COLUMN: My Two Cents on Child Hunger

Winston Churchill once said, "We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give."

There's truth there, and that's just one of a kajillion famous quotes on charity. There's even meaner ones, like the old English proverb, "He who has no charity deserves no mercy." I'm in no hurry to go mercy-judging stingy people, but it's true that charity and kindness should be a cornerstone to a life well lived.

I'd even wager that charity and kindness should be a cornerstone to a life wasted on fast food, pop culture, and silly newspaper columns, too. I found that out this week.

There's a business I frequent that's in the midst of their annual charity drive. It's one of those fundraisers that goes after you aggressively in the checkout line. Just when you're ready to pay and be on your way, the cash register asks for a donation and then there's a whole submenu full of different ways you can contribute to help end child hunger. That's a worthy cause if there ever was one.

I'd been in the store twice earlier this month, and each time I'd been in a HUGE hurry. Not an "I'm-running-a-bit-late" sort of hurry. No, these were full throttle "I-should-have-been-somewhere-ten-minutes-ago" hurries where I was in total panic mode. And each time, when I hit the counter and the donation menu popped up, I quickly and shamelessly drilled the "NO" button as many times as it took to make a fast exit. Not my finest hour, I know.

In fact, on one occasion, I avoided taking a moment for child hunger was because I was late... for dinner. I'm pretty sure this makes me a terrible human being destined for Selfish Hell. (Selfish Hell, by the way, is just an empty room where Sarah McLachlan sings to you about neglected animals for eternity.)

Thankfully and deservedly, it ate at my conscience. The other day, I returned to the store. This time I wasn't in a hurry. This time, I would make it right.

I got to the counter, made my purchase, and the cash register asked if I'd like to make a donation to fight child hunger. "Yes, Mr. Cash Register," I silently replied via the keypad. "I would very much like to donate."

"Great!" said the screen. "Can I round up your purchase in the form of a donation?"

"YES!" my thumb triumphantly agreed.

"Would you like to round up to the nearest whole dollar? Or would you like to round up to the nearest five dollar increment?"

"FIVE DOLLARS," I proudly chose with my index finger. 

In that moment, I was filled with the smug satisfaction of unbridled generosity. That's me -- Shane Brown: Friend To Humanity. Thoughtless Giver. Humanitarian of the Year. Maybe they'll throw a parade in my honor.

"Thank you for your donation," the clerk said with what strangely seemed like an eyeroll. 

"Happy to help!" I cheerily replied, beaming with saintly pride as I strolled out the door, head held high. Had it NOT been held high, it might have noticed the receipt. You see, my purchase that day had come to $14.98. By agreeing to a charitable donation to the nearest five-dollar increment, my great act of kindness and personal sacrifice that afternoon came to, precisely, $.02.

That's right -- if you want my two cents on the child hunger epidemic, you're officially too late. You're welcome, children of the world. Enjoy the bounty I hath bestowed upon you all. I didn't even notice until I'd made it home. I'm starting to think there might not be a parade in my honor after all. Suddenly I understood the cashier's eyeroll. It probably cost more to print "thank you for your contribution" on my receipt than the entirety of my contribution itself. 

Who knows, maybe countless tiny donations like that can add up to a serious impact. Hopefully I'll get a few more opportunities to make amends. If not, I'm finding a way to donate online. I guess it's simple: There's a ton of great organizations out there that always need help -- but don't do it just to make yourself feel better about giving. Trust me, it's a fleeting high. Do it for others. If you're in a fortunate enough position to lend a hand now, you never know when you might just need one back someday.

That's MY two cents, at least.

COLUMN: Cowpocalypse

I've got bad news, people. I'd say "don't have a cow" -- but in this case, it may be too late.

Our reporters are the hardest-working superheroes of our company. At least, I think they are. Honestly, I never see them. They're mostly just blurs running in and out of the office on their way to cover the news. How they could've missed THIS gem of a story is beyond me. It's a good thing they have me around to bat clean-up and do the hard investigating. And by that, I mean sitting around and Googling "weird news."

Dateline: Africa. Multiple East African news sources this week are claiming to have video evidence of a man... turning into a cow. Not kidding. You can look it up.

The fuzzy 30-second clip purports to show a fellow lying on the ground in a state of mid-bovine transformation. He has the head and torso of a man, but the hooves and tail of a cow. And yes, if you were wondering, he's mooing. Well, sort of half-mooing and half-weeping, which seems justifiable given the situation. When you wake up with hooves and a tail, I think it's perfectly acceptable to show a certain degree of (cough) cow-ardice.

I cannot stress enough that these articles are presenting the event as hard news. It's not "Cow Hoax Video Goes Viral" or "Local Man Really Good at Photoshop." It's not even "Man ALLEGEDLY turning into a cow." Rather, on the websites I visited, it's presented as fact, just hanging out alongside other news. Stocks are down, there's a 30% chance of rain this weekend -- oh, and a man turned into a cow. Film at 11, I'd reckon.

But even MORE fascinating is the headline most of these news sites are going with: "Man sleeps with married woman, turns into cow."

So this appears NOT to be a random case of spontaneous bovination. Instead, this is some kind of "real" life morality tail -- err, tale. A guy stepped out with someone else's lady, and woke up a mooing half-cow. I don't remember much from those awkward 8th-grade sex-ed classes, but I'm pretty sure we never touched on THAT particular STD. 

Let's suspend disbelief for a second and assume some poor soul has, in fact, turned into a cow. How does one immediately and knowingly connect this to his purported infidelity? How does "Kevin appears to be turning into a cow" immediately lead one to ponder who Kevin's been shacking up with?

This is, after all, the 2020s -- if this decade had a mascot, it'd be a hot dumpster fire. If I saw someone wake up on the wrong side of biology with sudden hooves and a tail, I don't think I'd immediately assume divine retribution for some sinful transgression. I'd probably just run away screaming, convinced I'd just been exposed to some new horrifying Cow-vid-19 or something.

If a cowpocalypse were to reach our shores, I'm sure we as a people would quickly figure out a way to both politicize and monetize it. In no time, cattle would be stampeding over "Don't Tread On Me" flags, the news channels would be full of people angrily mooing at one another, and someone somewhere would be getting rich off "Make America Beefy Again" hats. Simply on the off-chance this African news story is correct, Elon Musk's probably making plans to purchase Burger King as we speak.

Good thing it appears the cowpocalypse is NOT close at hand. You see, the original video comes with narration at the end. After watching our poor victim sad-moo for a few seconds, a voice comes on that one site thankfully translated:

"This man was bewitched and turned into a cow after sleeping with someone's wife. I feel sorry for this man, but let this serve as a lesson to all men who like to sleep with people's wives. There are a lot of single women out there."

So rest easy, dear reader. There's no virus turning us into cattle (yet). This isn't even a vengeful deity gone a-smiting. No, it's just a simple run-of-the-mill bewitching. The moral of the story seems pretty clear: Fellas, don't sleep with married women. Or, at the very least, you should probably check first and make sure their hubbies aren't warlocks. 

Message received. I'm in no hurry to transform into a cow. While I'm pretty sure I've already made signifigant headway towards growing three stomachs, chewing cud sounds unpleasant. I guess I'll just have to focus my attention on those "lots of single women out there." Ladies...? Umm, hello? Is this thing on?

Eh, forget it. I'm hungry. Anyone know a good burger place?  

COLUMN: Bez 'n' Beth

For someone like me who normally likes to dwell on the silly side of life, I've spent a lot of time lately dealing with a considerably less silly side of death -- and I've gotta say, I'm not a fan.

Unless your name is Dorian Gray, Vlad Dracula, or Keith Richards, death is tough to avoid. That's a bum deal, but I guess it's the price we all get to pay for the privilege of living. If I could say anything to make it better, I'd probably have a lucrative career writing for Hallmark. Death sucks and it's sad, whether it happens to you, me, someone you care about... or even your favorite cat.

Bez was my sidekick for 16 years. She's the one who ran the house and kept my other cats in check. She's the one who was constantly at my side. She's the one whose hairs are still clinging to this laptop, likely a result of the many times she impatiently slammed it shut on my hands when I wasn't paying enough attention. I'm sure everybody thinks their cats are the best -- they're all wrong. Bez was the best, and losing her has left a giant cat-sized hole in my heart. The house is quiet and empty in a way I can barely wrap my head around. I've never been especially pro-ghost, but I hope she haunts my home forever.

It didn't help that I lost her in the midst of another morbid project I've been focused on for the past few weeks.

When I arrived at college a naive freshman, I fell in quickly with the drama crowd. The theater scene at Augie was full of larger-than-life characters whose acceptance I desperately craved. Nothing was ordinary, everyone was a superstar, and life alongside them was a constant adventure.

At the center of it all were three girls who ruled the clique -- Kim, Beth, and Beth -- each perfect in their own way.

Beth L. was an adorably manic pixie; Kim was funny and fabulous; and Beth R. was smart as a whip with a dry wit that could calmly destroy a room. Seeing any of them smile was the best part of my day. I wasn't the only one with a massive crush on all three. 

I'm certain they were never as smitten with me as I was with them, but I can't blame them. I was an immature geek yearning for approval, and they were two years older and thirteen times cooler than I could ever pretend to be. All I could do was rely on the only skill in my back pocket: those folks loved a party, and I knew how to DJ. After awkwardly wallflowering at a couple of their gatherings, I bravely approached the seniors in charge and said, "Here, give this a shot," handing over a mixtape I'd painstakingly crafted in my dorm room. Within minutes, I had the whole house stomping and my role suddenly became clear.

It was the first of many theater parties I soundtracked in college. While I eventually found close friends in different arenas, I've always kept that gang close to my heart. That's why it was a HUGE bummer to open Facebook and learn that Beth R. had recently passed away after a long and brave fight with cancer. I hadn't spoken to her since college, but I can still see her strolling out of the backstage green room like it was yesterday. I hope she knew how much she was adored by everyone fortunate enough to share her rarified air. Based on the photos I've seen of her life since college, it looked like she was surrounded by joy.

They're holding a Celebration of Life for Beth in Chicago at the end of this month, and Kim reached out hoping I'd be willing to help with music. So just like 1988 all over again, I've spent the last month in my basement putting together mixes for the event.

It's not been easy. The only other memorial service I've soundtracked was for a drag queen where I essentially just blared Madonna for four hours straight. It's challenging to find music that's comforting without being maudlin. I'm pretty sure Beth would haunt my dreams if I tried to play sappy schlock like "Seasons in the Sun."

I've been moonlighting as an amateur DJ for over 30 years, and there's nothing more exciting than finding the perfect song you just KNOW will make people lose their minds and set the dancefloor ablaze. But I've spent the last week in my basement trying to find the perfect song that I just KNOW will make people cry and be super sad, and that's a weird thing to get excited about.   

These mixes and writing this column could have been heartbreaking. Instead, it's sent me down a rabbithole of old memories, old pics, and warm fuzzies. It's terribly sad, sure, but it's also a reminder of just how lucky I am to have shared time and space with amazing friends, family, and felines. Life may be fleeting, but love is infinite.

Miss you, Beezers. Miss you, Beth.   

COLUMN: Mexican Pizza

So, let's recap: It's 2022, and everything's still going to heck in a handbag.

Political discord continues to run amok. War ravages parts of Europe. Our old nostalgic fear of a nuclear apocalypse is back for an encore. Women's rights are under attack. Inflation soars. Crime runs rampant. COVID hasn't exactly disappeared. Division and anger is the new normal. Got it.

Good thing that's all about to change. That's right, people -- our long national nightmare is over: On May 19th, Taco Bell is bringing back Mexican Pizza. Yes, on that magic day, mankind will unite in spirit and harmony to come together as one -- well, one drive-thru lane, at the very least. 

Personally? I don't get it. I never thought Mexican Pizza was all that, but man, people sure threw a hissy-fit when Taco Bell removed it from their menu in 2020. Petitions were signed. Protests were held. I was confused. To me, the Mexican Pizza just seemed like another way for Taco Bell to recycle and present their same five basic ingredients in a new and exciting geometric shape. Isn't it basically just a taco, but flat?

But to each their own. If you've been missing Mexican Pizza, I feel your pain. This whole saga got me thinking about MY favorite dearly departed fast food menu items that I'd love to see make a comeback:

* At the same time Taco Bell abandoned Mexican Pizza, they also removed MY favorite item: the shredded chicken burrito. Not only were those little buggers tasty, but when compared to most of their menu, you could ALMOST convince yourself you were eating healthy. You people are complaining about the wrong item. Let's start a shredded chicken petition. Who's with me?

* We've already established that the Bell has delicious soft, crunchy, and flat items. But remember when they used to have BIG items? When I was a kid, you could order the Taco Bellgrande, a beast of a taco about 2.5 times the size of a normal one. You opened one of those bad boys and felt like a king. I distinctly remember a slumber party that involved a huge bag of those suckers, a 12-pack of Jolt Cola, and the movie "C.H.U.D." That, friends, is living the 8th grade dream.

* Remember that short period when McDonalds sold salad in soda cups? The McSalad Shaker was a ridiculous concept, but I bought into it full-throttle. You'd get your cup-o'- salad, pop open the lid, squeeze in an unhealthy amount of dressing, replace the lid, and then hold your own little salad maraca jam session. When you were done shaking, the dressing would be evenly distributed across the entire salad and you could dig in -- either with a fork or, as I was more prone to doing, horse-style. It was a glorious era. Of course, if you weren't careful, the lid could pop off mid-shake and the dressing would instead be evenly distributed across your entire car, but it was a small price to pay for the privilege of driving around drinking a salad.

* Popeye's and Chick-fil-A can fight over who makes the best chicken sandwich all they want, but in MY book, the winner will always be the original 1980s-era chicken fillet from Hardee's. I'm talking the chicken with the weird artificial reddish-brown hue that almost tasted burnt. It's my favorite chicken sandwich ever. If I ever time-travelled back to the 1980's, hitting the Hardee's drive-thru would be a serious priority. 

* Never look a gift Runza in the mouth. When Southpark Mall first opened their food court, one of the first restaurants to open was Runza, the Nebraska-based fast-food mainstay. It was also one of the first to close. Maybe the idea of loose meat and cabbage stuffed into a bread roll was too radical for our fragile Illinois palates. I never tried Runza when it here, despite the pleadings of my Nebraska-born best friend. But when I found myself out west last year, I drove past a Runza and gave it a shot. Turns out those weird little sandwiches are delicious and I never knew it.

* But just thinking of the late great food court at Southpark makes me roll a tear for my most-missed Quad City fast food of all: Steak Escape. I can't tell you how many times I made Southpark runs just as an excuse to swing by their tiny piece of food court real estate. Their sandwiches were great (it's tough to screw up a Philly cheesesteak,) but they weren't the stars of the show. I will stand atop ANY soapbox and proclaim to the world that Steak Escape has the best fries in the business. Fresh-cut Idaho potatoes obliterated in peanut oil to a golden crisp that probably shortens life spans but lengthens human joy. Man, I miss those fries. Like Runza, Steak Escapes still exist out there somewhere, just not the Quad Cities. Maybe I need a fast food break -- as in, let me take a break from work so I can travel the country eating fast food.

So thank you, Taco Bell, for returning your glorious Mexican Pizza and healing our broken nation. It may be the only thing keeping us from full-on anarchy (at least, until the next time the McRib returns.) 

COLUMN: Fictosexuality

The other day, I called someone out who posted a culturally insensitive comment online. I didn't go "full Karen" as the kids say, but I simply commented something like "yikes" on a tweet they REALLY should've thought twice about before posting. The next time I logged on, I discovered that person replied by calling me a member of "the woke mob."

I'm not even sure what the "woke mob" even is. If you've ever caught me at the start of a work day, you could likely call me a bunch of things -- but trust me, "woke" wouldn't be the first adjective that comes to mind.

Not that I don't care, but social justice has never really been my bag. I'm too shy and awkward to raise my voice, I'm too fat and lazy to march anywhere, and I can easily get irritated by riled-up and passionate people on EITHER side of the political fence. Plus, I don't want to live in a world where poking good-natured fun at something can get you cancelled. If there's one thing the world needs these days, it's good-natured fun. 

The most "woke" I ever get is one simple credo:

If you're cool with me, I'm cool with you. I don't give a fig what color your skin is, which god(s) you fancy, what gender you are, or who you prefer to get freaky-deaky with. Just don't be a jerk, and we'll get along great.

But occasionally a line in wokeness must be drawn. I think I just found it in a recent article.

Have you heard about Akihiko Kondo? He's a 38-year-old guy in Japan who's having problems in his marriage. I can safely say that's a bummer. It's never good to hear about someone suffering marital strife. Thankfully, there are counselors and therapists to help couples through rough patches in their wedded bliss. Whew, right? 

Except Kondo's wife isn't cooperating. She's unable to attend marriage counseling -- because she isn't real.

Kondo's "wife" is Hatsune Miku, a computer-generated cartoon pop singer popular in Japan. You see, Kondo identifies as "fictosexual" -- a growing branch of sexuality (with its own flag, of course,) signifying someone who is sexually attracted to fictional characters. 

Don't worry, it gets weirder.

Hatsune Miku is a popular fictional creation who sings, dances, and even once appeared in hologram form as the opening act for Lady Gaga on one of her Japanese tours. Back in 2017, Japan unveiled a home entertainment device called Gatebox that allowed users to interact and converse with their favorite CGI hologram cartoon characters. In a marketing stunt, the company even offered marriage certificates for their holograms. With the right software upgrade, you could propose to the hologram of your choice, they would giggle and say yes, and presumably this is considered good usage of one's time.

Kondo took them at their word, and was wed to Miku the following year -- in a lavish real-world ceremony that cost around $18,000. His family elected NOT to attend (there's a shocker,) but some sixty other people DID, including friends, strangers, and Kondo's local member of parliament -- who must have been REALLY desperate to court the ever-important local fictosexual voting block. Also of note, Kondo didn't ask me to DJ the reception, which is a huge bummer because I'd pay good money to see a bunch of holograms doing the Cha-Cha Slide and Hokey Pokey.

Wedded bliss for Kondo lasted three years until a communications problem occurred in their relationship. This is probably because the software company opted to shut down Gatebox. Kondo's wife was discontinued overnight, and probably sits somewhere in cyberspace right now, hanging out with other outmoded software. I'd like to think she's chilling out on a beach somewhere with Clippy and Jeeves as I type. 

There's a limit to my ability to be accepting of different sexual preferences -- and I'm pretty sure that limit is the point when you announce that you're married to a cartoon. To each their own preferences, I guess. You can prefer to label yourself a fictosexual all you want, but I'm afraid I prefer to label you as crazypants. 

Maybe I'm just jealous. Perhaps there's some deep, dark fictosexual part of my soul that yearns to be betrothed to the Road Runner or something. (Admittedly, it'd probably be a fast wedding and super easy to shop for, considering the only things on our registry would be anvils and road-colored paint.) But I think I can safely cross fictosexuality off my list of future experimentations -- unless someone can guarantee that Joey Potter from Dawson's Creek would leave Pacey for me if I popped the question.  

In the meantime, I'm mighty sleepy and think it's about time to stop being woke. 

COLUMN: Coachella

I write this fully self-aware that I'm heading dangerously into fuddy-duddy territory.

I've never had respect for anyone who mocks younger generations simply because they don't like the same things. Anytime a fad comes along, there's always some out-of-touch elder statesman waiting in the wings to tear it to shreds. The other day, I was reading a review of the excellent debut album from the band Wet Leg. Sure enough, in the comments was a guy asking, "What happened to good music like Nirvana?" Well, in Nirvana's day, there were people saying, "What happened to good music like Motley Crue?" In Motley Crue's era, there were people saying, "What happened to good music like Led Zeppelin?"

It's a never-ending chain. In 1791, I bet there were people saying Mozart was terrible noise and wondering aloud what happened to good music like Bach.

Not me. I vowed long ago to forever be hip, accepting, and always appreciative of whatever new trends might come along. I may be about to eat those words.

This past weekend, I watched several hours of the livestream from California's annual Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival. For years now, Coachella has been the gold standard of music festivals, drawing in fans and artists from across the globe. As a musician, just getting asked to play Coachella is a high honor -- it means you're the coolest of the cool, critically lauded and unconditionally loved by the most discerning of music fans.

Coachella was streaming live on Youtube all last weekend -- and out of curiosity, boredom, and more than a little bit of jealousy because one of my friends had flown out to attend, I tuned in. I can now officially say with all certainty: I don't understand today's kids.

Over the years, Coachella has seen amazing moments. Over 2400 different artists have graced the Coachella stage since 1999. It's where bands like Arcade Fire and the White Stripes became megastars. It's where Beyonce stole the show in 2018. It's where Daft Punk became the kings of dance. Everyone from Prince to Paul McCartney has taken the Coachella stage at some point. I watched hours of coverage this weekend -- and if an amazing moment happened, I must've been blinking.

I was hoping for musical brilliance. Instead, I got mostly lip-syncing and twerking. One of the most hyped acts on this year's line-up was Brazilian pop icon Anitta. In Latin America, she's an icon and one of the most influential celebrities in the world. She wasn't even trying to hide her pre-recorded vocals. At times, she'd drop the microphone completely away from her face, but the vocals just kept right on going.

On another stage, Kim Petras was essentially singing pornography aloud. On the third stage, some mumble rapper was telling the world what he thought about police (spoiler: he's not a fan.) Memorable tunes were few and far between. It was mostly just an assortment of beautiful people dancing around on autopilot to backing tracks, devoid of originality and enthusiasm.

The pinnacle of it all was an act called Emo Night, a pair of L.A. club promoters known for their throwback dance parties. For their stage set, that's exactly what they did. They'd play someone else's record, dance around, and then get on the mic and tell the crowd "we're bad DJs" before pressing play on another record. Seriously? This is entertainment nowadays? I'm pretty sure even bottom-line Coachella tickets cost over $400. I can stay home and press play on my own stereo for a lot less money -- AND I'd do a better job at it.

It wasn't all bad. Filipino singer/songwriter Beabadoobee played a set so good I promptly downloaded her entire discography. Arcade Fire made an unannounced appearance that proved they're still one of the greatest live acts around. Fred Again was the breakout star of the dance tent. And Saturday night was headlined by Billie Eilish, who really is the best popstar in the world right now.

Everything hit home when Eilish brought out surprise guest Damon Albarn mid-set. Albarn's a hero from MY era, who spent the 90s fronting the seminal Britpop band Blur. My friends and I once chased Blur back to their hotel just to get autographs and (sadly no pun intended) blurry pics. When Albarn jumped onstage, it happened. Without even thinking, I said out loud, "Man, what happened to good music like Blur?" 

I broke my solemn vow. Worse yet, the livestream also had a chat window, where thousands of music fans were commenting in real time. I looked in the chat, expecting to see dozens of people going, "Oh, wow, Damon Albarn! Cool!!" Instead, I saw 20 comments along the lines of: "Who's the old dude?" "Wow, is that Billie's DAD?" "This old guy sucks."

They may as well have been talking about ME. I fear the pop culture zeitgeist may have set sail and left me ashore. But if this festival is the kind of stuff I'm missing out on, I might be better off on dry land. Maybe I'm becoming one of those old fuddy-duddies forever stuck in their bygone musical era, but I guess that's fine. My era has a way better soundtrack. 

COLUMN: Asian Jumping Worms

Welp, that was a fun outdoors season, 2022. I guess we'll give it another shot next year.

For me, spring is magical for exactly however many days it takes to spot my first bee of the season. From then on, you can find me indoors patiently waiting for first frost. Sadly, yesterday I stepped out of my car only to be immediately dive-bombed by some stupid bee. I'd love to tell you I played it cool. I'd love to tell you I didn't make a noise like "nyaaaaaaahh" while fleeing. I'd love to tell you I'm not an idiot.

I hate bugs and snakes and spiders and toads and, well, pretty much anything that roams the earth other than (a) cats, (b) a select number of dogs, and (c) an even more select number of human beings. I realize that creepy crawlies are a vital part of our ecosystem and usually have no interest in people whatsoever. I don't care. Nature is majestic and breathtaking and a wonder to behold, and that's why God put windshields on my car so I can see it from a climate-controlled habitat. Two years ago, I discovered I'd been unknowingly co-existing most of the year with a massive wasp nest on the side of my house. I still feel violated.

Every year, there's some new nature panic thrust upon us. It might be ticks and mosquitos carrying a variety of assorted cooties. The next year, it's cicadas that only come 'round every 17 years. Then it's murder hornets. Well, I just read about this year's plague, and it sounds delightful.

Just when you thought it was safe to step outside, I give you: amynthas agrestis, aka the ASIAN JUMPING WORM, this year's invasive threat du jour. They're expected to be in fifteen U.S. states this year, including Illinois and Iowa. Can't wait. 

Scientists and ecologists have been worried about Asian jumping worms for some time due to their overconsumption of leaf litter and ability to disrupt the growth cycle of seedlings and wildflowers. I'm worried about Asian jumping worms because of the word JUMPING. Until now, worms and I have lived peacefully in a symbiotic detente wherein I promise not to step outside at 5 a.m. to smoosh them and in return, THEY NEVER LEARN HOW TO JUMP. Someone just broke their contract.

Truth be told, jumping worms can't actually jump. According to experts at Cornell University, they got their name "from their tendency to thrash about when touched." Neat. As difficult as it will be to resist my natural urge to pet as many worms as possible, I guess I'll just have to learn self-control this year.  

The same article says you can easily spot Asian jumping worms by "looking for their milky white clitellums," which most certainly sounds like something you should be jailed for. I have an extensive and rigorously tested list of enjoyable time-wasting activities in my life, but examining worm clitellums has sadly never made the cut. 

Apparently Asian jumping worms also leave behind a tell-tale sign: "Upon infestation, the surrounding ground will appear grainy." Wanna know why? Because you're no longer looking at dirt; you're looking at worm poo. That's right, one adult jumping worm eats 2-3 times their body weight in soil every day and, erm, deposits it right back from whence it came as what scientists politely call "castings." The politeness of scientists is likely also the only reason we don't call these things "Asian pooping worms."

The GOOD news is that if your yard has become infested with these terrors, there's a solution (literally). The Alleghany Front recommends that you simply spritz your yard with a "mustard solution." Apparently the mustard irritates jumping worms and "helps bring them to the surface for picking." Wait, so the mustard doesn't even kill these things? It just MAKES THEM MAD? So now I'll have a yard full of angry thrashing poop monsters that I'm expected to harvest AND I'm also now out of mustard? I still have to TOUCH these unholy things and not even get to enjoy a tangy charcuterie board afterwards? Hard pass.

But here's the creepiest bit: According to EVERY article I just skimmed, the best way to rid your yard of Asian jumping worms is to gather as many of the offending invaders as possible and then - I kid you not - "place them in a bag and leave them in the sun for ten minutes." What kind of world are we living in? The best way to dispose of these pests is some kind of serial-killer death-sauna suffocation fantasy? What happened to simply smooshing them? Well, as it turns out, if you smoosh an Asian jumping worm, the NON-smooshed part will simply slither off and grow itself right back.

So mock me all you want for hating nature. I feel fully justified in avoiding a creature that thrashes around eating three times its body weight while respawning itself if you try to kill it. If buddying up with these nightmare factories is your idea of summer fun, have at it. I'll wave to you from the air conditioning.

  

COLUMN: Ring Light

Teenagers of the world, I owe you a big apology.

For years, I have been ruthlessly mocking you and your strange cyber-social ways. I get it now. I'm impressed.

Hate-watching TikTok videos is my not-so-secret shame, and I reckon the only thing worse than watching these stupid videos is being one of the people who makes them. Every time I feel like my life is unraveling, I can feel better about myself by watching idiots make fools of themselves online. But then I realize these idiots have millions of followers and probably make more money doing lame hip-hop dances than I'll bring in all year.

"Social media influencer" is now considered respectable work experience on a resume. Kids who started out filming themselves playing video games now have production empires, movie deals, and reality film crews documenting their every move, because apparently the world also needs to know HOW you make your lame lip-sync videos.

The thing is: I kinda need to know how they make their lame lip-sync videos.

There's a new trend online I can finally get behind: live-streaming DJs. Every night, if you go on platforms like Twitch and TikTok, you can find hundreds of DJs mixing live over the internet from basements across the globe, playing whatever they fancy, mixing it up until the wee hours. And when they go to bed, DJs on the other side of the planet are just firing up. As you're reading this right now, there's dozens of basement DJs live-streaming for fun this very minute.

Some people could stumble onto a fad like this and just enjoy it. When I stumble onto something like this, I watch for 4 minutes before declaring, "I WANT TO DO THIS."

It seems like great fun, and any excuse to mix records is awesome in my book. Best of all, I've been seeing other DJs my age on there. I've found a couple of grey-haired streamers who play nothing but the old club music I grew up on. I hardly ever get the chance to bust out some of those dusty basement jams that've been patiently waiting for their moment to shine again. I need in on this streaming thing.

BUT I have no earthly idea how one live-streams. I'm a music geek, not a tech geek. There was a time when people would turn to me for help with their computers, but that time was 1986. These days, my technical expertise consists of knowing where the power button is, how to reboot if things get squirrely, and how to curse loudly if things get SUPER squirrely. I've been doing a lot of cursing this week.

I guess I thought live-streaming would be as easy as pointing a phone at yourself and pressing a button. Trust me, it's not.

Not knowing what to do, I turned to my buddy Cooper, whose trade-off for being my friend is that he gets weird late-night calls from me saying I want to be the world's next streaming sensation. I couldn't tell if he rolled his eyes or not, but I can probably guess.

"What kind of gear do I need?" I asked him.

All I heard in reply were some furious mouseclicks. "There," he said after 30 seconds, "I just ordered everything you need. It'll be here tomorrow. You owe me fifty bucks."

My basement now looks like the world's lamest movie set. I have webcams on tripods. I have one of those ridiculous ring lights that's supposed to somehow make me look less hideous. Cords and cables are running everywhere. I don't even know yet if my home internet will be fast enough for such an endeavor. My cats are horribly confused.

Worst of all, you can't even livestream on TikTok until you get a minimum of 1000 followers, and I currently have 52. I've got a ways to go and a steep learning curve to get there.

So I'm no longer mocking kids who spend their days lip-syncing for followers online. Those videos might look silly, but they're hard work. I've spent two weeks buried in equipment and tutorials and have to date filmed 0:00 seconds of my awesome DJ skills. Whitney was right: the children ARE our future. But if they could scoot over JUST enough to let in a fat old guy with some records, that'd be swell. 

COLUMN: Toilet Oscars

I'm gonna reckon 98.4% of you are expecting me to write about Will Smith. Heck, I would expect me to write about Will Smith.

It's only been a few days, but I think every joke has already been told. I'm not sure what I can add to the conversation, other than the ridiculously obvious assertion that smacking people is wrong -- and if you can't figure out THAT on your own, you might need more help than my little column can ever provide. By the time this prints, I hope the Oscars news cycle will be past its sell-by date and smelling a little rotten.

Good thing, then, that I can fall back on my specialty: toilet humor. Let's just say Will Smith wasn't the only one with a potty-mouth this weekend.

A few days earlier, I had been in my bathroom, doing what one does in their bathroom, when something seemed amiss. I went to flush the toilet and instead of the friendly "kersploosh" noise, all I was heard was the dull clang of flusher against porcelain. I'm no plumber, but I know that's no good.

I carefully displaced the four dusty bottles of seldom-used hair conditioner and 1-3 assorted cats perched on the back of my toilet and removed the lid. "Yep," I thought to myself, "that's the inside of a toilet, alright." Thus concludes the extent of Shane's plumbing knowledge.

But I'm an intelligent person. I should be capable of analysis, troubleshooting, and a fundamental understanding of gravity. After several minutes of careful examination, the problem was clear. Obviously, the flushamajig doohickey was broken. 

Let me explain it in technical terms. When you push the flusher dealy, it makes the little flappy-whatzit raise up, which allows water to kersploosh into the bowl, sending your shameful anatomical gobbledygook back to the bowels of hell where it belongs. At the same time, the flushamajig doohickey refills the tank until the little floatamabobber reaches the top.

Except my tank wasn't refilling. Instead of water flowing into the tank, it was dripping very slowly out the side of the doohickey while making a noise not unlike a teakettle wanting badly to explode. This is not how toilets are supposed to behave.

Thankfully, I have an amateur plumber on permanent retainer named Dad. It took longer for me to explain how to use Facetime on his iPhone than it did for him to diagnose the problem. "Yeah, you need a new [I've already forgotten what the actual name of a flushamajig doohickey is.]"

Dad wanted to drive up and do it himself. But at some point, I need to learn basic life skills like doohickey maintenance and perhaps 51 will finally be the year I become an adult. Besides, I'd had a busy week and it looked like a bomb and/or 1-3 assorted cats had destroyed the house. I was handling this on my own.

And by "on my own," I meant watching 17 videos on Youtube and calling all my friends. It actually didn't seem too tough. I watched a video with a helpful guy telling me all I needed was a trusty bucket, a sponge, and a pair of pliers. I just had to go buy a replacement doohicky, a trusty bucket, a sponge, and a pair of pliers.

I walked into Menard's trying to remember everything I needed. I wasn't expecting to be ambushed by a helpful associate mere steps into the store. "Can I help you find anything today?" she said today in a cheery voice. Luckily, it turned out she was fluent in Idiot.

"Umm," I said sheepishly, "I need a flushamajig doohickey."

"Aisle 10," she replied without missing a beat. "Come on, I'll show you."

With her recommendations, I soon had everything I needed, along with four bottles of root beer, a container of pretzels roughly the size of a small Volkswagen, and a bottle of something called "Urine Destroyer" because when you own 1-3 assorted cats, there's always urine to destroy.

It may have taken a re-watch of that video, the help of a friend, and a handful of what can only be described as stress pretzels, but I'm proud to say I have a brand new functioning flushamajig, installed and ready just in time for a relaxing evening of watching celebrities beat each other up on national TV.

In the long run, I think my toilet was more entertaining.

COLUMN: Thingamajig

We live in a divided world, where tempers can flare at the drop of a hat. Add a pandemic to the mix, and you've got a short-fused populace desperately low on patience. Pity those poor folks whose job is to be nice to the rest of us, because we're mostly all terrible. If you think YOUR fuse is short, imagine what it must take to work in retail these days.

I thought I was the king of social awkwardness. That's why it's reassuring to experience awkward moments that AREN'T my fault.

Last weekend, I was working on a project and needed a thingamajig. I can't go into detail, because I don't want to get anyone in trouble. But the easiest place in town to procure said thingamajig is a store I try not to frequent. Let's just say their corporate owners subscribe to a different set of values than my own, and it's a place I prefer not to support.

But I really wanted that thingamajig.

In the great ethical battle in my brain, it turns out I value material goods over moral integrity. Good to know. "Besides," I argued with myself, "it's not their employees' fault that their owners are horrible. Get off your high horse and go shopping." So proudly I strolled into a store I try to never enter, for once grateful to be wearing a mask. I went to the customer service desk and happily ordered my thingamajig.

Or so I thought. After fooling with her computer for almost 20 minutes, the clerk (who was very nice) gave up and said their system was down. She asked if I could possibly come back in a day or two when their thingamajig expert would be working. Sure, I said. It happens. A couple days later, I returned and successfully ordered my thingamajig.

Or so I thought. I was told I'd get a call when my thingamajig was ready. I never got a call. Several days later, I went back and inquired. "Oh, it's been here for days," the clerk said. "I thought you were going to call," I said. "Well, it's here now," she said. Okay, fine. At least I was going to get my thingamajig.

Or so I thought. It was the wrong thingamajig. "This is what you ordered," she said. "No, it's not," I replied. She was super nice and said they'd rectify the problem and asked if could I come back in a couple days. I did. The thingamajig was there and it was perfect. Success!

Or so I thought. Procuring the thingamajig was easy. Paying for it, less so. They brought the thingamajig to the cashier, I presented him with my credit card, and he slid it throught the little payment doohicky at the register. As he was waiting for it to process, he turned to the cashier next to him and struck up small talk.

Except it turned into large talk. They talked about the weather, then his car, then his work schedule, then some general complaining about his schedule and life in general. Mind you, all the while he's standing there with his back to me, my credit card in his hand.

I went from being mildly annoyed to really annoyed to kind of amazed and finally just amused. After about four minutes of a literal front row seat to this guy completely ignoring me, I eventually coughed and let out a timid "helllOOOooo?"

That's when the cashier spun on me and exasperatedly said, "Can I HELP you, SIR?"

"Umm," I replied, "Just need my credit card and maybe a receipt?"

I watched as this poor guy's brain suffered the equivalent of a Windows Blue Screen of Death. It took him a good fifteen seconds to fully reboot. He looked at me, looked at my credit card in his hand, blinked, looked at me again, and said, "Wow. I totally spaced on you, eh?"

I'm not sure which one of us felt more awkward, but I like that I'm forgettable enough to actually forget me in the middle of a transaction. 

We all have bad days. Once, when I was a greenhorn at the paper, I answered my phone just as my computer really DID get the Blue Screen of Death. In MY mind, I was efficiently taking stock of the situation and determining the fastest way to get up and running again. From the customer's perspective, though, I'm pretty sure they just heard a guy go, "Classified Advertising, this is... umm...," as if I'd suddenly forgotten my own name.

So cut our friends in retail some slack, they've earned it. I have mad respect for anyone who has to deal with weirdos like me every day. For what it's worth, my thingamajig is great, and I don't think my great moral compromise upset the natural balance too much. I might even (gasp) shop there again, if my name isn't... umm...   

COLUMN: Spring Has Sprung

I did one of my favorite things this weekend.

I took my big stupid winter coat and put it on a hanger at the back of my closet. If all goes well, it's staying there for a good long while. 

Back to hell with you, winter. I am officially over you. If Jack Frost shows up again this month, I'll greet him in short sleeves and a light jacket. It's spring.

I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that these few weeks right now are actually my favorite time of year. It's that perfect sweet spot when temps get warmer but the humidity doesn't, and when you can enjoy the outdoors before the air fills with murder hornets and the ground seeps with creepy-crawlies. This is my magic time.

Once upon a Shane, I used to proudly tell anyone within earshot that winter was my favorite season. That Shane was obviously deranged. I'm not sure what caused me to finally see the err of my ways, but I'm guessing it involved a few factors:

* I started hating winter when I learned to drive. Riding shotgun as a kid in winters when my parents would drive me to school was amazing. One time my mom hit some ice and the car did a full 180 in the middle of the street and I thought it was more exciting than any fairground ride on the planet. I reckon my mom did, too. It's less fun when you're old and responsible and realize that people don't live forever. These days, even if there's only a dusting on the streets, I'm white-knuckling the steering wheel like its the end of days.  

* I started hating winter when I learned you don't get snow days as an adult. When I started working here, I should have told HR that I lived 17.5 miles away at the end of a winding dirt road atop a top river bluff. Instead, I was honest and owned up to living in residential Rock Island. It takes a lot to get snowed in there -- and if you can't get a day off to play in it, what's the point of this whole snow business anyways? 

* I starting hating winter when I bought my house. Owning a home is fun. Owning the driveway and walk-ups? Considerably less fun. I remember being annoyed when the over-worked maintenance guy at my old apartment complex didn't shovel the walks in a timely enough manner to suit my 20-something needs. Today, I'd kill to have that maintenance guy at my beck and call, even if he took his sweet time. 

* I started hating winter when Christmas lost its magic. Inclement weather and freezing temps didn't matter as long as I got FREE STUFF every December. I didn't care what the weather was like outside; I was too busy playing with FREE STUFF! But when you realize your favorite holiday has morphed into a three-month-long ode to consumerism, those roasting chestnuts start to smell a little funky.

* I started hating winter when I realized you can't go to outdoor concerts in January. I miss you, Codfish Hollow. I miss you, EDM festivals. A few more weeks and we will be storming barns and dancefloors with gusto. This will be a summer of music in the air. 

* I started hating winter when "pandemic" because a part of everyone's vocabulary. Being cooped up inside with people for half the year is less fun when everyone may have toxic cooties. Cases are on the decline, and now that we can go outside and not breathe each other's air, maybe we can even manage to keep the Zetacron Epsilon Decepticon Variant or whatever's next at bay.

* I started hating winter when I reached the age where falling down hurts. A lot. I'm prone to at least one classic winter pratfall per year. If there's even a glimmer of ice on the ground, my foot's bound to find it. These days, all it takes is a stiff winter breeze and my ankle snaps like a twig. What can I say? I'm a delicate flower. I thought I'd actually made it a whole winter without falling -- until the other day. You remember, when we were grilling out on Friday, hiding from tornadoes on Saturday, and then getting a surprise inch of snow on Sunday? On Monday morning, I accidentally found a patch of black ice and suddenly took up figure skating for a hobby. The figure I made wasn't pretty.

Take a hike, old man winter. Spring has sprung. If you need me, I'll be outside -- until I see my first bee.  

COLUMN: Dance to the Cold War

Okay, so let me see if I've got this straight:

The political divide in our nation is wider than ever. The next COVID variant could show up anytime. Supply chain issues continue to wreak havoc upon shelves and wallets. Bob Saget continues to be dead.

Oh, and I almost forgot: the Cold War's back on, Russia's threatening the free world, and we all need to get second jobs to afford enough gas to drive to our first jobs.

Neat.

2022's on a roll -- and I'm supposed to be the positive, light-hearted guy around these parts. That's just swell. There was no bright side to the pandemic, and I'm certainly not going to find one hiding behind the vague and shadowy spectre of World War III, either. A few weeks ago, I distinctly remember telling a friend, "Man, I miss the 80s." I take it back.

Sure, I miss video games, MTV, and Chess King. But I can't say that I miss the ever-present fear of armageddon. I certainly don't miss the duck-and-cover drills we used to do in grade school. I don't miss Olympic boycotts. I don't miss the sleepless nights after seeing "Red Dawn." Going back to an Us-vs.-Them escalation with Russia feels like umpteen evolutionary steps backwards.

But if history serves, there's one thing we CAN look forward: a bunch of really iffy anti-war protest music on the horizon. In the 1980s, if you ever forgot that your life was in a vague state of constant peril, all you had to do was turn on the radio. If you got a song stuck in your head in the Eighties, there's a good chance you were humming odes to nuclear annihilation without even realizing it.

Here were some of the best:

NENA, "99 Luftballoons." To be fair, not many people Stateside even realized this German-language hit was about the apocalypse. It was just a bop, no matter the words. Dive into the German lyrics, though, and it becomes a creepy tale of itchy trigger fingers who bring about armageddon by mistaking floating balloons for an incoming missile attack. Creepier yet was the English language version, which added the intro lines, "You and I in a little toy shop, buy a bag of balloons with the money we've got, set them free at the break of dawn until one by one, they were gone." In other words, in the English version, Nena herself was directly responsible for the end of the world. Well done.

FRANKIE GOES TO HOLLYWOOD, "Two Tribes." Yes, when the counter-culture needed to craft a stern rebuke of global politics, who better to take the helm than the flamboyant braintrust behind "Relax" and "Welcome to the Pleasuredome." The iconic "Frankie Say Relax" merchandise turned into "Frankie Say War!" shirts, and the accompanying video featuring mud-wrestling Reagan and Chernenko impersonators was the perfect touch of class the Cold War needed. 

CULTURE CLUB, "The War Song." It seemed like every 80s band had to have their protest song, and none were more insipid than Boy George's clumsily wonderful sing-along. "War, war is stupid / And people are stupid / And I heard them banging / On hearts and fingers / Say no more war / Woah, yeah / War." As trite lyrics go, it's pretty epic -- but also spot-on. War IS stupid and people ARE stupid. Score one for Boy George.

CCCP, "American-Soviets." Okay, this wasn't a chart-topper, but if you ever spent time in the 80s at Bettendorf's Stage 2 teen club, you danced to this banger every night. This German synthpop gem urged Reagan and Gorbachev to put the nukes away and instead play a spirited game of chess (seriously.) But it was always a treat to see pasty goth kids angry-dance while lip-syncing lyrics like, "Why did the Russians invade Afghanistan?" And that angry-dancing goth kid was probably me.

STING, "Russians." I'm pretty sure Sting assumes he single-handedly ended the Cold War with this maudlin classic from his first solo album, where he ponders whether "the Russians love their children, too." He's already trotting it back out already with new performances this week. Admittedly, I was 14 when this song came out, and hearing it was one of the few times I stopped caring about video games for a few fleeting moments. 

GENESIS, "Land of Confusion." Phil Collins and Co. made some absolutely brilliant records in their day. This wasn't one of them. Still, the accompanying video with its terrifying Reagan puppets is nightmare fuel to this day.

PRINCE, "Ronnie, Talk to Russia." The best way to fight the red menace in the 1980s was obviously with purple swagger, so the U.S. would occasionally launch a Weapon of Mass Funkiness from the Minneapolis maestro himself. Whether it was his warning that "everybody's got a bomb / we could all die any day" on 1999 or this more direct apporoach from the "Controversy" album, who knew global politics could be so sexy?

Here's hoping the situation in Eastern Europe calms down before Bono and Coldplay have a chance to sing about it, because then no one wins. President Putin, please end this madness before we take extreme action. We have Justin Bieber and we're not afraid to use him.   

COLUMN: Ukraine

It's hard to be the light-hearted guy when the news is filled with pain and sadness from the Ukraine.

There's no such thing as a "good" invasion, unless we're talking about four mop-topped dudes from England. But why does Russia's invasion of Ukraine seem especially horrific?

I know diddly about Eastern European politics. It's not something that tends to come up too often in my day-to-day concerns. If you want in-depth political analysis, don't turn to the dude who usually writes about cats and Facebook. The only thing I know about Ukraine is that it's a really hard territory to control when you're playing Risk.

My knowledge of Ukranian president Volodymyr Zelenskyy is next to nothing. But the bravery he's shown over the past couple weeks has been legendary. If Russia ever tried to come after ME, I'd shamelessly be on the first bus to Anywhere Else. When the US offered Zelenskyy refuge, he instead asked for ammunition. When Russia claimed he was in hiding, he took to the streets on Instagram. I have no clue if he's been a good leader, but you can't knock his courage and devotion to his people. His recent speeches will be read in history classes for the rest of time.

I may be a buffoon when it comes to world politics, but not when it comes to bad TV -- and before Zelenskyy entered politics, he was an actor. Most famously, he was the star of a Ukranian TV show called "Servant of the People," in which he played -- you guessed it -- the president of Ukraine. And a few years ago, Servant of the People was available in the US on Netflix.

Out of curiosity at the time, I watched a few episodes, and it's easy to see why he became so popular in the Ukraine. In the show, Zelenskyy plays a high school history teacher who shockingly wins the Presidency when a video of him complaining about corruption goes viral. Zelenskyy's character crusades for good in a government dominated by shallow bureaucrats. If you can cope with subtitles, it's a funny and optimistic watch. Zelenskyy plays such a charming guy on the show, it's hard to conceive that anyone would want him dead, let alone his nearest neighbor. It'd be like if suddenly Canada were to put a bounty on the head of Steve Carell or Kelsey Grammer.

But perhaps Russia's biggest misstep was their failure to realize this is the first major wartime incursion to occur in the age of social media. Even during fairly recent conflicts like the Gulf War, the only color commentary we experienced was from embedded reporters in the warzones. But if you want to see what it's like in Ukraine right now, all you need is a smartphone. Some of the most moving scenes I've witnessed over the past week have been filmed by Ukrainian teenagers on TikTok. The world is bearing witness to families cowering in basements, old ladies confronting soldiers, and passionate townsfolk stockpiling Molotov cocktails. We're seeing first-hand the sadness, the bravery, and the absolute pointlessness of it all.

The downside, though, is that you can't always TRUST what you see on social media. Already some videos purporting to show atrocities have been debunked as fake. Russia circulated a video online they claimed was an unprovoked Ukranian attack, and it turned out to be a video of a Finnish military training exercise from years ago. If you're watching the war unfold on social media, make sure you're actually witnessing the real thing.

It's also made for some seriously uncomfortable web surfing. Just today, my video feed on TikTok went from Russian soldiers (who look like confused high schoolers) immediately to a video of someone's pet duck... to a clip of Ukranian kids having dance-offs in a bomb shelter... to perhaps the cringe-iest video I've ever seen of some young American social media influencer doing a sexy dance in a blue and yellow bikini as a "tribute to those suffering in Ukraine." Maybe there's just no hope for humanity.

War is horrible, as is the helpless feeling of watching it play out from afar. I'd ask for a rousing chorus of "Give Peace A Chance," but in today's age, it would probably be delivered in a 30-second Instagram clip featuring any number of Kardashians and a rap from Macklemore. Here's hoping the sanctions and the world's reaction will show Putin that actions like this will no longer be tolerated on the global stage. Of all the armies in the world, the most powerful might end up being the kids of TikTok.

COLUMN: Facebook Ban

I bet you were expecting some cutesy column about my cats or something. Tough. I don't feel like it. I do what I want when I want.

What do you guys think? I'm testing out my new bad boy persona. Is it a keeper?

All this time, I've been under the impression that I'm a nice guy and a relatively decent human being. How wrong I was. As it turns out I'm a full-fledged miscreant. A rebel without a cause. A villainous na'er-do-well.

I learned this earlier today when I went to waste time on Facebook but instead was greeted by THIS message:

"You have been banned from posting for 48 hours. Your previous post violated our community standards. You may not post any content advocating violence."

Wait, advocating WHAT? EXCUSE ME? I cringe when I watch boxing. I am a proud and unashamed wuss. I don't even know HOW to advocate violence.

So why did I sent to Mark Zuckerberg's social media prison for 2 days? Prepare to NOT be amazed.

I subscribe to many Facebook chat groups, including a forum for fans of the Sirius/XM satellite radio channel "1st Wave." That's the channel that plays awesome new wave tunes from the 80s. I often blast it inappropriately in the car.

The "1st Wave" Facebook forum isn't affiliated with Sirius/XM. It's run entirely by fans, who usually spend their days arguing circles about the merits of 80s music and new wave nostalgia. But their favorite pastime is complaining. Every day, at least one person will gripe about hearing a song on the channel too often, or a song they don't think should be classified as "new wave." In fact, so many people have complained over the years about the song "Joey" by Concrete Blonde that it's become a running joke in the forum.

"Joey" is a polarizing song, and it IS perplexing that 1st Wave plays it repeatedly. It's a decent tune, but it's far from "new wave." Had "Joey" been released in the mid-90s, it would've been an alternative rock hit. But it pre-dated that movement by a couple years, so Sirius lumps it onto First Wave, where it sticks out like a sore, grungey thumb. 

And yesterday, like clockwork, some random stranger joined the forum just to post, "Dear 1st Wave, please stop playing Joey by Concrete Blonde, as it is not new wave. Ridiculous." This caused a dozen other people to start chiming in, while I sat back with popcorn to watch people yell at a radio station in a forum that the radio station probably doesn't know exists.

Eventually, I posted a snarky comment aimed at the haters. I used the lyrics to ANOTHER song -- the 1st Wave mainstay "Panic" by The Smiths. The chorus to "Panic" goes, "Burn down the disco! Hang the blessed DJ, because the music they constantly play says nothing to me about my life." I changed it to "Burn down the Facebook! Hang the blessed DJ because the Joey they constantly play says nothing to me about new wave."

Minutes later, the great robotic judges of Facebook flagged my post claiming I was legitimately advocating for arson and lynching. Yep, I was banned for posting "violent" lyrics from The Smiths, a band whose frontman Morrissey would often lip-sync into a bouquet of gladiolas and might very well be the lone person on Earth I could beat up, were I ever to become a punch-throwing member of society.

So look out, people. I've experienced my first official dose of rebellion. It's a gateway drug to a life of sin and wickedry. In no time at all, I expect to be ripping tags off mattresses with carefree abandon.

Then again, maybe I AM a bad boy. Several people recently sent me an article about a man suing the Las Vegas police because he was mistakenly arrested earlier this year. He's a 23-year-old black man, and it turns out the criminal the cops were after was a 51-year-old white guy. The only thing this poor guy had in common with the wanted felon was his name: Shane Brown. Gulp.

It's not me, I promise. They eventually arrested the right Shane Brown, and he DOES look like a bad boy. I need to step up my rebel game if I'm going to compete with THAT dude -- so if anyone needs me, I'll be wearing white after Labor Day and burping in public while unnecessarily driving repetitively on the Avenue of the Cities. If you've got a problem with that, feel free to write me on Facebook. You can expect a response in 46 hours and 20 minutes.    

COLUMN: Where Did 4th Grade Go?

Last week, I learned with some sadness of the passing of my third grade teacher's husband.

Memories of grade school are fuzzy, but they're warm fuzzies -- the warmest of which hail from third grade. My teacher that year was amazing, and I remember a classroom filled with music, laughter, encouragement, equality, and support. She was the real deal, and I'm happy we're still in touch.

If there's one thing my mother and I share, it's our mutual sense of caring and compassion. Well, and our mutual love of gossip. I wasted no time calling home to pass along the news to Mom.

"Oh, that's sad," my mom said. "She was your fourth grade teacher, right?"

"Nope," I replied, "she was third grade. Fourth grade was... umm..."

And then it hit me. Or, rather, it DIDN'T hit me. I had no earthly idea who my fourth grade teacher was. My mind drew a complete blank. I remember all my other teachers clearly. But FOURTH grade? It's like it didn't even exist. 

I am nothing without my noggin. My brain contains every essence of my personality, my life's precious memories, and a comprehensive database of what I'd reckon to be 134,704 different songs that get awkwardly stuck in my head for no particular reason. (Today's was "Obsession" by Animotion. You're welcome.) There's no way my brain could let me down and wipe all of fourth grade from my memory. But, alas, it has. My autobiography jumps from third grade directly to fifth.

Now, I SUPPOSE you could say I'm not exactly a spring chicken anymore, and the dimming of distant memories is perfectly natural. It might even be possible to think my brain just (gasp) isn't exceptional and perfect. 

Naw. That's silly talk. My brain's awesome and I'm a genius. This leaves only one rational explanation: Clearly, somewhere along the way, I have been abducted by aliens.

I've watched enough paranormal documentaries to know when my brain's been monkeyed with. I've watched countless testimony of people who claim to have been sucked out of bed and beamed aboard motherships where they were poked and prodded before being deposited back to Earth with strange gaps in their memory. Darn you, aliens!

Obviously some interstellar visitors must have been toodling past in their UFO, caught a load of me and my massive intellect, and wanted to study my tremendous brain and its wealth of human knowledge within. And they obviously must have kept my fourth grade memories as a souvenir. As the hard-hitting journalist I pretend to be, I needed answers.

I've lost touch with most classmates from those days, but I found three on Facebook, so I sent them identical messages. This wasn't awkward at all, considering I can count on one hand all the words I've said to them collectively since the 1970s. But that didn't stop me from greeting my long-lost friends with, "HELP! Who was our fourth grade teacher? DID WE HAVE ONE? WAS I ABDUCTED BY ALIENS?!" 

The first to respond was Dee, a fellow Galesburg ex-pat who also now calls the QC home. She couldn't remember, either. "But I just messaged Amy T. She'll know."

Amy Z. was the next to respond. "I think I remember his name," she said. "I can't picture his face, though. I just messaged Amy T. She'll know."

I don't ever fancy being a fly on a wall, but I would've liked to have seen Amy T.'s face when she innocently opened Facebook to be assaulted by three names from the distant past all urgently demanding the name of our fourth grade teacher. To her credit, she DID know, and it WAS the name Amy Z. remembered as well. The name sounds right, but I still can't picture the guy or anything that happened in his class.

Clearly he had an immense impact on my life. I'm not saying he was a bad teacher. He might have been a great teacher. He might have been a Martian. I have no conscious recall either way, and that's a bit alarming. But it's refreshing to know my classmates are fuzzy on it as well. Either memories fade over time, or the spaceship that abducted me was big enough for our whole class to fit.

Maybe it was just a forgettable class. Maybe I learned my 134,705th song, reached the capacity of my brain's hard drive, and something had to be deleted. Maybe I'm just a human being with flaws and forgetfulness.

Or maybe that's exactly what the aliens want us to believe.

COLUMN: #Canceltok

I think it might be high time that we consider cancelling cancel culture.

There are several online content creators who spend their days gleefully destroying people's lives in the name of moral crusading and social justice. Is it deserved? Oftentimes, yes. Is it fun to watch? Absolutely. But is it super dangerous and a giant red flag as to where society's headed? You betcha. 

It's no secret that our world is full of truly horrible garbage nightmare people. Racist, sexist, and just plain awful folks live and walk amongst us every day. They always have. But in today's world, if you're a terrible person doing terrible things in public, there's a good chance someone's pointing a camera phone in your direction and your terribleness could live on the internet and haunt you FOREVER.

That's what the cancel-culture creators do. They post videos of awful people being awful, attempt to identify the offenders, and then sit back whilst the internet ruins those people's lives by any means necessary. They'll deluge the offender with calls and messages. They'll find that person's employer and deluge THEM with messages. They often won't stop until the offending party has lost their job, their reputation, and their livelihood.  

Is it fun to watch? Oh, for sure. There's nothing more satisfying than watching jerks get what's coming to them. But after you've watched a few of these videos, that allure goes away and you're left with the realization that watching terrible people suffer terrible consequences is... kinda terrible. It just makes me feel gross about humanity in general.

A couple weeks ago, video came out of a terrible person being terrible to the young staff of a smoothie shop. The irate customer yells and screams at the clerks, throws a glass violently, and at one point unsuccessfully tries to gain access to an staff area while the frightened clerks call 911. Then he calls one of the employees a "dumb immigrant" before the video cuts off. It's a hard watch.

There's absolutely no excuse for such behavior. Its reprehensible and shouldn't be tolerated by any society that calls itself civilized. Content creators pushed the video viral, and in no time at all uncovered the identity of the jerk and put his name on the internet for all to see. Not only was the guy found and arrested, but he was also fired from his lucrative finance job at Merrill Lynch. 

Kind of a feel-good story, right? It's great to see a garbage human held accountable for his garbage actions. But then a few days later, more information came out.

It turns out the guy was having a meltdown because hours prior, he had been in the shop and ordered a smoothie for his son. Due to miscommunication, he was given a smoothie that contained peanuts. His son is deathly allergic, suffered a bad reaction, and had to be ambulanced to a hospital. 

Does that give him the right to hurl racial epithets and glassware at the employees there? Absolutely not. Like I said before, there's no excuse for his actions. But should any consideration be given to the circumstances? There's no justification for racism or violence EVER, not even on your worst day. But have we all said and done sincerely stupid things in our worst moments that we later regret? Absolutely. This guy DEFINITELY needed to learn a lesson, but did he deserve his life and his family's income to be irreparably destroyed? 

I honestly don't know. And that's the point -- what gives any of us the right to cast final judgement? I'm certainly not qualified for the job. Are you? There are people out there qualified to judge. They're called judges. As much as I seethe when I see anyone treated with disrespect or pointless hatred, I also don't want to find myself succumbing to the same hatred by casting judgement from miles away behind a keyboard. When smoothie guy got fired, the TikTok creators who made it go viral then posted videos of themselves gleefully dancing jigs for destroying this guy's life. 

My fear is that some of these proud cancel-lors are less motivated by social justice and more by a desire to become the self-appointed judge, jury, and executioners of the court of public opinion. If they were only in it for social justice, they wouldn't have merch stores where you can buy their faces on t-shirts and coffee mugs. 

I've been worried about the repercussions of cancel culture for a while, but it might be fixing itself. Last month, someone uncovered evidence that one of the internet's leading cancel-culture crusaders had himself made some pretty questionable posts a decade ago. Now other creators are trying to cancel HIM, and the whole of TikTok's #canceltok is turning on itself. May the strongest survive, I guess.

I'll just sit back, watch with concern, and maybe enjoy a smoothie. I plan on tipping my server well.     

COLUMN: Coroner

People sometimes ask what compels me to be a columnist. Simple: to become famous and all-powerful so I can procure a horde of evil minions to rule the world with an iron fist. Duh.

But let's be honest. My path towards global conquest has thus far NOT been speedy. As of press time, my fists continue to be softer than iron, and so far I've only managed to recruit three minions, and that's only because I feed them and change their litterboxes. They're certainly evil, but I've yet to notice any of them do my bidding (unless my bidding requires hairballs.)

But an opportunity just crossed my path that could change everything.

True story: I just received an e-mail that says, and I quote, "The Rock Island Democratic Party is looking for folks in our county to run for local office. Would you like info on how to run?"

(Cue evil laugh.)

I've never had political ambition in my life. I can barely make eye contact with strangers, let alone govern them. I've been to a few city council meetings, and, umm, no thanks. Unlike Alexander Hamilton, I have no earthly desire to be in the room where it happens. All things considered, I'd rather be in the DJ booth in the dance club down the street from the room where it happens. 

If I'm going to run for office, it needs to be something innocuous. One of those jobs where most people don't even know what it is that you do... Clearly, I need to be your next comptroller (whatever that is.)

I'm pretty sure I have exceptional comptrolling skills. I will troll the meanest comps you've ever seen.

Other candidates might not be brave enough to make bold promises on the campaign trail, but not me. I'm a man of action. When you elect me, on my VERY FIRST DAY in office, I promise to waste no time before looking up the word "comptroller" in the dictionary to find out what it means. Heck, I'll do it right now.

Oh. Never mind. It involves numbers. Yuck. I can barely keep track of my OWN money, let alone anyone else's.

Trolling comps is a no-go for me, but that doesn't mean I'm thwarted. I just need to find some other public office that would be a perfect fit for a nerdy newspaper columnist with an extensive resume of music collecting, litterbox cleaning, and television consumption. There's only one obvious choice.

I need to be your next coroner.

Sorry, current Rock Island County Coroner Brian Gustafson. I've never met you and you seem like a decent guy. But the people demand I seek public office, and coroner seems pretty swell. I might not have any experience, but I did watch that one episode of "Quincy, M.E." where he confronts the troubling and dangerous fad of "punk rock," so I think I've got the basics down. (Off topic: If you haven't seen that episode, seek it out. It's magic.)

There's only a couple roadblocks to me being your next coroner: I have no medical experience and no earthly desire to ever see anyone's innards. But I have a plan: If you elect me coroner, I'll skip the icky innards and save a ton of time by simply labelling everyone's cause of death as "sexual misadventure." Not only will the county save money on fancy autopsy equipment, but if every death in town suddenly gets attributed to salacious and tawdry unmentionables, we could probably heat the entire county on the power of water-cooler gossip alone. Clean, renewable energy derived from pure, locally-sourced rumor mills. Good for the environment, good for Rock Island.

But alas, my dreams of public office were dashed once I discovered I'd have to quit THIS job. If I ran for office, I'm pretty sure the paper in fairness would have to legally give humor columns to anyone else running for the same office -- and if there's one thing prospective coroners are known for, it's their ability to make people laugh. I don't need competition like that in my life.

So, Rock Island Democrats, I sadly decline your kind offer -- for now. Maybe someday. Until then, I'll be hanging out with my minions and launching an exploratory committee (which will likely involve watching many more episodes of Quincy, M.E.)   

COLUMN: Wordle

I'm late. I should've had this column written and put to bed a half hour ago. Instead, it's 1:05 a.m. and I'm just now tippy-typing away.

I'd like to say I'm running behind because I'm an exciting person doing exciting things. Truth be told, I'm running late because I just spent the past 35 minutes of my wasted life pointlessly trying to guess a 5-letter word.

Wordle is evil and has plagued our fragile earth for too long. It must be stopped. 

Unless you live under a rock, and unless that rock has lousy wi-fi, you should know what Wordle is by now. The popular online puzzle game has gone viral out of nowhere and suddenly the whole world's obsessed with 5-letter words. The brainchild of software engineer (and apparent masochist) John Wardle, Wordle's daily puzzles are just perfect for those of us who like to augment our morning cup of coffee with anguishing mental torture.

The premise is simple: Each day, players get six attempts to correctly identify a random five-letter word. With each guess, Wordle will tell you: (a) which letters of your guess are NOT in the word of the day, (b) which letters of your guess ARE in the daily word, but are in the wrong position, and (c) which letters you've guessed correctly in the correct position. Given this information, you have six tries to correctly identify the word of the day. That's all there is to it.

There's only ONE Wordle puzzle per day, and every player around the globe gets the same puzzle, so don't spoil the daily answer for anyone unless you're willing to face the harsh wrath of the online masses. Wordle makes it easy to share your daily score on social media -- so now when I log onto Facebook, half my feed is taken up by people posting Wordle scores.

The first time I played, I correctly identified the Wordle of the day in TWO guesses. "Oh wow," I thought to myself. "I'm really good at this. Clearly, I am skilled and gifted at word puzzles. Let me share these results so as to impress my friends and followers with my clear genius." For 24 hours, I loved Wordle.

Then I played the next day. My first guess didn't contain ONE correct letter. My second guess revealed there was a "U" and a "K" in the word. By my fourth guess, I was desperate. "Is it CRUNK?" (It was not.) Umm, Is BRUNK a word? (It is not.) Is FRUNK a word? (No. But, let's be honest here, it absolutely should be.)

That second day, I swear to you I stared at my phone for almost a half hour, sweat dripping from my forehead. At one point, I yelled into the open air and sent various cats flying out of the room. Eventually, I threw my phone on the couch and stomped off to fold laundry, which I'm pretty sure is the adult equivalent of taking my ball and going home.

I'm finally coming to terms with the ugly truth: I am really, really bad at Wordle. Turns out it was PURE LUCK that first day when I got the word in two tries. Most days, it takes me 5 or 6. Some days, I can't get it at all. 

I can only assume Josh Wardle created this game in hopes of giving people a fun, relaxing brain-teaser to take their mind off things. Instead, it's daily torture that raises my blood pressure and drives me neurotic. Why am I terrible at this game? I'M A WRITER. I've typed a kajillion five-letter words in this column alone. Ooh, wait -- is ALONE today's Wordle? Nope. ARRRGH.

Why am I playing this daily nightmare? I don't find it enjoyable in the slightest. I find it maddening. But I'm doing it because all my friends are doing it and I have to post my stupid score to Facebook every stupid day. I have enough quite enough fear in my life as is. Now I get to add the fear of dying in my sleep and the police discovering my corpse next to seventeen pieces of scrap paper filled with 5-letter words and the one cop will turn to the other and go, "Yep, we got us a lunatic" and THAT will be my legacy.

"Here lies Shane... he was really frunking bad at Wordle."