COLUMN: Inner Gold

WARNING: The following column features activities performed either by idiots or idiots under the supervision of other idiots. Accordingly, Shane must insist that no one attempt to recreate or re-enact any activity mentioned in this column.

Or, in short, please don't pee in your eye.

There was once a time when I would've assumed "don't pee in your eye" would be an unnecessary disclaimer in a world with common sense. But that was a world BEFORE the internet. We now live in different times. Stupider times.

I've spent the past few columns obsessing over online idiocy, and that's because I have nothing much better to do in the winter than sit around and scroll through TikTok in judgment of society. I've found videos claiming the Super Bowl was rigged and other videos offering "FINAL PROOF" that Taylor Swift is, in fact, a reptilian alien with a hidden agenda for global domination. I've watched cringe-worthy livestreams of individuals unburdened by talent who think they're great singers and/or captivating comedians.

On special occasion, I've even watched clips of people convinced that our Earth is flat as a pancake. Here's what I don't get about that argument: if the world were flat, which it decidedly is NOT, why the global (or, errm, rectangular) cover-up? Wouldn't we have just learned this flat factoid in science class? Why would our flat earth require some kind of epic conspiracy to keep us in the dark? Is it just so none of us dare sail off the edge into oblivion? I don't get it. 

But nothing I've run into on TikTok is quite like the page of one Suama Fraile.  

Suama is an "assistant metaphysical counselor," which is apparently something that one can be. When it comes to natural holistic medicine, she claims to be an expert. You can tell this because she exudes an aura of confidence (and possibly patchouli) in her videos -- and also because she paints a little sun on her forehead, which is something I always look for when seeking expert counsel.

When I'm fast-scrolling through dozens of videos on TikTok, you've got about 1.5 seconds to pique my interest or I'm flipping right past you. Well, Suama's video got my attention in record time by its opening line alone: "I will now tell you why urine is so wonderful." Interest level achieved. Well done.

According to Suama, we've all been doing this whole "life" thing wrong for a mighty long time. Some people say that laughter is the best medicine. Personally, I've always advocated that medicine is the best medicine. Suama is a firm believer that the best medicine is actually human urine. 

"We carry our own internal medicine that's perfect for us," she explains. "Wonderful herbs come out of the urine," she declares confidently. "It is loaded with minerals, like gold. Our own inner gold."

To prove her point, she then tells us that she's cured herself of astigmatism and myopia. How, you may ask? By pouring urine into her eyes on a daily basis, of course. How could we as a society have been duped all these years into wearing glasses and trusting optometrists when we can simply fix it all with our "inner gold"? Curse our foolish naivety.

You may have questions. I certainly do. Chief among them: who was the first person to attempt this, and WHY? Who was the legendary trendsetter who thought, "Hey, THIS stuff belongs in my eye!" Second, even if you wanted to partake in such an activity (which you should NOT), HOW does one even accomplish this? I would think there might be logistical challenges in such an endeavor. After all, you don't want to run the risk of an errant shot causing your forehead painting to run.

Like all of us (admit it), I have not been immune to one or two restroom mishaps in my life, but thus far nothing so tragic as to introduce my eyes to "inner gold." I did see a funny video once of a new father suffering a horrible fate while attempting his first diaper change, but I don't recall him throwing away his contact lenses in triumph. Instead, I'm pretty sure he screamed.

But questions are okay. Questions are good, and Suama's ready for them. She'll answer them all. All you need to do is provide Suama with your credit card and you can take her class to learn all the wonders of "urine therapy." She'll even teach you how to "make" something called "enhanced urine" (I'm not asking.) In another video, she tells of a secret mantra you can utter several times a day to fix all your woes. That's a separate class. Apparently, based on her fiscal solvency to consistently afford forehead paint alone, people are paying good money to learn how to mumble nonsense and pee into their own eyeballs. I love our world.

I did some research (and am now probably on some kind of FBI watchlist) and "urine therapy" really is a thing in some of the stranger corners of the holistic internet. REAL doctors even did a study you can find entitled, "The Golden Fountain - Is urine the miracle drug no one told you about?" Spoiler alert: It is NOT. Unsurprisingly, words like "contamination" and "bacterial growth" are abundant in their findings, and the study even shows that folks who recycle their "inner gold" for crazypants purposes are often prone to antibiotic resistance. In other words, DON'T DO IT. Like, ever.

But, I suppose, who are we to believe? Science and scientists and doctors and nurses and anyone with a shred of common sense? Or a nice lady with a forehead painting asking for my Mastercard? Maybe if we stopped listening to that pesky logic of ours and followed Suama's helpful advice, we could one day be able to walk down the street with perfect 20/20 vision, which we could then use to clearly see all the people pointing and laughing and saying, "there goes the crazy lady who pees in her eye."

COLUMN: RRHoF

We are a bitter, divided nation. The bickering, hatred, and putdowns have become too much. This week, all I've seen is division and squabbling and the ugliest sides of human nature in full display. Is it a fool's dream to think we can mend the fences, bridge the gap, and bring everyone closer in unity and harmony?

Somehow, some way, we need to come together... and just accept this year's nominees for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

As arguments go, this is one I'm okay with perpetuating. Do I have opinions on politics, vaccinations, Russia, immigration, and the current state of our economy? Sure I do. But, by and large, do I keep my yap shut? You betcha. For one, I don't want to alienate half my readership. For another, I'm fully self-aware of my lack of qualifications to talk about such things. You want political opinion? Turn to the opinion page. You want a bangin' mixtape? I'm your boy.

Music is my life force. I was changing records on my mom's hi-fi before I could properly walk. I can't dance to save my life, but it turns out you can still belong in a dance club if you're the one standing in the DJ booth shaping the playlist. The only reason I bought a house was because my record collection was outgrowing my apartment. The other day, I overheard some co-workers talking about music and all I felt was pure seething rage that they had the audacity to not include me in the conversation. I am music nerd, hear me roar.

And if there's one thing that pushes music nerds into overdrive, it's the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Every year, the closed-door nomination committee of the Rock Hall presents a shortlist of nominated artists, who are then voted on by an elite group of music industry experts. Artists qualify for induction once it's been 25 years since their first release. The winners are then inducted at a nationally televised ceremony. Following that, they're added to the ever-growing exhibit at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame & Museum in Cleveland. It's a fairly big deal.

And every year, they invariably get it wrong. No self-respecting music nerd is ever happy with the nominees, the winners, or the ceremony. The entire process seems less about honoring the inductees and more about getting fans upset about who DIDN'T make the cut. Either that or maybe I need to make different friends on Twitter. The music geeks I know get REALLY mad. Cursing and swearing mad. 

There's two common themes to the outrage. The first, and most obvious, involves the rather loose application of "rock & roll." Most people hear the term and think guitar/bass/drums. The Rock Hall thinks otherwise. There are country, soul, and pop artists in the Rock Hall. There are (gasp) rappers in the Rock Hall. This irks rock purists to no end.

The other argument is something along the lines of "how dare they nominate [any popular artist] when [some influential band who only 4 people on your continent have ever heard of] hasn't made it in?!" The righteous music nerd in me agrees with these sentiments to a degree. You might not have heard of The MC5 -- they're certainly not in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. But in greasy Detroit clubs in 1968, The MC5 pretty much invented punk rock. Search the Rock Hall all you want, but you won't find the industrial clangs of Throbbing Gristle or Einsturzende Neubaten, a German band known for playing homemade instruments made from scrap metal and power tools. But you WILL find Nine Inch Nails in the Rock Hall, a band whose very existence was predicated on those noisemakers paving the way (often literally, with onstage sledgehammers.) Two of the most influential bands of MY musical upbringing, The Smiths and My Bloody Valentine, have never made the cut.

But I get it. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame isn't just an honor-bestowing organization. It's a business. No one's gonna tune in to watch a band they've never heard of get inducted. The museum needs to draw more visitors than just pretentious record store clerks. Few people on Earth would make Cleveland a vacation destination in order to see a sledgehammer that Einsturzende Neubaten once dragged onstage. The Rock Hall needs Elton John's glasses. It needs Michael Jackson's glove. It needs Taylor Swift's catsuit.

This year's nominees were just announced. It is perhaps the least rock & roll offering they've ever assembled. There is much outrage. Even I was initally like, "Whaaa?" But the more I thought about it, the more impressed I am by this year's nominees.

You've got a handful of true rock artists in the mix: Ozzy, Peter Frampton, and Foreigner. Newly qualified artists like Jane's Addiction, Lenny Kravitz, and the Dave Matthews Band have made the shortlist. The late Sinead O'Connor has been honored with a nomination. But let's focus for a second on the ones the rock snobs are mocking. I argue they have every right to be there.

Mary J. Blige was the first artist to bridge the gap between R&B and hip-hop. Kool & the Gang have twenty-one Top 40 singles. When Liam Gallagher heard his band Oasis had been nominated, he said, "I don't need some wank award by some geriatric in a cowboy hat," which is pretty rock & roll if you ask me. Eric B. & Rakim wrote the blueprint for modern rap. A Tribe Called Quest made jazz cool again. Sade are far from rock & roll, but may have been the soundtrack to your conception. Mariah Carey has more #1 hits than I can count, and half of them are "All I Want for Christmas Is You" -- plus she secretly recorded a grunge album in the 90s just to see if she could do it, which is a seriously rock move. And let's face it, Cher belongs in EVERY Hall of Fame. There should just be a Cher Hall of Fame. 

So step off your high horse, my fellow nerds. Music is subjective, and that's what makes it such a powerful force. Last night on Facebook, I was greeted by a post from a friend IRATE about this year's nominees. The very next post was from a different friend saying, "The Rock Hall finally got it right this year! What a great list!" I don't need a museum in Cleveland to tell me what music's awesome. You don't need me to tell you what music's awesome (although I can if you want. In great detail. Just ask.) But if we've got to argue about SOMETHING on the internet, I'll take this over politics any day of the week.

COLUMN: Galactivation

Don't mind me. I'm just having an ideological crisis and questioning everything I know to be true.

Last week, in this very column, I said, quote: "I am a fan of social media." I use Facebook daily to chat with my friends. I use Twitter daily to try (and mostly fail) to chat with celebrities. I use Youtube daily to pack my brain cells with exciting new knowledge about the world. And then I use TikTok daily to destroy those brain cells in a blaze of glory.

Earlier this month, the CEOs of the major social media networks were brought before a Congressional hearing, where they were subject to a good old-fashioned Senate beatdown by politicians eager to lay the blame of cyber-bullying and online harm to children squarely upon their shoulders. As a steadfast fan of social media, I felt bad for them.

Look, I get it. There are terrible things that happen on social media. Kids get hurt on social media. Kids get victimized on social media. There are truly awful people out there right now doing truly awful things on social media. I don't for a single second want to minimize the dangers kids face online or disrespect ANYONE whose lives have been impacted by cyber-bullying or worse. It's a horrible problem and it needs to be addressed.

I just don't know if we're laying the blame in the right place. Social media is, at its heart, a vehicle for communication. It's a postal service for the new age, a modern way for humans to connect and interact in the world like never before. The problem is that a lot of humans are awful and need to be communicated with as little as possible. But when these terrible people do terrible things, is it the fault of the communication portal itself?

People sadly get scammed by malicious phone calls all the time. Do we blame the phone company? If you order something online and they send you a defective product, would you blame UPS? If your kid sneaks a peek at a dirty movie, would you sue the manufacturer of the TV they watched it on? Heck, if some nimrod drinks and drives and crashes into your house, would you drag automakers before Congress? Of course not. They weren't the instigators.

And if you... if you... and that's when it hit me while standing in the shower at 7 a.m. I ran smack into a sticky wicket, and it hurt. By the same logic I just used to defend social media, I'm essentially arguing against gun control. I'm arguing against drug regulations. I'm siding with cigarette manufacturers. Wait, did I just become a Libertarian? That can't be right. This wasn't the kind of internal monologue I wanted to be having with a head full of shampoo. I hadn't even had any coffee.  

Thankfully, I don't have to continue that ideological debate with myself. It was settled later that night, when I came across two things that made me realize social media is, in fact, a horrifying monster that needs to be destroyed at all costs.

For one, I discovered the magic and wonder that is... GALACTIVATORS. I don't know what led me to their nook of the internet, other than an unlucky swipe on TikTok. I'm a bit late to the Galactivation party. I found out later they'd already had their fifteen minutes of fame on America's Got Talent, where they were blessedly swept offstage in record time. Thanks to social media, though, they've built a loyal online audience.

The Galactivators are two middle-aged yoga instructors who perform improvisational hip-hop jams about Mother Earth and the wonders of the cosmos. And they sound EXACTLY as good as you'd expect two middle-aged yoga instructors rapping about the cosmos to be. It's magically insufferable. Every night, they livestream healing hip-hop chakras from their living room while dressed like refugees from a Las Vegas thrift store managed by blind drag queens. There are Norwegian death metal bands who spend their entire careers trying to fuel their fans into a frenzy of hatred and rage, and none of them do it half as efficiently as watching these two painfully rhyme "Redwood tree" with "galaxy." And yes, they'll play birthday parties. YOU ALL KNOW WHAT TO GET ME NEXT YEAR.

If that wasn't bad enough, remember last week's column when I talked about the conspiracy theorists claiming Taylor Swift is trying to rig the next election? Well, thanks to the online homework I did for that, Twitter now assumes I'm some bonkers Q-Anon enthusiast and has been filling my feed with all manner of fringe nutbags. The most intolerable one I've encountered is an influencer whose every post is vague clickbait designed to rile up ultra-conservatives. This morning, he posted a clip of Taylor Swift's crew walking to the stage to accept the Album of the Year Grammy with the ominous caption, "Isn't Taylor Swift's handler CREEPY??" 

Except Taylor Swift had no "handler" as she walked onstage. The guy in the clip he's referring to was Jack Antonoff, one of the most famous and recognizable music producers on the planet. He fronts his own band, Bleachers, who I adore. When it comes to pop music, he's something of a genius. A five-second Google search would've told this guy as much. But no, let's just ignorantly accuse him of being an Illuminati puppetmaster controlling the hidden ominous Taylor Swift political agenda. Swell. 

I expected to see a bunch of comments putting this guy in his place, but instead, the comments were mostly anti-Semitic hate speech. Wowzers. The Bill of Rights is neat and all, but some people don't deserve the freedom of speech. I'm just hoping all the sane people didn't comment because they don't bother reading his nonsense in the first place. Maybe this guy's entire Twitter following is just fellow morons who spend their days pointlessly instilling fear in one another until they all finally die off. 

Even after seeing the ignorance, feeling the hate, AND surviving galactivation, I'm still a fan of social media -- but man, do I detest some of the people that inhabit a good chunk of it. I'm not a proponent of harshly regulating social media, but I'd hear anyone out with a plan on how to regulate stupidity. Congress should hold a hearing.   

COLUMN: Superb Owl

Welp, the teams have been decided, the date's been set, and a superb owl is just over a week away. Kansas City and San Francisco are about to do battle on the gridiron. This can only mean one thing: It was all rigged.

At least, that's what my Twitter feed claims today. And yes, I know it's called X now, but no one calls it that. Twitter for life, baby.

I'm a fan of social media. Not in the "it's-enriching-our-world-for-the-greater-good-of-mankind" kinda way. I'm more of a fan in the "let's-see-what-the-crazies-have-to-say-today" kinda way. If you're a card-carrying member of the tinfoil hat collective, the internet is your stage and we're your anonymous audience. I'll be there in the front row with popcorn, promise. Conspiracy theory culture can be great entertainment. Heck, sometimes it can even be right.

This probably isn't one of those times.

The conspiracy theory du jour that's been popping up on Twitter this week goes something like this: The entire NFL season has been rigged to get the undeserving Kansas City Chiefs into the Super Bowl. Why? So that Taylor Swift, currently the world's most famous girlfriend, can have a huge audience in order to tell her legions of fans to vote for Joe Biden. If you believe that, I'll wait a few seconds for you to return to Earth from leaping over all that logic. It was probably a bumpy flight.

For the sake of a decent read, let's assume this was true. Let's say an entire football league -- 32 teams, 32 owners, 1,696 players, and 3,595 employees -- have all been in cahoots to throw this entire season to get the Chiefs into the final game. To what end? So that Kansas City can call a time-out in the 1st quarter and roll out a red carpet for Taylor to stroll across midfield in a "VOTE JOE" t-shirt? I don't see that happening.   

113,000,000 people watched the Super Bowl last year. That's less than half the people who follow Taylor Swift on Instagram. If Taylor Swift wanted to tell the world her thoughts on the political landscape, all she has to do is hit SEND. You'd think that would be way easier than commandeering an entire sports league. Taylor Swift is a kajillionaire. She could probably OWN the Chiefs if she wanted to. If she yearns for a public forum, she could buy a 60-second ad in the middle of the game with pocket change. Heck, she could probably win the presidency herself if she declared her candidacy tomorrow. 

I'm not sure how getting her boyfriend into the Super Bowl leads us down the path to Swiftie-fueled election interference. It's not like she's playing the halftime show or something. Satan already called dibs on that gig.

Yep, that brings me to the OTHER conspiracy theory I happened upon today.

"CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED," the ominous post on Facebook reads. "From occultists to ceremonial magicians, Illuminati elitists to Satanists, the big agenda and the occult’s purpose is playing out in plain sight in this high profile ritual event known as the Super Bowl halftime show, which has been Satan's biggest way for many years to sinisterly cast witchcraft spells and program the masses for the New World Order, and to receive the mark of the beast and seal their eternal demise."

Wow. The Black Eyed Peas' halftime performance a few years ago was terrible, but I didn't know it was bad enough to seal my eternal demise. Bummer. If the New World Order were to rise up in my lifetime, I would've at least hoped for a more dramatic soundtrack than "my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps." Curse you, Satan!

According to this post, though, the devil's crafty, and he knows the best way to corrupt young minds is through the ominous sorcery of lyrically-edited, lip-synced hip-hop. And who better to lead our new generation down this dark and twisted path of demonology than... Usher?

The best thing about pop culture is that it's always terrified the generations that have preceded it. Whether it's Elvis' hips or the Beatles' hair, the Fresh Prince got it right: parents just don't understand. If you think Usher's a bad influence, I double-dog-dare you to listen to today's Top 40 offerings. There's songs on the charts right now that make me blush when I have to play them at DJ gigs. I do sometimes fear the influence pop culture can have on impressionable minds.

But Usher? Come on. I saw him in concert two decades ago and he blew the headliner off the stage. But that was some time ago, and I don't recall any demons onstage whatsoever during that performance. No offense against Usher, but he's a few years past his pop culture sell-by date for today's generation. He's at that stage of his career where he's likely headed towards a successful Vegas residency and a legion of middle-aged fans who love the guy. In other words, he's the ideal kind of innocuous performer that the Super Bowl books: someone juuust old enough for adults to love while kids won't roll their eyes and change the channel.

For conspiracy theorists, though, he's also apparently the work of the devil, and those very people telling us not to watch the halftime show will be the same ones watching it back over and over again, hoping to discover some dance move or lighting set-up they can claim to be a clear symbol of evil forces at work -- because if there's one thing we all know about the illuminati, they love to reveal their nefarious plans through the art of interpretive dance.

So enjoy the game next week -- except don't watch it at all. Or at least look the other way during the halftime show or any possible camera shots of Taylor Swift cheering on her boyfriend. Maybe if enough people YELL IN ALL CAPS ON THE INTERNET, we can get rid of players' girlfriends and demonic halftime shows altogether. Maybe then we can finally get back to the wholesome, family-friendly activity we all love: watching profane barbarians give each other concussions. Go Team!      

COLUMN: Attention Span

Last weekend, I watched the "Wonka" movie.

I was expecting to discover a quirky kid's movie with enough nostalgia to make a cynical adult smile. It delivered. What I was NOT expecting to discover was the self-diagnosis of a potential mental health disorder. 

Here is precisely how I watched "Wonka":

Press play. Movie runs for precisely eleven minutes. I get a text. Pause movie. Text is from friend informing me of an upcoming concert. I reply. Press play. Seven minutes later, another text. Pause movie. "No, I don't who's playing guitar on this tour." Press play. Four minutes later, press pause. Open laptop. Spend the next fourteen minutes researching who's playing guitar on this tour. Reply to text. Press play. Six minutes later, press pause and open Spotify to listen to one of the band's songs. Text: "Ooh the new album's good. We should go."

Press play. Six minutes later, press pause. Run a load of laundry downstairs. Wonder what I should make for dinner? Come back upstairs. Press play. Eleven minutes later, press pause. Open laptop and Google "what should I make for dinner?" Spend next 17 minutes looking for recipes. Find one that looks good. Press play, but immediately stand up and go to kitchen. Spend next 35 minutes ignoring movie and making food. Sit down with dinner. Rewind film 35 minutes. Press play. Immediately press pause and run back downstairs to put laundry in dryer. Come upstairs. Press play. Eat. Seven minutes pass. Realize there's a football game on, press pause. Switch to Bills v. Chiefs. Where's Taylor? Ahh, there she is. 

Halftime. Switch back to Wonka. Press play. Four minutes. I recognize that actor. What's he from? One minute. Press pause. Go to IMDB and research "Wonka" cast list. Discover the actor was in an episode of my favorite British sitcom, Peep Show. What a great show. Press pause. Switch to watch one episode of Peep Show. Switch back to "Wonka." No, wait, the football game! Switch back to football, watch Buffalo blow the field goal. Back to "Wonka." Press pause, eat some chocolate. Press play. Watch eighteen minutes before picking up phone and surfing TikTok for 1.5 hours. Back to "Wonka." Watch fourteen minutes while getting ready for bed. Lie down. Remember clothes in dryer. Get up and stomp downstairs in a huff. Fold clothes while surfing TikTok. Come upstairs and fall asleep with phone in hand. Wake up to four missed texts.

Why do I suddenly have the attention span of a squirrel? These days, I can barely do a thing without also wanting to do seventeen other things at the same time. And it's not the fault of poor "Wonka," either. It was a decent enough movie, and I enjoyed it -- but it shouldn't have taken me the entirety of my Sunday to watch a two-hour movie. But lately, this happens every time I try to sit back and focus on pretty much any task at hand. Don't believe me? Between the last sentence and this sentence, I just watched an entire episode of "True Detective" on HBO. Do I have middle-aged onset ADHD?

When I was a kid, I remember fuddy-duddy adults saying things like "kids today have no attention span" while we just rolled our eyes. The blame was usually focused squarely on MTV. Parents had no idea why their children suddenly wanted to watch a string of five-minute-long music videos instead of a whole movie. "It's rotting their brains!" 

These days, a five-minute pop song is something of a rarity. In 2018, Lil Nas X sold 10 million copies of his smash single "Old Town Road." It topped the charts for a record-setting 19 consecutive weeks. "Old Town Road" is 1 minute, 52 seconds long. You could play "Old Town Road" thirty times in a row and it wouldn't take you an hour. Many of today's biggest hits are shorter than three minutes in length.

I spend my weekends DJing in bars and clubs around town. From behind the DJ booth, you can actually see today's generation getting bored in real time if you let a song play for longer than three minutes. After one verse and one chorus, people lose interest. Half the floor stops dancing and just stands around chatting like some DJ nightmare. Last month, I caught myself thinking, "Man, this feels like it's twice the work it once was. Maybe I'm getting too old to DJ." I realize now that I'm not too old -- DJing really IS twice the work it once was because I'm playing TWICE the songs in the same amount of time. As soon as I pull off a mix, I'm already reaching for the next track because it's about to end.

This isn't MTV's fault. This isn't ADHD. Fuddy-duddy me puts the blame squarely on social media. J'accuse, TikTok! I fall under its lurid spell far too often. The moment your brain registers boredom, you can now just flick your thumb and be instantly watching something different on your phone. Before my lips can even form the words "I'M BORED," I've scrolled through 3 other videos. Last weekend when I was housebound and snowed in, I livestreamed a DJ set from my basement on TikTok for fun. While I'm proud to say I had a handful of viewers stick around and check it out, the average viewer watched my livestream for... eight seconds.  

I'm not the only one worried. According to a recent article in Time magazine, psychiatrists are inundated these days by patients convinced they have ADHD and seeking medical help. Usually all they need is a break from the internet. A study was done in the 2000s that tracked people using electronic devices and discovered their focus changed every 2.5 minutes. They repeated the study last year and found the average was now 47 seconds before boredom set in.

I'm a fan AND a victim of social media addiction. You won't catch me bad-mouthing the internet, but maybe we all DO need occasional sanity breaks and reality checks. If we're not careful, we could be heading towards a world where movies are ten minutes long and the #1 song in the country is just someone singing "aaaah!" for 3.5 seconds. I'd say more, but frankly, I'm bored of writing. There's TikToks to watch, people. 

COLUMN: Snowbound

Usually, I rely on real life experience to shape this column every week. But over the past few days, I haven't experienced a whole heck of a lot.

For all I cared this week, it could have snowed a kabillion inches and the temps could've been a brisk -4,327 degrees below zero. Once it snows more than 4-5 inches or the temps fall into the single digits, it's pretty much a guarantee you can find me hibernating at home. I did nothing of interest this week, because I was stuck at home doing nothing all week.

It's a good thing, then, that I am highly skilled and experienced in the fine art of doing nothing. I've been training my whole life.

Amongst the nothing I did this week:

* Binge-watched the entire new mystery miniseries "Fool Me Once" on Netflix. Highly recommend.

* Made an interesting soup from a cookbook gifted by mom and dad. Half an onion, half a bell pepper, 2 carrots, 1 sweet potato, 1 can each of black beans and diced tomatos, some garlic, some cumin, and some red pepper flakes. Easy crockpot gold. You can thank me later. It was great.

* Four loads of laundry.

* Two live-streamed DJ sets from my basement on TikTok.

* Successfully forgot to take down my Christmas lights before the snow, and hence I fear my porch may be holly and jolly until spring thaw.

My remaining time was spent tormenting my cat with a laser pointer and then watching her LOSE HER MIND when I let the kitchen tap trickle to avoid frozen pipes. She paced endlessly beneath the sink, deeply concerned about whatever creature was making the "plink plink" noise high above her. Next thing I knew, she was defying gravity and making the impossible leap all the way to the kitchen counter.

I immediately stoof up and yelled, "Hey, you are NOT allowed up there!" She turned to jump off the counter, but she's no spring chicken and I didn't want her to hurt herself on the landing, so I hustled to the kitchen to try and gently get her down. That's when my cat proved she's every bit as smart as I've always thought. As I jogged to the kitchen, she reached down with one paw, grabbed one of the lower cupboard doors, and opened it enough that she could use it as a step to jump down without harm. My cat is a genius, and now knows how to gain direct access to my food. This is probably NOT a good development.

But more than anything, what I really wanted to do this weekend was sleep. In the days preceding Snowmageddon, I'd cut myself VERY short on sleep, mostly out of my own stupid tendency to fall down time-wasting internet rabbitholes before bed. With four forced days of nature-made quarantine, I figured at the very least, I could catch up on some much-needed rest. Instead, I decided insomnia would be the best course of action for the weekend.

Did you know Spotify has an entire genre devoted to sleep playlists? If you're on their search page, keep scrolling past "rock" and "rap" and "dance" and eventually you'll find the genre simply called "sleep." Inside are dozens of playlists you're supposed to listen to in order to help you fall asleep. You can choose from options like "sleep," "deep sleep," and "dreamy vibes." There's an entire playlist called "night rain" that's just 340 different recordings of rainstorms. There's "white noise" (200 tracks of pure static), "green noise" (tinnier static), "pink noise" (less tinny static), and "brown noise" (which pretty much sounds like the Apocalypse,) all designed to help you descend into sleep into a hurry.

That night, I chose the playlist called "Floating Through Space" -- 145 tracks that are basically just someone on a Casio keyboard making pleasant "whooosh" noises and slow-moving angelic chords. The songs all have new-agey titles like "Hovering Sunset" and "Endless Hope." I thought this would be the perfect soundtrack to lull me to dreamland. Instead, I laid there, "floating through space" for nigh on two sleepless hours. It should have shut my mind off. Instead, it made me wonder if out there somewhere, there's a human being who earns a decent living making "whooosh" noises on a Casio keyboard. I want to be that person.

After yet another night of short sleep, I gave up. When it reached bedtime the next night, I went back to Spotify, but decided in my infinite wisdom to explore their "dance" genre playlists instead. If I was going to be up half the night, I might as well discover some new tracks to spin at the club, right? I remember turning Spotify on, I remember selecting the "dance" channel and pressing play. Next thing I knew, it was 11 a.m. I had slept for ten solid hours while thumping dance beats played around me. The "sleep" channel keeps me up all night, but the "dance" channel knocks me unconscious for almost half a day. I might be weird.

All things considered, it was somewhat nice to be a reclusive shut-in all weekend. I was lucky to have not lost power. I was lucky to have been able to stay indoors for most of the frigid weekend. The news said we essentially got an entire winter's worth of snow across a one week span. Maybe that means the worst of winter is behind us and spring is just around the corner. If Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow in a couple weeks, he and I will be having words. I'd really like to get these Christmas lights down before the 4th of July.

COLUMN: Miami Aliens

I think everybody's got it all wrong. All week long, the only thing I've heard out of people is SNOW this, SNOW that. Snow has been the only topic of discussion around every water cooler all week long. Look, I get it. After all, I'm known around the office as the guy who shares those apocalyptic early weather models where it says we're going to get 30 inches of snow before it invariably adjusts down to reasonable levels. I'm the king of winter worries.

Admittedly, this has not been an ideal weather week. But why are we so preoccupied by snow... when TEN FOOT TALL ALIENS WALK AMONG US? Where's your priorities, people?

Dateline: Miami, Florida. New Year's Day. Imagine this scenario: You're enjoying the evening from atop an umpteen-story skyscraper along the Miami coast, as one might do when one lives atop an umpteen-story skyscraper along the Miami coast. Suddenly, your New Year revelries are disrupted by the sound of sirens. You look down to see an armada of police cars rolling up across the street at the crowded Bayside Marketplace.

WHY are police arriving en masse? Because, claims the internet, you can "clearly" see what looks to be a gigantic humanoid alien walking down the street. 

This is exactly what happened a few days ago, at least according to a video that's gone viral this week on the world's most reliable news source: TikTok. Behold the first conspiracy theory of 2024 -- and it must be legit, because I've seen it with my own eyes. Well, KINDA, if I squint a little bit -- and perhaps have a good imagination.

Look, if you caption ANY video on the internet with "proof of a ten foot alien," I'm going to watch it. As a card-carrying nerd who's always up for a good tale of little green men (or, in THIS case, BIG green men,) I couldn't click the play button fast enough. Sure enough, you see a guy filming from some really high vantage point (either a skyscraper or a drone.) You see a ludicrous amount of police responding to some kind of incident. You hear what sounds to be gunfire. And yep, you see what appears to be some sort of impossibly tall creature wandering the streets of downtown Miami.

It's impressive -- but it's also blurry. Whoever our amateur cinematographer was, they didn't have a very good camera, and they're far away from the unfolding events. Any attempts to zoom in on our extra-terrestrial street-walker shows little more than a tall, human-looking blur.

So what's the official story? According to a Miami police spokesman, the officers were responding to multiple reports of teenagers fighting in and around the mall. Four teens ended up getting arrested. End of story. 

Except that's not nearly as good of a story as the one the internet has crafted, and it's easy to see why the video has (tall, alien) legs.

For one, there's a ridiculous amount of police on the scene. You can see roughly 50 police cars lining the street. If this was simply a group of troublemaking teens, why summon the whole of the Miami Police Department? Why were there noises that sounded like gunfire? And, of course, what of the inhumanly tall figure blurrily strutting around? For those who continually mine the internet for conspiracy theory gold, this video is a motherlode.

Well, not to burst everyone's bubble, but the police have an explanation for all that, too. Apparently the original call that came in to 911 claimed there was an active shooter at the mall, which explains the massive police response. The noises that sounded like gunfire? Apparently the teens were throwing fireworks at one another. As for our alien friend, police say the blurry image is, in fact, two or three officers walking down the street in tandem. When viewed from a distance, the video was filmed at just the right angle to make them look like one blurry ominous figure. 

Well, drat. Way to rain on the conspiracy parade with your party-pooping explanations, Miami Police. I'm not one to buy into loony internet theories -- but I AM one who likes to lurk in the comments section with some popcorn and watch the pots crack. 

Even though our extra-terrestrial visit was all but debunked, it's not stopped the fringier corners of the internet from keeping the dream of ten-foot aliens alive. It MUST be a government cover-up, they insist. Some swear they were there that night and DEFINITELY saw an otherworldly monster. Add some black helicopter sightings, a reported power outage nearby, and the Miami-Dade airport cancelling flights that day, and you've got proof positive that visitors are among us -- so sayeth the internet.

I'm a Doubting Shane. I think if E.T. decided to sashay his way down Biscayne Boulevard in full public view, there'd probably be more camera footage than just one dude atop a nearby skyscraper. But who am I to suck all the fun out of a fledgling conspiracy theory? If you are out there and friendly, my ten-foot tall tourist buddy, you're welcome to lay low at my place if you need a place to crash.

Bonus points if you're skilled at shoveling snow.

COLUMN: The Hum

I wear many hats here at the paper, including this silly column. But one hat I've never tried on? Investigative reporter.

I'm okay with this. We have an amazing staff of people who do that sorta stuff. Occasionally I pass them in the hallways. They always look like they're running late for something important. Frankly, I don't need that kind of stress in my life. But last Friday night, I maybe felt what it was like to be one of them for a few minutes.

It was 6 p.m. and I'd just gotten home from the office. Normally, my house is full of sound. There's always a TV on. Quite often, there's a stereo blaring at the same time. If that's not enough, I've usually got the comforting steady buzz of an air purifier running. Without its reassuring lullaby, I stand a chance of being able to hear my own conscience, and no one wants that, least of all me. 

But that night, I was in a rush. I had a DJ gig later that night, and I was woefully unprepared. As I ran around the house grabbing laptops and prepping playlists, I heard it. WHIRR-RRR-RRR-RRR-RRR-RRR. Somewhere outside, there was a weird industrial noise. It was loud enough to hear from inside the house.

I live in Rock Island, and I'm used to her delightful urban symphony: Police sirens. Freight trains. Lawn mowers. People who spend three quarters of the year souping up their cars for those two magical months they can drive around going "RNN-RNNN-RNNNNNN!" at stoplights hoping to impress the .001% of the populace who somehow think that's cool. And let's not forget Rock Island's favorite game: Was-That-Fireworks-Or-Gunshots?

But this? This was different. This was a noise I'm not used to hearing the outside world make. "Weird," I thought to myself, "it must be a street sweeper or something." You know, because street sweepers are such a common occurrence at 7 p.m. on dark wintry weekend nights. Regardless, I shrugged it off, turned the TV on, and went about my prep work. But I forgot to turn the air purifier on -- and an hour later, when the TV went quiet for a second, I realized the outside noise was still noising.

"What the...?" I said in my best responsible adult voice while cracking open the back door. The mystery sound was permeating the whole neighborhood. It was deep, ominous, and definitely mechanical in nature, with a pulsating WHIRR-RRR-RRR like a giant fan or motor emanating from parts unknown. I texted a friend who lives six blocks away: U HEAR THIS WEIRD NOISE OUTSIDE? She did. I texted another friend who lives six blocks in the other direction. He was hearing it, too.

My mind suddenly flashed to a few years prior, when I was driving back solo in the pitch middle of the night from a late Chicago concert. My only comfort during that commute was the infamous late-night radio show Coast To Coast AM, the wayward home for conspiracy theorists and lovers of all things that go bump in the night. That evening, the entire show was devoted to The Hum.

Around the world, people have reported hearing persistent and invasive mechanical-sounding hums. One of the most famous instances happened in Taos, New Mexico, where multiple residents in the 1990s reported hearing a pervasive droning noise of unknown origin. In 2011, Canadian officials actually asked the U.S. for help in determining a mysterious noise plaguing the residents of Windsor, Ontario. The source was never determined.

The internet is rife with theories about The Hum. Youtube is full of purported audio recordings of it. Some claim the hums align with underground gas pipelines. Others say it might be an effect of low frequency radio signals. Some think it's the Earth's shifting faultlines. One extremely weird website purports the noise is generated by the mating rituals of something called the "Midshipman fish," an erotic display I think we can all agree is left best unseen.

Of course, the wilder corners of the internet are convinced it's some sort of evil government experiment. Some claim The Hum causes autism and is responsible for sociopathic behavior. A few hums are purported to sound like blaring trumpets, which of course had caused people to speculate it's a sign of the Apocalypse. And there's always the internet's go-to answer for everything unexplained: ALIENS. I like to think I'm more level-headed than to assume a weird noise is clear proof of extra-terrestrials, but I can't lie: at one point when I was looking out my back door, I instinctively looked up, half-expecting to see the Parliament Mothership about to abduct me to Planet Funk.

I guess that's when my journalist instincts kicked in. I had a few minutes, so I dropped everything, grabbed my keys, and set off determined to find the cause of the hum. For the next half hour, I drove around Rock Island, employing the best scientific methodology I could muster: pulling over, rolling down my window, and listening.

After thirty minutes attempting to triangulate the source of the phenomenon with all the cunning street smarts I could muster, I can confidently conclude that the sound was coming from: somewhere. I honestly couldn't figure it out at all. Best I could tell, it was somewhere along the river on the west end of town. I rolled down my window once more for a full analysis of the situation -- and my window wouldn't roll back up, which obviously means THE GOVERNMENT HAS SECRET CHIPS IN ALL OF OUR CARS TO DEPLOY WHENEVER ANYONE GETS CLOSE TO THE TRUTH. 

Regardless, it was too cold for conspiracy theories and I was in no condition for Arctic investigations, so I went home and fixed my car window in the comfort of my garage. By the time I got home from the DJ gig, the noise had subsided. I swear I heard it again tonight as I got home from work, only much quieter. 

My foray into investigative journalism concluded with neither bang nor whimper, but with a hum. If anyone really knows what our Hum was, I'm all ears. Otherwise, by my best guess, it was a noisy barge. Or the government. Or aliens. Or weird fish doing unspeakable acts under the river. Back to you, Geraldo.   

COLUMN: Best of 2023 - TV

There is not a time when I am conscious in my house that a television isn't on. When I come home from work, the remote is the first thing I grab. When I go to bed, I set a sleep timer so I don't dare nod off without the comforting light of the idiot box lulling me to dreamland. I honestly don't want to know how many hours of my life I waste staring at talking heads and fictional people with lives far more interesting than my own.

The only GOOD thing about being a television addict is that it makes me somewhat uniquely qualified to write my annual year-end recommendations for the best TV of 2023:

#10 - RIVERDALE (The CW) - Okay, so maybe I shouldn't call this a list of the BEST television. Riverdale is NOT a great show. It's not even a good show. But for seven glorious seasons of nonsense, it's been my favorite popcorn escapism. Having exhausted every conceivably ludicrous plotline from murder to cults to aliens to superheroes, the last surviving remnant of the CW's glory years transported its residents back to the 1950s for its final season, actually making the show loosely resemble the Archie comics it was loosely based on. Farewell, Riverdale. I will miss your brainless greatness.

#9 - THE GREAT BRITISH BAKING SHOW (Netflix) - I'm so bored of putting this show in my best-of every year, but it just keeps deserving it. In a world of division and turmoil, we at least have ONE show left to teach us what "reality" should be. It's always refreshing to witness a competition show where the winner gets little more than a plate and bragging rights, where contestants become friends who help and encourage one another, and the losing players get hugs and love from the judges instead of scolding and derision. It's the perfect antidote to the evening news.

#8 - SCOTT PILGRIM TAKES OFF (Netflix) - Edgar Wright's movie adaptation of the fantastic Scott Pilgram graphic novels was great, but this new animated series stays even truer to the aesthetic of the source material (while getting the entire cast from the 2010 movie to reprise their roles.) The result is infinitely watchable and a refreshing new dive into a world I've loved for years.

#7 - TED LASSO (Apple+) - The third season of Ted Lasso is admittedly a bit uneven. A show about a soccer team works best when it focuses on the team dynamic, and much of the show's presumably last season has its main characters separated from one another and leading their own storylines. Some of those storylines work and some falter. But despite its inconsistencies, Ted Lasso remains a show worthy of every ounce of its feel-good reputation and acclaim. Will there ever be a fourth season or a spin-off? Like Ted, I choose to believe.

#6 - MUPPETS MAYHEM (Disney+) - When I heard Disney was creating a show based around the Muppets' house band Doctor Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, I had my doubts. But the end result was a wonderful send-up of music documentaries and the rock lifestyle, complete with some amazing cameos, inside jokes for music nerds like me, and gut-busting laughs for kids and kids-at-heart alike.

#5 - SEX EDUCATION (Netflix) - My all-time favorite Netflix show had its swansong this year, and it didn't disappoint. I've always had a tough time describing this show, and I think that's what the show's creator Laurie Nunn was aiming for. Is it set in England or the U.S.? Is it set in the 80s or modern times? The show purposely blurs those lines to make it accessible to anyone of any generation or background. I read a review once that called it "wholesomely filthy," and that's spot on. It's a coming-of-age teen sex romp with a heart and earnestness that constantly runs the risk of overblown wokeness, yet still manages to be more fun and quirky than outright preachy.

#4 - SHRINKING (Apple+) - I didn't think Apple could make a comedy better than Ted Lasso, but it took the Lasso team to do it. Helmed by Ted Lasso creator Bill Lawrence, actor/comedian Brett Goldstein (Lasso's Roy Kent), and star Jason Segel, Shrinking stars Segel as a therapist coping with the grief of his wife's death by breaching conventional ethics with his patients and getting directly involved in their lives. It's a tour de force for Segel, and adding Harrison Ford as Segel's harrowed boss is the icing on the cake of this exceptional series with such potential.

#3 - POKER FACE (Peacock) - Critics were anticipating the premiere of this Peacock mystery series with bated breath, and the hype was every bit deserved. Poker Face is the brainchild of Knives Out director Rian Johnson, who wanted to craft a "murder-of-the-week" detective procedural in the vein of Columbo. But instead of the hero being a detective, it's Natasha Lyonne as Charlie Cale, a cocktail waitress who's on the run from the mob, keeps stumbling into murders, and has the uncanny ability to discern when people are lying. It's some of the smartest mystery writing you'll ever see, and if Lyonne doesn't win ALL the awards this season, the system's broken.

#2 - WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS (F/X) - It's very rare when a TV series based on a movie ends up better than the source material, but WWDitS somehow manages to be even funnier than the 2014 movie of the same name (which was pretty great on its own.) This stellar mockumentary about four dysfunctional vampires and their long-suffering human familiar just announced its farewell season next year, so jump on the bandwagon while there's still time and learn why it's earned 21 Emmy nominations in its short run.

#1 - EXTRAORDINARY (Hulu) - If this column serves ANY purpose, it's to beg you to jump on Hulu and check out this unheralded show that I stumbled into one fateful night and ended up binging the entire series in one sitting while laughing myself silly. The first solo project of creater Emma Moran (who wrote the script while in grad school,) Extraordinary takes place in a dystopian future where nearly everyone on Earth develops superpowers when they turn 18 -- except Jen, a 25-year-old jealous slacker underdog still waiting for her transformation. Jen lives with her roommate Carrie, a timid soul with the power to channel the dead, which they primarily use to summon and berate an indignant Hitler whenever they need a pick-me-up. It's a cynical, jaded, and hysterical look at the power of being powerless, and it's easily the best thing I've watched this year.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have, like, 273 other shows to watch. Except I'll probably just watch Extraordinary again - it's THAT good. Happy New Year, all.     

COLUMN: Best of 2023 - Music

Wait, what's that? You say our company's hired a full time entertainment writer with fairly stellar tastes who's already written a great piece about the best albums of the year? And it'd probably be a little redundant and confusing if I wrote one, too? Oh, but you also understand just how much of a crazy music nerd I am and how I'd probably go insane if I wasn't allowed to do my own year-end best-of list? Whew. Thank goodness we got that cleared up. Therefore, behold my favorite records of 2023:

#10 - Drop Nineteens - Hard Light - When I was in college, I was obsessed with the ethereal distortion and sonic maelstrom of the shoegaze music genre. Shoegaze was born in the UK, but there was ONE American band oft lumped into the original purveyors of the scene: Boston's Drop Nineteens, who blessedly reunited in 2023: a bit older, a bit more polite, but every bit as lovely. The most welcome return of the year.

#9 - Sufjan Stevens - Javelin - I don't wish ill upon Sufjan Stevens, but America's greatest singer-songwriter is oft at his best when inspired by tragedy. This year, Stevens sadly lost his long-time partner AND had to re-learn to walk after a lengthy hospitalization for Guillain-Barre Syndrome. Consequently, "Javelin" is one of the best and most emotional records he's ever made.

#8 - Post Malone - Austin - Not every record has to be a statement on the human condition that takes you on an emotional roller-coaster. Sometimes you can just sing about how sick your Lamborghini is and have it be every bit as satisfying. "Austin" is Post Malone playing by his own rules, genre-jumping with glee, and proving his chart-topping success hasn't just been a fluke. 

#7 - Carla J. Easton - Sugar Honey - Scotland's best-kept secret returns with another record of coarse bubblegum majesty, where layers of unpolished synthpop perfection hide songs of melancholy, defiance, and strength. If she lived in the Quad Cities, we'd either be friends or I'd be WAY too afraid to talk to anyone so awesome.

#6 - Sigur Ros - Atta - Iceland's leading purveyors of moody atmospherics hadn't released a proper album in a decade, and many thought the recent scandalous departure of their drummer would be the death knell for one of the world's most hauntingly beautiful bands. Instead, they soldiered on, replacing the drums with a 41-piece orchestra and a passion that doesn't need percussion. It's apparently about climate change, but all I hear is catharsis.

#5 - Emma Anderson - Pearlies - The seminal UK band Lush attempted a reunion in 2016 that fizzled after just one (brilliant) EP. But rather than chuck everything into the bin, co-leader Emma Anderson continued working on the new material she'd brought to the table, resulting in her first solo record. "Pearlies" doesn't exactly break new ground, but carries on Lush's legacy of shimmering austere dreampop, which has been much missed at my musical table.

#4 - Vagabon - Sorry I Haven't Called - Born in Cameroon but raised in New York, Laetitia Tamko has been something of a musical chameleon under his guise as Vagabon. Her first record was crunchy DIY indie rock, and its follow-up was a soupy R&B-laden mish-mash. On her new record, she's escaped the mire into a world of foggily charming electropop. When Tamko's fragile hooks rise above the clouds, it's magic.

#3 - Hotline TNT - Cartwheel - We've established that I love the fuzzy bliss of shoegaze, but too often, modern shoegaze bands focus more on the effects-laden production of their records and forget to write decent songs along the way. Not the case with New-York-by-way-of-Minneapolis noisemakers Hotline TNT, who often get lumped into the shoegaze genre but owe just as much of their sound to bands like Husker Du and early Teenage Fanclub. The result is a hybrid mix of shoegaze and powerpop that results in blissed-out sonic fury you can still sing along to in the shower. It's a triumph.

#2 - SUSTO - My Entire Life - I never thought a country-tinged South Carolina roots rock band would become one of my favorite groups of all time, but that's the power of SUSTO. An ever-changing vehicle to deliver the songwriting of frontman Justin Osborne, SUSTO won my snobbish tastes over in record time and I'm officially a fanboy. Specializing in psychedelic country rock with pop sensibilities, Osborne's refreshingly honest lyrics continue to charm and amaze. It's a pleasure listening to him grow up.   

#1 - RAYE - My 21st Century Blues - British singer RAYE (real name Rachel Keen) spent years locked in a fruitless record deal, unable to make the solo album she dreamt of while lending her vocals to multiple chart-topping dance hits from DJs like David Guetta and Joel Corry. Eventually, she put her record label on blast via Twitter, got booted from her contract, and retreated to the studio to finally craft her dream album. The result is a stunning tour-de-force of fiery rage, captivating storytelling, heartache, survival, and freedom. RAYE attended the same prestigious music school as Amy Winehouse and Adele, and it shows. Largely self-written and self-produced, its the sound of someone capturing their self-confidence and finding their own voice in real time. I hope it's everything she wanted it to be. It's certainly the best thing I've heard all year.

Next stop, 2024. Thanks for letting me nerd out a bit, gang. Go buy some records, they're good for your soul.  

COLUMN: Holiday Murder

If you were hoping your true love would give you two turtle doves on the second day of Christmas, I may have some bad news.

This morning started out like most, with my alarm going off at a criminally early hour and me groggily stumbling out of bed, powering up the Today show, and pouring myself a bowl of cereal. I was two bites into the Raisin Bran when my morning ritual was rudely interrupted.

BAM!

The noise was sudden, loud, and startling. It sounded like someone had just thrown a fastball at the side of my house. This was rapidly followed by an assortment of bumps and knocks that were most definitely coming from my front porch.

There was only one assumption to be made: Someone was trying, not especially quietly, to break into my house. In a sad testament to our modern times (and perhaps the neighborhood I call home,) my first conscious response was NOT "oh no, how shocking, appalling, and unexpected. Surely this can't be happening!" Instead, my only response was, "at 7 a.m.? Seriously?"

Immediately, I ran -- okay, let's be realistic, I briskly stumbled -- to my phone and started to dial 911. Before I hit the call button, though, I decided to pull up my outdoor security camera feed to catch a glimpse of my would-be intruder. I'm glad I did. This would've been a weird one to explain to the cops.

The loud bang I heard was NOT a gunshot or someone throwing rocks at my house. It was, in fact, a turtle dove from somewhere high above, freefalling headfirst onto my front porch. The assorted bumps that followed were from the Cooper's Hawk that had chosen my porch for an impromptu breakfast murder. What in the serious Wild Kingdom was happening?

I grew up in the country. Urban living has its assorted ups and downs, but I always assumed one of the biggest perks would be NOT having to routinely witness nature's circle of life playing out on one's front porch. But this morning, it played out in hi-definition 3D technicolor before my very eyes. What happened next was the kind of stuff they don't even dwell on in nature documentaries. The kind of stuff they blur out on true crime shows.  

I was hoping my new friend Harvey the Christmas Hawk would've at least had the decency to fly off somewhere private with his prey. Nope. Unfortunately, Harvey decided he was in the mood to dine-in instead of carry-out. I'd like to tell you I looked away, but I was transfixed. And it was REALLY unpleasant. Let's just say I now know why we deck our halls with boughs of holly instead of bloody entrails. It was markedly less than festive. It was NOT a beautiful sight. I was NOT happy tonight.

The only one even MORE transfixed than me by the unfolding real-time yuletide carnage was my cat. She, too, had heard the commotion and poked her head around the blinds to check out the scene. Her only comment was "k-k-k-k-k-k-k" in that weird creepy cat chatter they make when their instincts get the best of them. When I poked MY head around the blinds, I expected Harvey to fly off in a hurry. Instead, he stayed motionless, except his head spun around and gave me a look that CLEARLY said "you're next" before turning his attention back to the gruesome task at hand.

There was little I could do but gently put the blinds back in place and return to my own (considerably less visceral) breakfast while trying to ignore the fact that my security cameras were capturing a holiday snuff film mere feet away. 

Surely this was a sign, no? Hawks don't just show up on porches without it being some kind of omen, right? What ominous portents could a morning raptor be bringing me? My divination skills are rusty at best. If I had to venture a guess, I'd say that either (a) a pox is now destined to befall my poor family, (b) next year's harvest will be bountiful, or (c) thou wilst be cursed to eat some seriously soggy Raisin Bran this morning.

I was curious, so I looked it up later that day (and definitely NOT while at work because that would be a horrible waste of company resources.) I found a website called Mindbodygreen.com and their interview with psychic and astrologer Stina Garbis. According to Garbis, the spiritual meaning of a hawk with its prey supposedly represents abundance and "successful attainment. It means you'll always be able to care for yourself and your family."

So thanks, Harvey. Maybe this Christmas WILL be holly and jolly after all, even if someone's true love will be shy one turtle dove come this second day of Christmas. I figure it's okay, though, because if you add up all the gifts from all Twelve Days of Christmas, they're still ending up with 183 birds in all, which seems less of a gift and more like a crime by that point. If your true love shows up at your door with 184 birds in tow, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY RUN -- otherwise on the 13th day of Christmas, your true love might also give to you a visit from the police, the ASPCA, ICE, and whatever unfortunate government agency is tasked with overseeing lords a-leaping.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a murder scene on my porch that needs a holiday hosedown. Fa la la la la....  

COLUMN: RIBCO

This is a story about change. I hate change.

I must have been 22 or so, around the time I thought it would be best to put my newly-acquired college degree to use by... DJing at bars and working part time at a record store. My friend Michelle had recently opened Co-Op Records in the District of Rock Island and invited me to come work for her. It was one of my first weekends there, manning the counter during my first-ever summer District festival, when an imposing figure walked into the store.

I didn't know the guy at all, but it was clear the other employees did. He was loud, commanding, confident, and everything I wasn't. As a young and cocky music snob who clearly already had life 110% figured out, it was my duty to be unimpressed as this guy held court at the front counter, offering up his unfiltered opinions on everything from the store to the festival to Rock Island politics.

"Who was THAT know-it-all?" I sneered as he left.

"That," it was quickly explained to me, "was Terry Tilka. He owns RIBCO. And when it comes to Rock Island, he pretty much DOES know it all."

It would be a few years later when I got a surprising phone call from that same man. By then, I had left the record store and taken a job at the local newspaper -- you know, until I figured out what to do with my life (cough.) But then Terry called. A band had cancelled at RIBCO at the last minute, and he wondered if I might be available to spin a set in their absence. I hadn't DJed in years, but I was bored and broke, so I took the offer.

That night went well, and I ended up covering a couple more cancellations that summer. Eventually, it led to a permanent gig as RIBCO's resident DJ. When the bands would get done around 1 a.m., I'd jump on and spin records until closing time. One day, Terry pulled me aside, told me he'd bought the building next door and wondered if I might want to work there if he turned it into a dance club. That building became the nightspot known as 2nd Ave., and it was my home every Friday and Saturday night for the next decade.

It's been over a decade since the decade I worked there, but the news of these two legendary bars closing this month has hit me especially hard. Terry Tilka has decided to call it a career, and with it, perhaps the most storied party spots in all the Quad Cities. For Terry, a well-deserved retirement beckons, grandkids beckon, and I'm going to venture a guess that Florida beckons. A Quad Cities without RIBCO is tough to imagine, though.

Pretty much every local band I can think of owes a portion of their career to Terry and the RIBCO stage. I was fortunate enough to see HUNDREDS of great shows there over the years, from young locals taking their first steps outside the garage to storied pros coming to town for once-in-a-lifetime sets. From my catbird seat in the RIBCO balcony, I got to see blues greats like Junior Wells and Koko Taylor. I saw bands like the Wallflowers and Barenaked Ladies before they became some of the biggest bands in the world. I saw the disco fury of The Travoltas so many times that I had their setlist memorized. I once saw Mike Mills from R.E.M. play to a crowd of about two dozen people with his supergroup, The Baseball Project. Time and again, I got to witness musical magic.

There's two ways the bar business often goes. Either you do it wrong and you're closed within a year or two, or you do it right and you get to leave on your own terms. Terry did it right. He treated artists with fairness and respect. He always had the proper permits. He always paid the taxman. If you were fortunate enough to earn a free beverage from Terry Tilka, you'd also have to sit there and watch as he pulled three bucks out of his wallet to pay his own register. 

Was Terry the easiest guy to work for? Absolutely not. If you didn't pull your weight, he'd let you know. If you did something stupid, he'd let you know. Being a RIBCO staffer, you learned right away that working at a bar wasn't all fun, it was WORK -- and the work was making sure everyone had fun. If you left work NOT feeling like you just ran a marathon, you did something wrong -- even if you're just the guy making a side hustle standing in a box playing records all night.

God, I'll miss that place. The weird slanted floor. The allure of a fresh burger basket. Leaning on the side rail of the stage where true music geeks could stand inches away from their musical heroes. That peculiar smell of wood polish and stale beer that was intrinsically RIBCO. 

But what I'll take with me forever from those glory days are the memories of the people I was privileged to call my friends. Bartenders like Bailey, Paulie, Ryan, Keppy, Tommy T, and the master, Janos Horvath. The cackling laugh of Amanda Baker Wright. The late night fishing trip tales of Tommy McGivern. The best sound engineers to walk the earth: Mark Burrage, Lonny Benge, Mouse, Mike Gentry, and the late great Al Dimeo. Dozens of door guys and security staffers. All brought together under the watchful eye of one Terry Tilka: boss, ringleader, mentor, and if I'm bold enough, friend.

Me? My favorite RIBCO memory belongs to me and me only -- a ritual I don't think anyone ever noticed. Whenever the Travoltas would play an outdoor show in the District plaza, I'd arrive just early enough to wander out to the back patio at 2nd Ave., where I'd often sit by myself for a few minutes, staring up at the WHBF tower rising over the Rock Island skyline like a giant Tinkertoy, feeling the swell of adrenaline slowly build, knowing that in three or four songs, a throng of humanity would file into the club, where me and two turntables would soon commence battle to keep their business for the rest of the night. I don't know if I've ever felt more alive in my life.

Here's to you, Terry T. Thanks for taking the Quad Cities on a mad, musical voyage, and thanks for letting me tag along for part of that ride. Here's hoping someone buys those buildings and carries on the legacy you've carved out. And if that someone ever has a band cancel on them at the last minute, hopefully they know how to reach me.     

COLUMN: Genie

It only took 50-some-odd years, but I might be turning into my father.

There are some who would say that's a good thing. My dad is, after all, a superhero. He built the house I grew up in. I can barely build a sandwich. When I bought my house, Dad single-handedly finished my basement for me. About the only thing I'm capable of finishing is a box of donuts, and now I have a team of doctors preventing me from even doing that.

I lucked out in the dad lottery. I'm sure everybody thinks their dad is the best dad of all time. You're all wrong. If you don't believe me, feel free to challenge my dad to a no-holds-barred cage match. Unfortunately, my father won't be able to attend because he'll be too busy pointing out the structural deficiencies in the cage and volunteering to design a new one. And yes, it will likely be hand-carved and made of wood.

But there's one thing my dad can't do. For as long as I can remember, my dad can't sit through a comedy on TV. Dad's favorite entertainment is usually any movie involving guns, wars, spies, tanks, and/or explosions. This contrasts greatly with my mom, who brought me up on a steady diet of romantic comedies and sitcom silliness. When dad had the helm, he would want to watch an entire movie about some Bridge over the River Kwai. When mom controlled the TV, the Love Boat soon would be making another run. And since the only OTHER thing my dad can't seem to do is operate a remote control, mom usually won those battles.

When a silly comedy comes on TV, you can actually witness my dad getting flustered in real time. If a hapless character gets embarassed on-screen, dad gets embarassed, too. If the romantic hero gets put in an awkward situation, my dad starts to fidget. I'm pretty sure he's incapable of suspending disbelief long enough to laugh at anything silly or ridiculous. Invariably, he will stand up, say something like, "I can't watch this nonsense," and leave the room, often to bury himself in a book of wholesome family entertainment wherein some loose cannon on a lone search for justice single-handedly lays waste to an international terrorist organization. You know, believable stuff.

I'm Team Dad all the way, but my taste in pop culture has always been more in line with my mom's. I love silly romantic comedies and bad sitcoms. I'm the weirdo who secretly watches Hallmark Christmas movies every year, no matter how groan-worthy they are. But the older I get, the more my brain is getting incapable of suspending disbelief. I think I might be slowly turning into my dad.

This year, there was one new holiday movie I was eagerly awaiting: "Genie." After all, how could you possibly lose when you put comic powerhouse Melissa McCarthy into a movie written by Richard Curtis, the genius behind such classics as "Four Weddings and a Funeral," "Notting Hill," "Bridget Jones' Diary," and the perennial Christmas favorite, "Love Actually"?

Spoiler: It's possible. "Genie" does NOT capture magic in a bottle.

The plotline is simple enough: Bernard is a hard-working antiquities expert whose life is falling apart. When his evil boss forces him to work late and miss his daughter's birthday, his wife leaves him. The next day, he loses his job. Despondent, Bernard absent-mindedly opens an ancient box he'd brought home from work and unleashes Flora, a 2000-year-old genie (played with the usual gusto by McCarthy) who grants Bernard endless wishes.   

Comedy gold, right? From here, the movie could practically write itself. Obviously, Bernard's going to get his family back in the end and holiday merriment will prevail. Along the way, Bernard's probably going to learn a lesson about materialism and discover that money and power can't buy happiness, yada yada yada. But the movie falls apart quickly.

For one, Flora's just spent 2000 years in a box. We get a glimpse of her early days as some kind of feral warrior before a sorceror condemns her to the genie life. Yet when she pops out the box, she speaks perfect English. I was okay with that, because, hey, genie magic, I guess. But she ALSO somehow knows American slang and colloquialisms, which is just silly. Also, she's been in a box for 2000 years with no exposure to modern society. New York City should terrify her. Heck, electric lighting alone should terrify her. Instead, all we get is a tired joke where she doesn't know what hand sanitizer is and tries to eat it.

At one point, Bernard wishes for a pizza from his favorite eatery and it magically appears, despite a multitude of jokes about Flora not knowing what pizza is. You shouldn't be able to have it both ways. Either you're omniscient and come out of the bottle knowing everything about everything, or you should be woefully clueless about everything and screw it all up. This is Genie 101 stuff, people.

It reminds me, in a not-great way, of the only movie I have ever fallen asleep in a theater to: the horrible Will Ferrell/Nicole Kidman remake of "Bewitched," a rare mis-step from the late, legendary Nora Ephron. There's a scene in the beginning of that movie where Kidman's witchy Samantha character first arrives in Los Angeles. She drives around and spots her dream house. She then twitches her nose, and thanks to her witchy powers, a "For Sale" sign appears in the yard and a realtor magically walks out of nowhere and sells her the house.

I love silly comedies. I love laughing. But to this day, I haven't been able to shake the thought: WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FAMILY THAT LIVED IN THAT HOUSE? Did the heroine of the story just snuff innocent people out of existence with a twitch of her nose? Using your witch powers to clean your house or fly through the air is one thing, but she just bent the fabric of time and space, potentially committed multiple homicides, and forever altered history. And where did the realtor come from? Is it a demon from hell? Otherwise, you just zapped a realtor into some weird new existence, added a new listing to the national MLS database, and reprogrammed the realtor's brain to not question where she was or what she was doing. That's one heck of a nose twitch.

For all I know, "Genie" might NOT have a happy ending. Maybe Bernard never gets his wife and/or life back. I'll never know. I switched the TV off halfway while muttering, "I can't watch this nonsense." That's when I realized I might have more in common with my old man than I ever thought.

I still can't build a house, though. But I might be able to tell you when a movie's bad and you should skip it.

COLUMN: Festival of Trees Silent Disco

Welp. It's officially the holidays, I guess. Fa la la.

Once upon a time, I bet "the holidays" referred strictly to Christmas and New Year's. Thanks to the gods of retail, "the holidays" now incorporate Thanksgiving, Halloween, and pretty much any date that falls between October 15th and January 2nd. I'm surprised by this point we haven't just rolled Valentine's Day into the mix. January 21st is National Squirrel Appreciation Day, and I bet if you gave greeting card companies enough time, they'd figure out a way to monetize it.

As for me? I am not feeling it yet. 

I normally love "the holidays," and honestly, who doesn't? If there's an opportunity -- even if it's just an arbitrary day on a calendar -- to feel some warm fuzzies, take the day off work, and get together with friends and family, what's not to like? I mean, other than crass consumerism, forced interaction with toxic family members, overindulgence, pointless arguments over whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas movie, and hearing that terrible "Santa Baby" song on the radio eleventy-kajillion times. But I mean, other than all that, it's kind of an alright time to stroll the Earth, no?

But THIS year? I've yet to find that holiday vibe. In fact, as I type this, I'm still stubbornly wearing a short-sleeved shirt, refusing to accept the fact that Old Man Winter has already started his annual commute to our neck of the woods. I don't only want an extension of fall, I'd be up for a complete re-do of summer, please. My brain still wants outdoor fun, country drives with the windows down, and a sun that doesn't set at an eyeblink past noon. 

Despite my stubbornness, though, the holiday season marches on. I'm trying to figure out exactly what I need to do to get into that mindset.  

As much as I hate to admit it, one thing that might shift me into holiday mode would be a good old-fashioned snowfall. There's no denying winter is coming when you wake up to a blanket of freshly-fallen snow. When I was a kid, I used to beg the heavens to open up and blizzard away at full force. I remember my dad getting stressed out about plowing the drive, and I was so confused as to why anyone could possibly dislike snow. It's the closest you could ever get to toys literally falling out of sky.

Then I got older. I got a driver's license. I bought a house with a sidewalk I'm suddenly responsible for. I broke my foot on a patch of ice. I get it now -- snow sucks. It makes a mess everywhere, it takes work and effort to shovel and plow, it's treacherous, and it adds extra time to the morning commute when my brain is powered by little more than caffeine and hope. My days of praying for snow are over. Still, there's nothing like a coating of slushy ick to put the final nail in summer stubbornness and force me to move those short-sleeved shirts to the back of the closet. 

In my continuing efforts to find some Yuletide glee, I tried watching a made-for-TV Christmas romance the other night. If television has taught me one thing, it's that if you're a holiday humbug, all you need to do is get stranded by a snowstorm in a small mountain town where the woman of your dreams (who is usually a former cast member of Full House or Party of Five) and her precocious son and/or daughter will force you to discover holiday magic while you save her hotel and/or Christmas tree farm from an evil corporation (that you probably work for.)

These days, though, I find I have the attention span of your average eight-year-old. The guy in the movie had barely gotten stranded and I was already picking up my phone to watch some inane TikTok video instead. After rewinding the same scene four times to try and focus on the Christmas magic unfolding before me, I finally just gave up and turned the movie off. I'm pretty sure I know how it ends. Someday I want a Hallmark romance with an ending where the guy doesn't get the girl, the hotel gets foreclosed on, and a card before the credits comes up and just says, "Can't win 'em all, I guess. Sad holidays!"  

All that said, I do have one last trick up my sleeve and a hail-mary effort to officially get in holiday spirit. It involves a certain Festival of Trees you all might be familiar with. You might NOT, however, be familiar with what happens this Saturday night at the River Center. The Festival of Trees shuts down at 7 p.m., but then re-opens at 8 p.m. for the after-hours Festival of Trees Silent Disco. Every attendee gets a pair of headphones, and you can select from one of three DJs throwing down beats onstage. I'll be one of those DJs.

It's my favorite gig of the year, and its the only opportunity where you can dance around the Festival of Trees expo hall without people thinking you're a bit weird. If nothing else, show up just to hear people singing horribly off-key in an otherwise silent room. It is yuletide comedy gold, trust me. Tickets are still available on the Festival of Trees website and also come with a free general admission pass to the daytime festival if you're so inclined. 

Normally, I'd apologize for shamelessly turning my column into a plug for a DJ gig, but if we're living in a world where stores have their Christmas displays out the day after Halloween and radio stations are already belting Christmas songs weeks before Thanksgiving, I figure I'm just a tiny cog in the holiday money machine. And with your help, this gig might be EXACTLY what I need to find that elusive holiday spirit. Bonus points if you're the woman of my dreams. But I'm not saving your Christmas tree farm. I've got, like, stuff to do, sorry.

COLUMN: Catnapper

So let's get the sad news out of the way first.

Last month, I had to say goodbye to Isobel, my feline houseguest and roommate of the past 18 years. She was the nicest, most loving, doofiest cat I've ever been around, and her loss has left a cat-sized hole in my already addled heart. I lost her twin sister about a year ago, so my house is the quietest it's been since, well, ever.

This leaves me with just one roomie, the feral neighborhood cat who just strolled through my back door a few years ago and looked at me like, "oh hi, I live here now. Food, please." Bereft of ideas for a name, I went to a website that uses cutting edge AI technology to generate random cat names, and this is how I came to have a cat named Meatbag. She never got along well with the twins, and honestly seems pretty happy to have the run of the house.

From an owner's perspective, having just one cat is MUCH easier as well. The litterboxes have ceased to be daily biohazards and I'm no longer buying more cat food than people food at the store. Still, the house has been mighty empty and sad this past month.

Which is why I've been a little over-excited this week to spot a couple tiny new neighborhood strays cavorting around my alley and backyard. My initial thought was, of course, "KITTIES! LET ME GRAB YOU AND SQUISH YOU AND LOVE YOU AND YOU WILL BE MINE FOREVER AND EVER." But I'm also a realist. The newer, mellower Shane might be better off sticking to a maximum capacity of one pet. And I have a feeling the Meatbag might also prefer the solo lifestyle. If I did take these new alley-dwellers in, I'd be in store for a lecture or two from some of the more irritatingly responsible people in my life (hi, Mom.) 

Plus, for all I know, these cats might very well already have happy homes, and I'm in no hurry to add "catnapper" to my resume in any other context than sleeping. I'm no thief. Before I took in the Meatbag, I put a collar on her with a note that said, "Is this your cat? Because she strolls into my house every day and I'm taking her in if nobody claims her." And when I did take her in a week later, I had her scanned for a microchip and I put posters and flyers around my neighborhood to make sure I wasn't stealing someone else's pet.

I should probably be responsible and NOT abduct any more alley strays. But these cats look awfully skinny and needy (AND ADORABLE), so maybe they're hoping for an open door and kind heart, who's to say? I'm not going to go out of my way to lure strange cats inside the house, buuuuut, I mean, if I were to say, leave a little bit of food on the steps in the name of charity, and if they were to eat said food and then perhaps decide to saunter inside to say hello, who am I to stand in the way of cat/human relations?  

So I left some cat treats on the back steps a couple nights ago to see what would happen. And wouldn't you know it, when I walked out to work yesterday morning, all the cat treats were gone. Perhaps I've made new friends, I thought to myself with a mild skip in my step.

Then I got home that night and rewound the security cameras to see if my feline friends enjoyed their dinner. They did not.

Instead, I watched in fast forward as for hours, the army of squirrels that reside in my neighbor's walnut tree conducted a well-choreographed stealth night raid of my back steps. Long story short, there's likely now a hidey hole somewhere in that walnut tree chock full of cat treats.

Once upon a time, I used to like squirrels. I thought they were cute and fluffy. Then I moved into a house with a walnut tree overhanging my back yard, and quickly learned that squirrels aren't cute and fluffy at all. They're mean and fluffy. Every year, a pack of them harvest that tree until every single nut is decimated. With a ballet of skillful precision, they climb onto my house, roll the walnuts off the roof and onto the sidewalk below, and use my back steps as their own personal nutcracker. I come home nightly to a blanket of walnut debris covering my walk. And no matter how hard I try, I always manage to track that detritus into the house where it tries its best to stain my carpet and I find myself on my hands and knees with a bottle of Resolve.

I wouldn't even mind any of that if the squirrels were nice, but they're not. They're mean little buggers who scowl at me when I interrupt their harvest. They climb to eye level, stare at me with their beady little eyes, and angrily go, "Thpf! Thpf!" They purposely try to drop walnuts on my noggin. Hand to God, one morning a squirrel climbed the tree for the express purpose of peeing on my head. While it WAS one of the Top 5 most interesting reasons I've had for calling in late to work, it wasn't exactly my favorite morning.

So instead of luring any cats to their doom -- I mean, their future loving home -- I instead contributed to the ongoing epidemic of squirrel obesity plaguing our fragile world. Live and learn, I guess. As for the cats, I'm guessing they ARE feral, because they aren't exactly keen on humans and run away at the slightest glance. For the time being, I think I'd better stick to one indoor pet and a couple dozen mean and fluffy outdoor ones.

COLUMN: Einstein's Pink Frosted Sister

It was definitely my own fault. I did it to myself. I was the one who uttered those two cursed words a couple weekends ago:

"I'm boooooored."

I announced this, without even thinking twice, to an audience of precisely one person -- and that person was actually a cat. She didn't seem nearly as concerned as I was.

When I went to college at Augustana, the majority of the student body (and hence the majority of my friends) came from the greater Chicagoland area. With few exceptions, most of my big city friends loved the college but hated the Quad Cities. Hearing them talk, it was as if their parents were punishing them by sending them to the outer reaches of civilization for their education. "There's nothing to do here!" was a refrain I'd hear often.

I don't come from Chicago. I grew up in Galesburg. I didn't have the heart to tell my friends that when the cool kids from MY town talked about going to "the big city" for the weekend, they meant HERE. I've always been of the opinion that the Quad Cities has perfectly enough to do. Chicago is a fun place to visit, don't get me wrong -- but there's something to be said for eight-minute commutes, river views, and the comforting knowledge that I could be escaping down a dusty country road towards the middle of nowhere by the time this song on the car radio ends.

But for a few fleeting moments that weekend, I felt like my whiny Chicago friends of yore. I was bored, and there was nothing going on. My close friends were all busy. I spent a good portion of that weekend sighing, pouting, and having an exceptionally pathetic pity party for a table of one. At one especially depressed point, I put on my shoes, resolute in my efforts to find entertainment. I drove my car about 3 blocks before giving up and returning to the house, muttering "there's nothing to do!" This time, I didn't even have my cat's attention. I was just whining to the open air.

I'm happy to say I made up for it this past weekend.

It's official: anyone who says "there's nothing to do here" is an idiot. Or at least doesn't check the calendar of events.

Last Friday night, I found myself at Davenport's Raccoon Motel, first in line to check out the rock stylings of Chicago shoegazers Airiel. I'm a big fan of the high-volume, laid-back bliss of the shoegaze subgenre, so I was prepared for the sonic onslaught. What I was NOT prepared, for, however, was the opening act. They were called Pink Frost, and they were angry. Or at least discontent. Something in their lives, or perhaps the lives of others, was clearly not going well, and they had things to say about it. Or occasionally scream about it.

It was amazing. This band came out with such an intensity that I was moderately concerned about the structural integrity of the building and/or my future ability to hear anything ever again. Wear your earplugs, kids - that's my PSA. But if you're ever going to be driven mad and deaf by a band, this would've been a solid choice. 

"Wow," a friend of mine said after a couple songs. "What do you think?"

"I WANT TO START A REVOLUTION," I replied. "I'm not sure what or whom we should be revolting against, but this noise is clearly a call to action." They were great. Airiel were great. Everybody was super nice. I felt 20 years younger. It was a rock and roll lovefest.

The next night, I was back in action, this time at Common Chord's Redstone Room for the long-awaiting reunion gig of local powerpop heroes Einstein's Sister. This was a show that was a little more my speed. Einstein's Sister have been doing their thing since I was a freshly-graduated idiot turned loose upon the world, and grey was the predominant hair color of the evening.

They're some of the best musicians in town. Their fans are some of the best people in town. It was a veritable who's who of experienced local music nerds, and there were more friends than strangers in the audience that night. It was less a concert and more a big party of friends, except that it was still VERY MUCH an amazing concert, too. Unannounced guests like local legends Manny Lopez and Nervous Neal Smith joined the band onstage, and the setlist leaned heavily on Einstein's classics alongside tracks from their newly released EP, "Exit Strategies." 

The set ran blessedly long and culminated in a lovingly shambolic, half-improvised cover of "Gimme Shelter" that saw almost a dozen musicians take to the stage. There's videos of it floating around online - try to find and watch it while reveling in the fact that we're lucky enough to co-exist in the same metropolitan area as these class acts.

It was a stellar weekend for music, friends, and fun. And after the year I've had, I no longer take nights like these for granted. I'm glad I live in the Quad Cities. I'm seldom bored. I'm grateful for my friends and the great venues we have in this area to get together and celebrate. And this week? I'm also awfully grateful for my couch. That's where you'll find me for the next few days. I could certainly go for a nice, boring weekend right about now.