's advocating for COVID safety and giving tips to avoid car thieves. 

Oh, and just when I thought Sheriff Bob didn't do much actual police work, I tuned in the other night to see him sporting a huge shiner. Turns out the ONE night I skipped "Live on Patrol," Sheriff Bob had to break up a domestic scuffle and ended up taking an elbow to the eye.

I've now watched "Live on Patrol" so much I seriously think I could navigate around St. Paul despite having never been there. If we make it through this winter, it might just be a worthy roadtrip come spring. If you need a small-town hug from some big-city cops, search Youtube for "Live on Patrol" archives or join in every Friday night, when the weekly livestream fittingly starts at 9:11.

It might just fix your winter blues. The only problem? I never DID find that casserole recipe, and now I'm STARVING.

COLUMN: M.I.A.

Sooo... how were YOUR holidays?

If you've been paying attention, you may have noticed the recent absence of my serene face from the weekly pages of the paper.

I'd love to tell you I was on some kind of exotic vacation, welcoming in the new year from some sandy beach while vision-questing a greater understanding of the world.

No such luck.

As it turned out, I thought it'd be swell fun to spend the winter holidays having a nervous breakdown. In hindsight, I don't especially recommend it.

Maybe it wasn't actually a nervous breakdown. I didn't get a professional diagnosis. As it turns out, not getting a diagnosis has been a recurring theme of the past few months.

I'll never be a cover star for Men's Health magazine, unless they do a cover piece on what NOT to do. I avoid doctors like the plague, especially when there really IS a plague in the air. I know they say living a sedentary life on the couch is ill-advised, but I've always argued that it cuts your risk of sports-related injuries dramatically.

I've had an iffy relationship with my gastro-intestinal tract for years now, which I'd long shrugged off as some sort of undiagnosed Crohn's / IBS / Too Much Taco Bell syndrome. But just after Halloween, some scary symptoms popped up that couldn't be ignored.

Rather than immediately consult a medical professional, I instead attempted to self-diagnose on the internet, which of course informed me of the vast menu of fatal diseases I likely had. For much of the fall and early winter, I was perfectly convinced I was on my last legs. When you're already living in a world where you're isolated and quarantined, a good solid brush with mortality does little for the psyche.

I attempted everything possible to ignore my terminal self-diagnosis. I meticulously organized my music collection. I cleaned my house from top to bottom. I threw away anything embarassing that I wouldn't want someone to find when they eventually broke down my door to dispose of my body. In hindsight, it sounds utterly ridiculous. At the time, I was completely petrified, sleeping less than two hours a night and pacing around my house like a lunatic.

Finally, I gathered what steely resolve I could possibly muster and went to the doctor. He seemed a tad less fatalistic than myself, but still agreed that I needed a delightful variety pack of assorted 'oscopies to rule out the terrifying terrors the internet insisted I was dying of. So that's the main reason I've been MIA - I've spent the past few months having FAR too many people enjoying views of the inner workings of my colon.

My first colonoscopy was incomplete because, as it turns out, I've been graced with -- let me get the exact medical phrasing I received from the doctor -- "an extremely long and floppy colon." Faaaaantastic. Apparently my colon is three times the length of a normal human's. This is NOT the superpower I've dreamt of. 

That colonoscopy led to a CT scan and a "virtual" colonoscopy -- which is "virtually" as much fun as a real colonoscopy -- which led to ANOTHER colonoscopy thanks to some suspicious narrowing showing up. My diet for the past two months has consisted mostly of water, things that taste like water, and colonoscopy prep kits that I WISH tasted like water. If you've ever had what you consider to be a poopy birthday, stop exaggerating. I spent mine this year doing colonoscopy prep, and I know the true meaning of the phrase.

The end result - no pun intended - is still up for grabs. Whatever's going on with me, my colon doesn't appear to be the culprit. I was sent home with a wing, a prayer, and some probiotics that don't seem to be doing much. Oh, and the CT scan DID reveal that I'm the expectant father of a bouncing baby kidney stone the size of a small Volkswagen, so that's next on the to-do list, I reckon.

All the while this has been going on, my mom's been having scary health issues as well. So between me, my mom, and the overall contents of the nightly news, it's been fairly easy to convince myself that life's a meaningless parade of pain and death -- a stellar mindset for someone whose usual passion is writing silly columns to make people smile.

I'm hoping one day I can look back on this and laugh it off as my Howard Hughes phase. When youre working from home, not seeing any other human beings for weeks on end, and think you're dying, things can get weird on the quick. I went almost two months without leaving the house. I stopped shaving. I basically stopped moving. But it's time I listened to Taylor Swift and shake it off.

I cracked some windows and got fresh air. I stepped outside. I stopped babbling to my cats. I reached out to friends I'd ghosted. I shaved MOST of my Unabomber beard (I couldn't resist currently wandering around my house with a 70s cop moustache because it makes me laugh every time I pass a mirror.) I'm sick and tired of acting sick and tired.

So who knows what the future holds. 2020 almost beat me -- but it didn't, and I'll take that victory for now. Six months ago, I was rolling my eyes every time I saw someone on social media talk about loneliness and being unable to survive a lockdown. Trust me, I get it now. I've spent months in a SUPER dark place, and it's high time to feel the light again. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, and for right now, I'm feeling good. I hope you are, too. 

COLUMN: Best of 2020 - Music

What is it that makes me write a column every week? Is it the satisfaction of speaking my mind to a public forum? The hope that I might make someone's day a little brighter? Seeing my incredibly sexy face in the paper every week?

Or is simply the knowledge that for one week every year, I get to live out my childhood fantasy of being an Important Music Critic and devote an end-of-year column to my picks for the best albums of the year? The one thing I predicted about the pandemic is that a whole lot of creatives would get a whole lot of creativity, and they certainly didn't let me down. 2020 had some amazing records - here's the soundtracks that got me through many lonely lockdown days.

#10 - Tim Burgess - I Love The New Sky - Tim Burgess is the frontman of The Charlatans, a band that soundtracked my entire college experience like no other. This year, he's practically been my best friend. Burgess took it upon himself in 2020 to host nightly Twitter listening parties, where fans simultaneously press play on classic records while the artists hang out on Twitter with Burgess commenting and responding to questions. Hands down, it's been my favorite bit of 2020, and Burgess' new solo album is like getting a much-needed hug from an old friend. He's the musical hero I needed this year.  

#9 - Carla J. Easton - This is hands-down the synth record of the year, delivered by one of my favorite weirdos on the planet. Easton comes across like Cyndi Lauper with a Scottish brogue, with a record oozing with confidence and few apologies. "Weirdo" is a cacophony of unrelenting wonky synths and the kind of pop hooks that grab you by the throat and make you repeat a song the second it's over. In a perfect world, she'd be ruling the pop charts. 

#8 - Sault - Untitled (Rise) - For the second year in a row, the mysterious UK dance collective Sault released two records in one calendar year. This time around, the dual assault of "Untitled (Black Is)" and "Untitled (Rise)" focus the black experience into a soundtrack of 70s Afrobeats and samples behind messages of anger, protest, power, and ultimately hope for a better tomorrow. It's a powerful record in a year where racial divides and civil unrest took center stage. "We gonna fight it whether or not you like it / Keep playing the music loud."   

#7 - Dua Lipa - Future Nostalgia - If there was a pandemic this year, no-one told Dua Lipa. While most artists made soul-baring introspective lockdowns in 2020, Dua Lipa instead released an album of unrelenting polished disco made for packed dancefloors, crowded parties, and driving down crowded expressways on a potential-filled Saturday night. It's just what I needed this year to remind myself that life is more than Zoom meetings, talking to my cats, and playing solitaire on my phone. I honestly hope no one releases a better pop record before the world opens back up - these songs deserve heavy rotation in DJ booths.

#6 - Of Montreal - UR Fun - It's legit tough to be a fan of Of Montreal (aka singer/songwriter Kevin Barnes.) I was a HUGE fan of his early records and traveled far and wide to see him over a dozen times, but a mid-career reinvention turned away from twee indie aesthetics in favor of a hyper-sexualized low-budget Prince vibe that ran the gamut from interesting to straight-up cringy. 'UR Fun," though, tones down the white-boy funk and lands squarely in the land of 80s synths, robot hand-claps, and the kind of pop hooks that's made Barnes one of the most interesting musicians alive.   

#5 - Andy Bell - The View From Halfway Down - Andy Bell's had a long and storied career as co-leader of shoegaze legends Ride, bassist for Oasis, guitarist for Hurricane #1, and the brains behind the electronica of GLOK. But he's never released a proper solo record until now, and its everything you'd expect given his musical path in life. Less a proper record and more a proper vibe, it's a melange of psychedelic swirls, loops, acoustic picking, and musical healing.

#4 - Fiona Apple - Fetch the Bolt Cutters - I've never been a huge Fiona Apple fan, but there's simply no denying the power of this record. It demands to be heard. Recorded live and raw in her home, most of the percussion comes from banging on walls and boxes and household items. It's rough, it's raw, it's equal parts angry and funny and cathartic. It's the sound of self-assured mature chaos, and it's her best record yet.  

#3 - Taylor Swift - Folklore - Okay, she's amazing. From country troubador to pop starlet to, now, a pastoral folk singer. A quiet, introspective, storytelling Taylor Swift is exactly what 2020 needed, and she delivered -- twice, with TWO surprise albums. Both are great, but Folklore is the better of the two. This is the wistful sound of reflection, romance, and sweater weather -- and possibly my most-played record of 2020.

#2 - The Flaming Lips - American Head - It was starting to get easy to write off the Flaming Lips. After their unexpected evolution from drug-addled garage rockers into symphonic psychedelic showmen, the Lips spent the past decade making dense, difficult anti-pop that seemed to purposely challenge their fanbase. "American Head," however, reaffirms everything wonderful, weird, and scary beautiful about the Flaming Lips. Haunting treatises on coping, regret, and the fragility of life hit devastingly close to home in 2020, but it's a beautiful, life-affirming journey. 

#1 - The Brother Kite - Make It Real - It's tough for me to talk about this band without just coming across as a fanboy. For fifteen years, this largely unheralded outfit from Rhode Island have been putting out magical records that combine everything I love about music: catchy hooks, power pop, lush arrangements, fierce percussion, and a passion that leaps out the loudspeakers. Their first record after a 7-year hiatus, it's almost good enough to make me momentarily forget how awful this year was.   

COLUMN: COVID Christmas

It's still there someplace, I know it is. I just can't seem to find it.

Somewhere beyond my living room, past this block, maybe round the bend and a few miles that-a-ways, Christmas magic still exists. I'm sure of it,

As most of my friends know, I'm a sucker for the holidays. I love Christmas, always have. You can argue "Happy Holidays" vs "Merry Christmas" all the live-long day, but I'm a fan whether you're celebrating the birth of a lord or a jolly fat home intruder creeping down your chimney.

It's simply the best time of the year. It's that one month (or, realistically, two-and-a-half months) when we try our absolute best to forget that people are awful and the world is terrible. For one magical season, we hide it all with twinkly lights, yummy cookies, and a blissful few days where everyone is nice to everyone else for no real reason other than the time of year. What's not to love?

There's just one problem, and it's a grinch named 2020.

Here's a shortlist of the things I most love about the holiday season:

(1) Bundling up in snuggly clothes.

(2) Browsing stores with friends.

(3) Smelling pine and eggnog and sugar cookies and peppermint.

(4) Hearing Mariah Carey and Kelly Clarkson and Brenda Lee belt out Yuletide bangers.

(5) Seeing holiday lights on houses.

(6) Watching the excitement on little kids' faces when they're out and about with their families.

(7) Sitting down on the floor with wrapping paper and scissors and tape and trying not to make a mess.

(8) Pulling into my parents' driveway on Christmas morning.

(9) Opening presents and giving presents.

(10) Being with the people I love.

This year, I don't get any of that. Not one thing.

Instead of snuggly clothes, I'm sitting here in a ratty t-shirt and the same pair of jeans I've had on for three days. I haven't left the house in almost a week. I haven't browsed a single store unless you count websites. The only smells in my house are bleach and maybe a subtle hint of cat pee. I haven't turned on a radio in weeks. Not one house on my block has Christmas decorations out, including mine.

I haven't seen the excited look on any children's faces because I haven't seen any human faces except my own in a mirror. There's nothing to wrap because I did all my shopping online and had it direct shipped. I won't be pulling into my parent's driveway on Christmas Day, won't see anyone as they open gifts, and won't be with anyone I love except some cats that don't get nearly as excited about the holidays as I do.

In a nutshell, Christmas 2020 is the fitting sucky end to the rest of 2020, and the whole thing just makes me want to throw a giant yuletide temper tantrum.  

But it's okay. It really is. This, too, shall pass. 

If there's a word that best describes Christmas for me, it's HOPE. Christmas is the manifestation of a hope for a better tomorrow. It's simple: if we can be nice and merry and jolly for a few days every year, there's hope that our world isn't quite as terrible as I occasionally make it out to be. Christmastime is my literal hope for humanity.

There's no shortage of hope right now. I've never been happier to think about being poked in the arm with needles, but vaccinations are starting and COVID will soon be just a memory. The election insanity is over and done and no matter your take on the outcome, we're coming out of it regardless. Winter weather seems to be calming the streets and hopefully putting a chill on the pervasive violence and unrest. 2021 must be better than 2020. It nearly has to be. There's hope.

So instead of wallowing in self-pity and abandoning the holidays altogether, let's look for the silver lining. It's there. It might even be made of tinsel.

* Right now, even if you're like me and working from home and forgetting what human contact even feels like, I guarantee that if you turn your TV to the Hallmark Channel right now, someone is falling in love while learning the true meaning of Christmas in a pretend world that doesn't have pandemics or political strife or murder hornets. Take a visit there for a bit; it does the soul some good.

* Last year, I happened into procuring a stone gargoyle, which is awesome because, well, it just is. I have NO idea what to do with it, so it's just been sitting in the corner keeping a watchful eye on my living room. I just put a Santa hat on him, so you can't say that I'm not at least a teeny tiny bit festive.

* I've been waking up to the Today show, and as corny as it is, for the past week they've been focusing on holiday giving, devoting airtime to people and organizations working round the clock through truly risky times to ensure that kids have presents and families have holiday meals. It's good to be reminded that mankind IS innately good, despite all the evidence to the contrary that 2020 wants to throw at us.

* I lied earlier. I just walked past my window and noticed that my neighbor has his Christmas lights up. Maybe they've been up for days and I never noticed. Sheltering in place and working from home shouldn't mean living like your house is a bunker, and I need to remind myself of that. Be safe, but get out and look around. The world is still pretty magical.

* My house may be lonely, but everyone I love is a phone call and a Zoom meeting away. You can still be together yet apart. 

2020 has been crushing us for months. Don't let it steal the holidays, too. Sure, it's going to be different. We need to stay distant and we need to stay home. But as long as they still make calendars with December 25th, nothing can take away the joy of Christmas, the magic of the holidays, and the hope of a better tomorrow. Have a safe, warm, and lovely time. 

COLUMN: Walk the Block

I've gotta be honest. I've had a bad couple of weeks.

It's all just getting to me: the election drama, the post-election drama, the isolation of social distancing, and the sudden onset of darkness before I leave the office every day. I've been talking to myself, talking to the cats, and talking to any deities that might fancy listening. This year is just an ugly quagmire of sadness. My days are mostly spent going to the office, working in near silence, then coming home and binge-watching sitcoms in an attempt to remember what comedy feels like.

Call me maudlin if you want, but I've lost my mojo.

I figured out something that helps, though.

For the past week, whenever I've needed a break from the cubicle, rather than slinking to the breakroom or playing on my phone, I've instead been doing something rather out-of-character: I've been taking walks. Nothing exciting, mind you. Just a stroll around a block or two, but it's been nothing less than revelatory. There's nothing wrong with getting a little fresh air and a leg stretch or two, but it's more than that.

It's been over a year since we closed our East Moline office and moved to downtown Davenport, and I've barely explored the area beyond our parking lot. Getting out and seeing humanity in motion, even from a safe distance, is a reminder that the world is still here. We might not be congregating for Thanksgiving celebrations, we might not be hanging out with friends in bars and restaurants like we normally would, but we're still around.

When you take the time for a leisurely stroll, you notice things you don't catch when you drive past in a blur or have your eyes glued to a cell phone.

Things I've appreciated this week:

- The outdoor downtown murals. It's like our very own hieroglyphics. Proof positive that art and people and magic flourish. A block away, I spy a different kind of art in the form of a wall tagged with graffiti. Yes, it's defacing someone's property, and sure, it's kinda tacky. But in those lowest moments of seeing spiked pandemic numbers and wondering if we'll figure out a way to perservere, I've been reminding myself that someone figured out a way to scale a building, cross a roof, and hang upside down over the edge with a can of spray paint just to make that tacky accoutrement to an otherwise non-descript wall. We're nothing if not determined. 

- The Bix statues. Okay, so maybe this is a bit self-serving, since our company is the primary sponsor of the Bix 7, and the statues honoring the annual road race are at the edge of our parking lot. But those statues are really impressive up close. I've driven by them countless times, but never actually walked up to them. Turns out I was missing the best part: the sidewalk of engraved stones, where sponsors and donors can have custom messages paved right into the footpath.

As someone who routinely stares downwards when walking around, this was a great discovery. There's everything from birthday shout-outs to memorial tributes to what even appears to be a brick sponsored by Nike. It kinda makes me want to sponsor one, were I independently wealthy and/or skilled with a chisel and a plucky DIY attitude. But if I ever sponsored a brick somewhere, I'd want a non-sensical message to confuse future generations as much as possible. Imagine this sea of heart-warming bricks and then right in the middle is one that reads "PUT SOY SAUCE IN CHOCOLATE MILK. TRUST ME. IT'S YUMMY." Or, I dunno, "COMMEMORATING THE GREAT ARMADILLO UPRISING OF 1982." Or, simply, "MMM BOP." I mean, if you're going to leave a legacy, it might as well be one that makes people go "What the...?" or get a lousy Hanson song stuck in their head against their will.

Better yet, I should sponsor a brick that just contains a bunch of non-sensical conspiracy symbols, like a pyramid and one of those all-seeing eyes and an ankh or something. Just the perfect amount of mystery to send future generations on a wild goose chase for absolutely nothing. Or I just sponsor HALF a brick with the message "IF TREASURE YE SEEK, HEAD THREE CLI--" and then purposely leave the rest blank. Just because I want humanity to survive 2020 doesn't mean I don't want to drive them insane.  

- The new downtown YMCA. Man, it looks spiffy. If it feels like nothing is progressing in 2020, peep an eyeball at that construction. 

- The raucous ruckus that can only be a train crossing the Government Bridge. Normally, that noise would drive me around the bend. But in the middle of a pandemic, it's a symphonic reminder that things carry on. 2020 might be a weird year, but trains still run and cars still drive. Goods and services still need to get from Point A to Point B. It's a horrible, beautiful noise.

- Downtown lofts. There's a ton of them, and they're pretty cool from the outside. I like my house, don't get me wrong. But it'd be pretty cool to live in a converted loft with huge windows and a roof you can chill out on. 

- THE SKY. Have you guys looked UP this week? Every night, I leave the office to darkness, which is repellent and depressing and an annual adjustment I hate to make in ANY year, let alone one of frustration and sadness and scary times. But if the sky is clear, you can look up right now and see Jupiter and Saturn hanging out by the moon. You can see Mars red and brilliant to the east. COVID might have the world in its clutches, but not the universe. 

Tonight when I got off work, I just stood there for a bit in the parking lot, staring at the sky. For all we know, one of those dots a kajillion miles away could have another dot rotating around it full of eight-legged spider-monsters living their best spider-monster lives. Maybe they don't have to wear masks or socially distance or vote one spider-monster into office while a different spider-monster claims its rigged. Maybe they're just having fun and patting each other on the back (or whatever the spider-monster equivalent to a back is.)

We're in the home stretch on this thing. Vaccines and hope exist, even if they're hard to see right now. If 2020 hits you hard, don't worry. Well, you probably SHOULD worry a little. But then take a breath, put on a coat, walk around the block, and see the world continuing to thrive and survive. if you look hard enough, you might just be able to find something to be thankful for this year. 

COLUMN: Ceiling Bobcats

Crazy week, eh?

By the time you read this, we may know who our next President is. At the time of writing this, I still have no clue. Last I checked, the entire election now hinges on the voting preferences of Wayne Newton, the dudes from "Ghost Adventures," and one Mary F. Smith of 342 Briar Lane, Beaver Springs, Pennsylvania.

In times of turmoil and stress like this, many of you naturally turn to experts for advice, leadership, and a steady hand. And by "experts," I'm obviously referring to your local media's resident humor columnist. I humbly recognize my vital role in our nation's stewardship and your overall peace of mind. This burden weighs heavily on me. I've been hitting the Cheez-its pretty hard this week. 

I fear, however, that I don't at the moment have much to contribute to our nation's discourse. I'm sure you're all collectively disappointed. I've spent the past 24 hours staring at CNN, at times cheering and at other times considering Canadian real estate. I'm not sure what to think, feel, or say -- which is why I went to bed early last night. Optimistically, I thought perhaps my subconscious would sort it all out. Maybe I'd have a relevant dream that could provide answers and wisdom to bestow upon you all.  

Well, I had a dream, alrighty. I'm not quite sure what to make of it, but perhaps we can analyze it together and glean insight and understanding to our current plight.

(I'm not kidding. This really WAS the dream I had last night:)

Like many of you, I've struggled with accomplishing chores and duties in our "new normal" of 2020. In yesterday's dream, one of those duties was to attend a beauty pageant. Not COMPETE in said pageant, mind you. I simply had to attend and be in the audience. Somehow, for some reason, it was mandatory.

This particular pageant was in Maine, and even in my dream, that's a long way to travel. Thankfully, others in town had also been selected for the pageant audience. Specifically: my best friend, a co-worker, an advertising client at work, his wife who I went to high school with, the clerk at my neighborhood gas station, and my ex-girlfriend's little sister. This was the literal definition of "dream casting."

So the seven of us set off on a cross-country road trip to Maine in a rickety old school bus, Partridge Family-style. Admittedly, if I were ever forced to go to Maine, this would be a pretty pimp way to get there.

But to complicate matters, due to COVID, all roadways in Dreamerica had been turned into westbound one-ways. Going east was simply not an option. So the only possible way for us to get to Maine was to head west to Seattle, cross into Canada, and then drive back to Maine.

The next thing I remember, we were pulling into a small town in Montana to stay the night. Bad news, though -- all the hotels in town were booked. Well, all except ONE: the brand new hotel owned and operated by actor Tony Danza. As Tony took our bags, we marveled at our room, which was a two-story warehouse loft complete with mid-century modern furniture and dangerous gaping holes in the floor.

The seven of us were really excited... until we discovered the horror within. Tony must not have invested much in fumigation, because the room was infested -- with ravenous bobcats. But not your run-of-the-mill ravenous bobcats you often find in your standard celebrity-owned Montana hotels. No, these bobcats could walk upside-down on the ceiling and hang like bats.

Suddenly, my random roadtrip dream turned into a hellish nightmare of me and my acquaintances slowly being stalked and murdered by ceiling bobcats. Just as one of the hanging felines had me cornered, I awoke -- shaking, heart racing and covered in sweat. I was terrified -- for about three seconds. Then I just started laughing.

I didn't want to forget anything, so I grabbed a piece of scratch paper and scrawled "CEILING BOBCATS!" before falling back asleep. When I woke to the alarm clock, thankfully I remembered everything -- because the only thing scarier than that dream would be waking to an unexplained piece of paper that said "CEILING BOBCATS!" Sadly, I do NOT know the outcome of the pageant.

I have no idea what any of this means, but it MUST be full of important symbolism and hidden insights, no? Thankfully, the internet has a surplus of dream analysis websites. According to the ones I visited today, dreaming of beauty pageants means I'm feeling competitive. Dreaming of a bus symbolizes a desire to fit in. Dreaming of hotels indicates insecurity. Bobcats represent bad news and betrayal. And dreaming of the ability to walk on ceilings is supposed to mean I've reached a limit psychologically. 

So what are the takeaways here? It's obvious, duh. The election has me feeling very competitive and wanting to fit in with what is currently 50.4% of the popular vote. But I definitely have insecurity about the outcome and the potential for bad news. And I'm pretty sure we've ALL reached our psychological limit with campaign season and 2020 in general.

Sadly, there are no internet resources as to the dream symbolism of Tony Danza, but I'm pretty sure it means I should lay off the Cheez-its before bed.

Hopefully all that helps. It's the best my subconscious can offer. Whichever way Mary F. Smith votes, I hope the election or the results don't stress you out TOO much. At least we get a break from political ads and fundraising pitches for a couple years until it starts all over again. For now, I wish you all a good night. Don't let the ceiling bobcats bite. 

COLUMN: Horror Lessons

Like most of our holidays this year, Halloween 2020 seems much less Halloweeny than usual -- with one glaring exception.

Every time I turn on the TV this week, some random horror movie's been playing. This is NOT what our psyches need right now, is it? This year's been horrifying enough, thanks much. I don't need to augment all the endless fun of 2020 with a cavalcade of slasher flicks. When I turn the TV on in our "new normal," I don't want death and dismemberment. I mostly just wanna laugh and be reminded there's still good in the world.

Yesterday, I flicked on cable in search of a dumb escapist comedy to take my mind off things. Instead, I was greeted with some ill-fated teenager losing his head, quite literally and quite graphically. I changed the channel in a heartbeat, so I'm not sure if it was Jason, Freddie, Michael Myers, Leatherface, or Pinhead. I suppose I'm just grateful it wasn't CNN.

But I'm nothing if not a TV junkie, which means I've spent much of October channel flipping through countless summer campers meeting increasingly gruesome fates. I didn't think it was affecting me until the other night. I had a horrible nightmare that someone was breaking into my home. I woke up in a cold sweat shaking and sat up in bed to discover an intruder lunging at me with a knife. That's when I woke up AGAIN, this time for real. When your subconscious starts writing twist endings to your nightmares, it's high time to either shut the TV off or switch it to the Great British Baking Show, where the most terrifying thing you'll experience is dough that doesn't rise (the horror!)

Still, subjecting oneself to dumb horror movies isn't without its merits. I'm pretty sure these films can teach us all some valuable life lessons in 2020:

* Never ever split up from your friends. "Social distancing" does NOT mean "I should walk home through these dark woods alone." You have not improved your odds.

* Stay away from dolls. They're bad news. I've never seen a movie where a doll comes to life and saves the day. Even Pinocchio was a liar.

* Don't ever pick on nerds or losers. You never know who might be harboring telekinetic powers, homicidal tendencies, or both. Leave them be.

* When it comes to real estate, research before you buy. If the previous owner left because they wanted a split-level in the suburbs, you're probably fine. If the previous owner left because the walls occasionally drip blood, that might be a red flag. Also, be sure to check that your dream home wasn't built atop a former cemetery.

* Speaking of cemeteries, don't ever bury your pet in one. It might not end well.

* If you heroically kill a homicidal maniac, KEEP KILLING THEM. They're not dead. They're never dead. If you turn your back in jubilation, you're toast. If you're lucky enough to escape, KEEP RUNNING. Trust me, they're RIGHT BEHIND YOU.

* Should you find yourself in an encounter with a space alien, they are NOT there to make friends and impart upon you the wisdom of the galaxies. They're most likely there to eat you. You should run.

* And if one of those aliens gets too close, be wary. That rumble in your tummy a few days later might NOT be indigestion. You might not need a Tums. You might need an interstellar OB/GYN, stat.

* If your television starts speaking to you DIRECTLY, it's troubling. Go to the light.

* Stay out of the water, like, always. Even the shower. Actually, especially the shower.

* The job market can be tough. But if your choices are between sewer maintenance or becoming the lone caretaker of a mountain hotel during the long snowbound winter, opt for the sewers. Actually, I take that back. Opt to remain unemployed.

* If you seek advice from a kindly bartender and he encourages you to kill your family, you're probably in that mountain hotel and should leave pronto.

* When a clown offers you a balloon, just say no. Especially if you meet said clown in the sewers mentioned above. Leave sewer clowns be.

* ALL children are evil, even the cute pale ones who live in the corn. Avoid children at all costs. If you're unfortunate enough to have birthed one, it wants to kill you. If you've adopted one, they're secretly 40 years old and also want to kill you. If your child has an imaginary friend, it is NOT imaginary and it DEFINITELY wants to kill you.

* If YOU are a child, you may want to ensure that your mother is not a jackal. Trust me, that's a bad omen. Also, no matter how annoying your mom gets, avoid mummifying her and placing her in a rocking chair upstairs. It creeps out the neighbors.

* NEVER be the one who says "I'll check it out." Scary noises are scary for a reason. Stay in bed.

* But DON'T fall asleep.

* And remember, there is NEVER a good enough reason to spend the night in an abandoned mansion, no matter how much money you're being promised or how cool your TikTok videos would be. 

Follow that advice and you'll probably be safe. You'll also probably be a neurotic paranoid isolationist afraid to leave your house -- but aren't we ALL this year? As for defeating the REAL horrors of Halloween? Well, that's up to each of us on Tuesday. Happy voting and be safe. See you on the other side. 

COLUMN: The Crabbening

Nothing surprises me in 2020. 

We've spent the past umpteen months skipping from one horror show to the next, whether it's pandemics or derechos or murder hornets or fires or a presidential election that may never end. I hate to say it, but I'm beginning to get jaded by horrible news.

I literally saw a headline the other day that an asteroid is going to come hurling precariously close to Earth next week but is "highly unlikely" to hit us. In 2020, I don't put much stock in "highly unlikely." But honestly, I didn't even bother reading the article. There's not much I can do in the event of an asteroid strike except hide in my basement, count my blessings, and play video games until I run out of air, power, or patience. I'll just be super mad if we put up with all this campaigning only to have the world end on the eve of Election Day.

The other day, President Trump sent out a tweet that just said "GIANT RED WAVE COMING!" In THIS year, I honestly didn't know if he was predicting a Republican win or warning that the Gulf Coast was about to be decimated by a blood tsumani. Don't put anything past 2020.

That's why I was only moderately surprised this week to stumble across an article with a headline that, in any other year, would raise a few red flags. In 2020, it was just another Tuesday:

"EVERYTHING IS SLOWLY EVOLVING INTO CRABS, SCIENCE SAYS."

Well, of course it is. In the grand scheme of 2020, evolving into crab-monsters seems perfectly on brand.

This was a news story I couldn't resist diving into. 

According to a study published by the Biological Journal of the Linnean Society (who are undoubtedly the life of any party whenever the DJ throws on "Rock Lobster,") I quote: "Although enormous morphological disparity is observed in the internal anatomy of the crab-like taxa, reflecting the fact that the evolution of the crab-like habits was indeed convergent, various corresponding dependences are found across the different lineages between the external characters of a crab-like habitus/morphotype and inner structures."

Okay, I have no idea what that means.

But the basic gist is that they've discovered at least five different species of non-crab-like crustaceans that have evolved crab-like features in order to survive our changing world. Clearly, evolution likes the cut of a crab's jib -- and there could be a future where our children's children's children's children might one day be born with pincers, antennae, and a bad attitude. Slowly but surely, we may all be turning into crabs. Science even has a term for it: carcinization, or as I like to call it, "The Crabbening."

One of the major arguments I always hear on climate change is that we don't to destroy the world for future generations. But if those future generations will likely end up being crab monsters, should we really care? I'm not saying we should start chucking plastic willy-nilly out our car windows, but I'm not quite as motivated to recycle for the sole benefit of my future great-great-great-grandcrab.

The more I think about it, though, there could be some definitive advantages to turning into a crab monster. 

- Pincers would be great (except maybe at the urinal.) Just the other day, I wasted eight full minutes of my life trying to open a hermetically-sealed packet of parmesan cheese. Don't be fooled by the tragic story of Edward Scissorhands -- pincers would be handy. Imagine a future world where you no longer have to shush someone in a crowded theater. I think your point would be made more effectively and efficiently if you could just reach over and snip their arm off.

- And if you're the unfortunate talkative theater-goer who gets their arm snipped off? No worries, it'll grow right back. Crabs lose appendages like I lose my car keys, and they just grow new arms and legs to replace them.

- Speaking of arms and legs, you'd have four pair of them. That's a plus. First off, drum solos would be at least twice as epic. Jugglers would actually hold my attention. We would all make amazing goalies. I could go to a ballgame and do The Wave entirely by myself. I could vogue WAY better than Madonna. 

- We would not have teeth in our mouths, but we WOULD have teeth in our stomachs. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing, but I'd kinda like to experience it for a quick minute or two.

Of course, like all evolutionary advancements, there might also be some hiccups.

- You could potentially bear 100,000 children. On the plus side, though, you wouldn't have to raise them. Just drop some eggs in the water and hope for the best. That should alleviate the burden of child care expense considerably. 

- At least once a year, your skeleton would fall off. I'm not sure I like this idea, and I'm not quite sure how long you'd have to crawl around as a pile of goo waiting for your new skeleton to harden. But it would definitely offer a new and novel excuse for calling in sick to work. "Sorry, boss, can't come in. I'm molting."

- We would all taste delightful with lemon juice and some creme fraiche. That's troubling.

For now, I guess I'm content with my boring human body, my mere two arms, and my lousy interior skeleton. If we're all turning into crabs, it probably won't happen overnight. But please, everyone, knock on wood -- let's not give 2020 any ideas.     

COLUMN: Cologne

Facebook thinks I smell. The worst part? I may have just proven them right.

It's unavoidable: if you want to enjoy social media, you have to deal with ads. Facebook doesn't connect the world out of the goodness of its heart. It's a company, and companies have to make money. When you scroll through your social news feed, every third or fourth post is going to be a pitch for some must-have good and/or service. 

Most of the time, I'm perfectly fine with advertising. Look at all the ads on this page right now. Those ads pay my bills. I've never found them cumbersome or an unwanted burden. Some of them might not appeal to me, but some perk my interest. Businesses need to reach their audience, and consumers need to know about products and services. If you think people don't care about ads, I invite you to come down here and man the phones the next time there's a delay in getting grocery coupons out - those days are like Def Con 1 in our office.

But ads on social media bug me a little. Facebook doesn't just serve you sponsors, it serves you sponsors it thinks you NEED. It's called targeted advertising. Do you think it's a coincidence when you post something on social media about baseball and then ads for baseball gear start popping up in your feed? Nope. Every move you make on social media is being monitored by algorithms and tracking software. Each time you post, some little robot somewhere is looking for keywords and trying to determine if you're a match for their product. Sometimes it's awesome. Sometimes it's less awesome.

About two weeks ago, I starting seeing frequent ads on my Facebook feed for a company that makes high-end soaps. Specifically, they make manly soaps for manly men that smell of rugged outdoors and whatever manly dudes are supposed to smell like (presumably motor oil and campfires.) Their ads are always videos starring scantily-clad women advising that the key to a successful relationship is to smell like a forest.

The other day, I stopped on one of the videos to marvel at its ridiculousness. I watched as they "interviewed" a girl enamored with her boyfriend because he used soap that smelled of pine tar. This was obvious because they were being "interviewed" while nude in the shower together. The dialogue consisted of them saying perfectly normal things that perfectly normal couples always say while being interviewed in the shower, such as, "Oh man, mid-lather, this stuff is excellent!" And, of course, "Time for a sniff test, gimme your beard!" 

Then it happened. As I chuckled at the screen, my hand slipped just a little bit, and before I could do a good slo-mo "noooooooo," I accidentally clicked the mouse.

Suddenly, I was on the soap company's website. Worse yet, Facebook saw me do it, and their algorithms did, too. Sure enough, its one week later, and I now can't scroll anywhere on Facebook without someone trying to sell me random forms of musky man-soap -- and worse. As I type this, I'm presently staring at an ad for a product specifically designed to -- hmm, how to say this politely -- freshen one's nether-regions with "an enduring scent of mint and mandarin." 

Many of life's questions have kept me up late at night over the years. None of those questions have ever been (1) "How do I get my naughty bits to smell like minty oranges?" Or (2) "How do I get that scent to ENDURE?" 

Because I clicked on that one fateful link, Facebook now presumes I roam the land reeking like a hot dumpster fire in need of professional scent assistance. The truth is, though, they might be right.

It was Sunday and I was home and bored and in dangerous possession of both high-speed internet and a little bit of fun money. That's when I remembered I was completely out of cologne. I am not a big cologne guy, but I like to keep a bottle or two around for rare occasions when I care more about my personal appearance than the usual level of "well, I can't go to work naked." Over the years, I've owned dozens of stink bottles, from old spicy drugstore fare to highfalutin stuff that costs more than a paycheck. My go-to is usually Drakkar, a scent that's probably uncool these days but harkens back to a younger, goth-ier Shane of yore.

But I was bored and felt like mixing it up, so I decided to do some online shopping. But how to buy cologne online? You can't exactly scratch-n-sniff a computer screen, and I'm not gonna be the guy who catches COVID because he took his mask off to inhale test strips at the perfume counter. Surely there had to be well-written descriptions of colognes somewhere, right? Sure enough, I found helpful summaries right away, such as "this is an alluring scent for a night out, with subtle hints of sandalwood and bergamot." Sounds nice, especially if I knew what sandalwood or bergamot smelled like. I don't even know what bergamot is. I don't even know how to pronounce it.

I ended up relying on a couple reviews and picked a cologne with high ratings and one enthusiastic recommendation that "if you like Drakkar, you'll LOVE this."

Yesterday, it arrived in the mail. I happened to be home for lunch, so I opened the bottle and spritzed precisely TWICE, once on the neck, once on the wrists, and headed back to work feeling like a cool guy.

I may have felt like a cool guy, but I smelled more like an industrial accident at a lavender factory. Those two spritzes were about 1.5 too many. I sat at my desk and realized Parfum du Shane was quickly permeating the entire office. It was making my eyes water. I ran to the bathroom and tried to wash it off, but no dice. The scent and I had merged into an unbreakable lavender monstrosity. I've never been more grateful that my co-workers were wearing masks and keeping social distance. I don't think it had much to do with COVID that day.

Much like the famed Sex Panther in "Anchorman," I'm putting my new cologne under lock and key until I feel the need to ever commit mass lavender-icide. Until then, I might just remain scent-free. Except for south of the border, of course, which will be minty orange fresh. You'll just have to take my word for it. No sniff test required.  

COLUMN: Debate

I wish I remembered more from college. The older I get, the more I feel like I'm forgetting knowledge I once paid a good deal of money to acquire.

When I was younger, I was convinced that I was destined to be the next Casey Kasem, spinning Top 40 hits on-air for years to come. Yet here it is, decades later, and I've yet to make even ONE long-distance dedication. But collegiate Shane was convinced his future was in radio. At Augustana, that meant becoming a Speech Communications major. That's right, I am officially trained to speak.

In all honesty, I probably attended (well, at least sometimes attended) college at the absolute worst time. When I was at Augie, the internet was in its infancy. If I remember correctly, we had one shared computer in a common room of our dorm that was hooked up this new-fangled thing called the World Wide Web. When I bought my first PC out of college, I went overboard and loaded it up with ONE gigabyte of memory. "That's crazy," my friends said to me at the time. "No one could EVER fill an entire gigabyte!" 

I learned a great deal about radio at Augustana -- all of which was made irrelevant five years later with new tech. I'll let you guys in on a secret: radio stations today are pretty much run entirely on autopilot. Disc jockeys aren't jockeying any discs. Many just sit in front of a microphone waiting for a computer screen to display "TALK NOW" and giving them a timer until the next song starts. Sometimes when you hear a DJ on the air, they recorded their voice days earlier. I was once driving to the mall listening to a DJ friend of mine on the radio and then bumped into him at JCPenney's five minutes later.

I, on the other hand, went to school to learn such valuable skills as how to splice a reel-to-reel tape together -- so if see one of those in an antique store somewhere, I'm your guy.

But there was a whole lot more to a speech major than playing around on the radio. I had to take classes on small group communication, interpersonal communication, political communication, communications ethics, etc. I had to read seriously heavy textbooks full of complicated theory and endless discussions on the science of communication and how the way we communicate impacts society, understanding, and even human thought. It was pretty interesting stuff -- most of which I've forgotten completely. 

Every once in a while, though, bits of Comm Theory class come creeping back into my brain -- and nothing draws them out faster than watching debates.

Why we're even having debates at this point is beyond me. If there exists such a thing as an undecided voter by this point, I'd like to meet them. This election has polarized our nation. I don't know anyone who's not either reeeeeeally onboard the Trump train or reeeeeeeeeeally hoping it derails. No one I know is sitting around going, "Well, let's see what they have to say before I make up my mind." Instead, the debates have turned into popcorn viewing, a spectacle for the sake of spectacle.

Marshall McLuhan was a philosopher and media analyst popular in the 1950s-1960s who some thought a crackpot. In actuality, he ended up being a little ahead of his time, having invented the term "global village" and predicting the internet way before it was even a glimmer in Al Gore's eye. He's the guy who pops up in "Annie Hall" with his catchphrase diss, "you know NOTHING of my work." I can't begin to simplify all of McLuhan's theories (mostly because I've forgotten them, never understood them in the first place, and "I know NOTHING of his work,") but he's most famous for his assertion that "the medium is the message" - that WHAT we say isn't half as important as HOW we say it.

A good example of this was the first televised presidential debate: Nixon/Kennedy, 1960. Polls taken after the debate show that folks who listened on the radio overwhelmingly thought Nixon won it. Folks who watched on TV thought Kennedy was the clear victor. Why the disparity? Because Kennedy came to the stage a young man oozing with confidence and plastered with stage makeup. Nixon refused to wear makeup and ended up looking like a sweaty ghoul on camera. For folks watching on TV, it didn't matter what either candidate said. It mattered more how they looked and acted.

That's why the first Trump/Biden debate last week was so infuriating. As polarizing as that performance was, I doubt it changed many minds. In fact, it probably just made us double-down on our candidate of choice. Biden supporters thought Trump's constant interruptions were reprehensible. Trump's fans probably thought it was great fun. No one watching went, "Hey, that plan makes sense, I'll vote for THAT guy." I never heard any plans. I just heard insults and frustration and name-calling for an hour. If you watched it on TV, I'm sure it was entertaining. But try reading a transcript of that debate without losing your mind, I dare you. There was no substance. The medium was the ONLY message.

This column will run long after tonight's debate has ended and been talked to death by analysts, but mark my words. I bet the stories in the news today won't focus on the content of the debate. I'll guarantee the star of the discussion will be a flimsy plexiglass divider [Update: And maybe a fly. And maybe pinkeye.]

I might have a diploma saying it's my specialty, but I'm sick of the talking -- and the arguing and the tweeting and the eleventy-kajillion e-mails I get every day from candidates begging for money. I just want it all to be over. Do I have an outcome I'm rooting for? You bet I do. But mostly I just want it to be over. You know, when you're playing Scrabble and your rack is full of crummy letters, you're allowed to lose a turn, re-draw, and hope for something better. I think we've all lost a turn in 2020. Maybe it's time for some new letters.