COLUMN: Best of 2018 - TV

In true nerd fashion, the end of my year is always spent making lists and arguing with friends over the best pop culture moments of the past twelve months. Last week, it was tough to even find ten albums worth mentioning. This week, I'm listing my picks for the best TV shows of the year. This, it turns out, was equally as hard, but only because SO MUCH great television came out in 2018 that it's near impossible to narrow the list down to ten. Here goes nothing.

#10 - Big Mouth (Netflix) - This crass animated adult series from Netflix follows the changing bodies and adolescent woes of a pubescent pack of middle-schoolers, and it's one of the funniest things you'll ever see. With voice talent from Nick Kroll, John Mulaney, Maya Rudolph, and some of the biggest names in comedy, "Big Mouth" throws SO many rapid-fire jokes at you that it's probably unhealthy to binge more than an episode or two in a row. 

#9 - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (The CW) - Cheers to the CW for keeping this low-rated, critically-acclaimed musical comedy afloat for four seasons. As we approach the series' final episodes, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend isn't pulling ANY punches. Envelope-pushing, rule-breaking humor still runs amok, but the show's heart and emotional sincerity still shines through. The only crime is that Rachel Bloom hasn't won an Emmy for being the most awesome person on TV.

#8 - Survivor: David vs. Goliath (CBS) - Survivor was a fun show that ushered in the age of reality TV -- for about two seasons until we all got super sick of it. Now astonishly on its 37th season, the show somehow managed to assemble its best group of castaways in years. Backstabbing, scheming, and blindsides were EVERYWHERE this year, and the result was arguably the show's most entertaining season to date. Was it skilled casting or just dumb luck? Who knows, but it sure was a fun ride.

#7 - Everything Sucks! (Netflix) - The only thing that really sucks is that Netflix gave up and cancelled this fantastic coming-of-age series after just one season of awkward adolescence and unlimited charm. It now joins "Freaks and Geeks," "Firefly," and "My So-Called Life" in the annals of shows pulled WAY too early.

#6 - Life In Pieces (CBS) - The most consistently funny sitcom on television still hasn't found the wide audience it deserves, but thankfully CBS hasn't given up on it. Despite starting as an obvious clone of ABC's "Modern Family," "Life in Pieces" quickly surpassed it in quality, originality, and laughs. Thomas Sadoski and Zoe Lister-Jones are the funniest actors you don't know by name, trust me. The new season starts soon, don't miss out on this fragile gem.

#5 - Riverdale (The CW) - You either love "Riverdale" or you hate it. I'm all in, as the show loosely based on the Archie comics takes campy melodrama to the next level. Don't believe me? This season, Archie's in a prison fight club after being wrongfully convicted of murder. Betty's being given psychotropic drugs by an order of evil nuns. Veronica's opened a casino speakeasy in the basement of Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe, and Jughead's busy running the local biker gang. All this while the town falls prey to an evil knock-off of Dungeons & Dragons that twists the minds of those who play. The Riverdale writer's room must be amazing.

#4 - Barry (HBO) - It was a sad day when the amazingly talented Bill Hader left "Saturday Night Live," but it was worth it for his star turn in "Barry," a show that single-handedly reinstilled my faith in the struggling HBO. Hader plays the title role, a hitman who follows one of his marks into an acting class and discovers his love for theater. It sounds like an SNL bit, but with smart writing, unique characters, and nonstop existential crises, "Barry" is a darkly comedic treat.

#3 - The Haunting of Hill House (Netflix) - Finally, a spooky TV series that hits the right marks. Shirley Jackson's 1959 novel has been adapted umpteen times, but this one sets aside most of the jump-n-scare moments in favor of an unsettling character study of a family trapped by grief... and ghosts. It's compelling, creepy, and occasionally terrifying -- and the scariest part is when you realize you've wasted an entire day binge-watching the whole season at once.

#2 - The Good Place (NBC) - In this amazing era of ground-breaking, risk-taking, go-for-broke television, I never thought the most daring and unconventional show would be found on primetime NBC. Following the antics of four recently deceased strangers trying to earn access to heaven, "The Good Place" is a Philosophy 101 class reborn as a sitcom. You'll laugh 'til you're sick -- but you'll do it while learning about Immanuel Kant. If my old philosophy instructor had been half this funny, I might have remembered something from his class.

#1 - The Flash (The CW) - These days, all you have to do is stick a superhero into a movie to make a billion dollars at the box office. TV execs aren't dumb, and they've been trying every which way to cash in on the craze. Some (like the Marvel shows on Netflix) end up too dark and gloomy for a wide audience. Others (like the CW's Supergirl) feel like afterschool-special morality plays draped in a cape. But "The Flash" gets the recipe just right. It's funny without being hammy, dramatic without being dour. Its heroes face devastating challenges with courage and heart, and good always prevails over evil. Great TV shows don't always have to be works of art. Sometimes they just have to be the ones you look most forward to watching every week. If you're missing "The Flash," you're missing the most entertaining show on TV, period.

And that's a wrap on 2018, folks! Forget those old acquaintances, bust out the noisemakers, have a wonderful New Year, and if I can pry myself away from the TV, I'll see you in 2019.
 

COLUMN: Best of 2018 - Music

Let's just admit it: 2018 was a lousy year for music. Many of our best artists were in-between records, while others put out career-defining letdowns. This year's charts were ruled by mumble-rappers, one-hit wonders, and watered-down commercial pop/rock. The indie scene was chock full of bands pushing musical boundaries but forgetting they still need to write some decent tunes along the way. Yet despite my disappointment, a handful of artists managed to release some truly incredible music this year. Here are my picks for the ten must-hear albums of 2018:

#10 - Carla J Easton - Impossible Stuff - Some songwriters suffer from an innate likability, and that's always worked to the advantage of troubadour Carla Easton. Whether on her own or with her band Teen Canteen, Easton's always had a knack for turning heartbreak and doubt into contagious singalongs. This record, the first released under her own name, is an indiepop fan's dream menu of killer hooks, exuberant confidence, and a proud Scottish brogue.

 

#9 - Post Malone - Beerbongs and Bentleys - If I'm being 100% honest with myself, this has to make my list. Music critics are supposed to hate Post Malone, as he really IS the living embodiment of homogenized mass appeal pop music. I fully understand all the reasons I'm supposed to despise him, but his stupid songs are just too catchy to write off. Once I figure out how to stop playing this record in my car, I'll try really hard to hate it, promise.

#8 - Juliana Hatfield - Juliana Hatfield Sings Olivia Newton-John - Who'd have thunk that one of indie rock's most beguiling chanteuses owes it all to a pop icon? When word got out that Hatfield was recording an album of Olivia Newton-John covers, I expected it to be a tongue-in-cheek wink to 1970s cheesiness. Surprisingly, it ended up a heartfelt tribute to a long-admired hero and breathes new life into some forgotten old school gems.



#7 - Brockhampton - Iridescence - If Brockhampton keep this up, they might actually become the "world's best boyband" they've always claimed to be. A loose collective of rappers, singers, and producers who met on a Kanye West fansite and moved to L.A. with little money and big dreams, Brockhampton's DIY approach to recording and performing has made them one of hip-hop's most exciting and versatile new acts. Even after losing a key member to allegations of sexual misconduct, they still managed to put out a cohesive, fun, emotional record that breaks boundaries and gives hope to every bedroom rapper alive.




#6 - Schizo Fun Addict - El Shoegaze Bossa Nova - Leo D'Onofrio has made a career out of being an internet provocateur. Over the years, he's been a mouthpiece for the birther movement, claimed the moon landings were hoaxed, and even wrote an online opus asserting that the lyrics of The Stone Roses herald the return of the Messiah. But when he's not busy pushing people's buttons, he makes music. GOOD music. His latest project is a fascinating and purposeful melange of tropical rhythms and hazy guitars, like if Pink Floyd got trapped in a studio but all they had for drums were the pre-programmed Latin loops of a cheap Casio keyboard. It's odd as heck, but it REALLY works. 



#5 - Robyn - Honey - It's been a long time since Swedish teen-pop starlet Robyn reinvented herself as the reigning queen of electropop. For her first album in 4 years, she's veered away from brash beats in favor of a warmer, more minimal groove. This lets the songs shine bright, as she chronologically walks us (nay, DANCES us) through the recent split and eventual reconciliation with her fiance. It's a song cycle for the ages AND the dancefloor. There's no bigger force in pop music right now.



#4 - Father John Misty - God's Favorite Customer - It annoys me how much I love this record. Singer/songwriter Josh Tillman's self-importance often climbs from big to bigger to Kanye on the ego scale, and his records are often self-absorbed odes to himself. But they're also genius. No one writes about Josh Tillman like Josh Tillman can, and his confessionals pour out like James Taylor, Elton John, and Billy Joel in a blender of magic and wit. If I was at a party and Tillman walked in, I'd probably leave. But then I'd probably listen to his record all the way home.



#3 - The 1975 - A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships - It's easy to dismiss The 1975. On the surface, they're pretty much the British version of Maroon 5 -- faceless dorky musicians with a pretty-boy frontman who make easy-on-the-ears suburban soul music that your mom would probably enjoy. But hiding behind that pop sheen is nothing less than a modern treatise on technology and the human condition, heartache and longing, addiction and recovery. It's more Radiohead than Maroon 5, just with fewer guitar squawks and evil robot voices. It's the smartest pop record you'll hear all year.



#2 - Janelle Monae - Dirty Computer - No one may ever be worthy enough to climb the stairs and sit on the funky throne that Prince built, but Janelle Monae sure comes close. It's rumored that the Purple One had an uncredited hand in Dirty Computer before his untimely death, and it wouldn't surprise me. With guests ranging from Grimes and Pharrell to Stevie Wonder and Beach Boy Brian Wilson, Monae has created a funk symphony of tolerance, empowerment, pride, acceptance, and love. The world could use more records like this.


#1 - Let's Eat Grandma - I'm All Ears - Two years ago, teenage best friends Jenny Hollingsworth and Rosa Walton stepped out of their bedrooms with a homemade record that took all the trappings of pop music and shook it up like a psychedelic snow globe. Two years later, they've returned with a more professional follow-up that's more polished but no less inhibited. Listening is akin to peering into a secret world of in-jokes and knowing glances - if the girls from "Beautiful Creatures" made music, it would sound like this. Leaping from somber psyche sludge to purified pop at a breakneck schizophrenic pace, the duo capture exactly what it's like to be a teen: Everything is amazing, little things are big deals, and no one wants to follow the rules. For the second time, Let's Eat Grandma have earned my Album of the Year accolade -- and they're STILL teenagers. Let's hope it never stops.

If you give ANY of these records a quick spin, my job is done. NEXT WEEK: A look at the year's best TV offerings.

COLUMN: 12 Days

Last week, I had the pleasure of attending "Seasons of Light," Augustana's annual Christmas program presented at the John Deere Planetarium. The multimedia show used the planetarium's projector, astronomical images, music and narration to explain how holiday traditions are connected to the sky. It was a short but charming presentation, and I even managed to learn a thing or two.

Primarily, I learned that I want a planetarium. There's nothing I love more than stargazing, but whenever I get the itch, it's either overcast or I'm somewhere rife with light pollution. If I can't see the real universe, why not build a fake one in my spare bedroom? Anyone have a how-to guide?

I also learned that some constellations are just silly. "See that dim star right there?" (No? Maybe?) "Connect it to those other dim stars over there, and... it's a unicorn!" Umm... no. It's vague dots in the (fake) sky that I could barely see. I look more like a unicorn than those dots did. I'm starting to think whoever invented some of these constellations was a bored stoner who showed up at the planetarium on the wrong night for laser Pink Floyd.

But I also learned a cool thing or two about our holiday traditions.

As you're probably aware, the Bible never tells us the actual date of Jesus' birth. At some point, early Christians just settled on December 25th as the day of celebration. This was likely due to its proximity to the winter solstice, a period of rebirth already celebrated by ancient people whenever the magic heat circle in the sky stops heading south for the winter.

But as it turns out, December 25th wasn't a unanimous choice. Some Eastern sects preferred to celebrate Christmas Day in early January instead. The compromise between the differing dates became what we know today as the twelve days of Christmas -- a nearly two week celebration extending from Christmas Day to the western ecclesiastical Feast of Epiphany.

This was news to me, because I had always assumed that the "12 Days of Christmas" began twelve days PRIOR to Christmas, culminating on Christmas Day. But no, it BEGINS on Christmas and extends for 12 days after. This means the actual "twelfth day of Christmas" would be the fifth of January -- otherwise known as MY BIRTHDAY. On the twelfth day of Christmas, your true love brought to you: ME! Ta-da!

I can't help but feel a little ripped off here. I've gotten some amazing, thoughtful, and heartfelt birthday gifts over the years. But here I am, the living embodiment of the twelfth day of Christmas, and I have yet to receive even one drummer drumming. I'm about to turn 48. The way I see it, somebody owes me 576 drum solos.

Or maybe not, because "The 12 Days of Christmas" is the weirdest of all Christmas tunes.

"Honey, as you know, you are my true love and I yours. And as an expression of our timeless and eternal romance, I give unto you... a bird. In a tree."
"Umm... thanks, but..."
"BUT WAIT! To prove my unending infatuation, tomorrow I shall give you two more birds! And the day after? THREE more birds!"
"What the..."
"Ah, but the day after THAT? To celebrate our true love, I shall give you -- yes, you guessed it -- four more birds, but THESE birds will be EXTRA NOISY!"
"I don't think..."
"Then, on Day 5, you shall receive FIVE GOLDEN RINGS!"
"Okay, wait, now we're talking."
"Yes, five golden rings... which you should wear as protection a couple days later when I give you seven aggressively mean birds!"
"Stop it. Just stop it."
"But that's only after Day 6, when I shall give you six birds laying eggs to make ADDITIONAL birds!"
"So the best way to express your love for me is with 23+ birds?"
"Oh, that's just the start. On the next day, I shall present you with... eight maids a-milking!"
"A-milking WHAT, exactly?"
"Well... I suppose that's yet to be determined. I kind of ran out of ideas after all the birds. The next 4 days, I'm just going to fill the house with a bunch of strangers who are gonna dance and leap around to a wicked flute-and-drum jam session."
"Roger, we need to talk."

And if you take the song literally, it's even crazier. On the first day, you get a partridge in a pear tree. But on the second day, it's two turtle doves AND a partridge in a pear tree. Does that mean by day twelve, the true love ends up with a literal partridge family, not to mention 42 ill-tempered swans, 30 leaping lords, and forty maids a-milking everything in sight? At some point, you have to start worrying about the structural integrity of their home.

If you math out the entire song, that would make 364 total gifts, a present for every single day of the year, save one. I can only presume that on the 365th day of Christmas, some unfortunate soul's true love would give to them a visit by the ASPCA and perhaps Homeland Security and quite possibly a felony charge of trading in exotic animals and human trafficking.

Just so all of you know, on the first day of Christmas AND the 17,520th day of Shane, I'd be fine with a gift certificate. After all, I've got a planetarium to build.

COLUMN: The White Album

Being an audiophile is one of my life's great joys. But I never thought my love for music would lead me to an evening of maudlin rumination on the passage of time. Yet here we are. I blame John Lennon.

I've been a music junkie my entire life. It may have started before my life even technically began -- my mom's convinced she fostered my audiophilia by putting headphones on her womb while I was a captive audience. I don't know if it was the prenatal catalyst for a lifetime of music geekery, but I guarantee fetal Shane was grateful for the wall of amniotic fluid separating me from the greatest hits of Barbra Streisand.

As a music nerd, I'm obligated to stay on top of the newest trends in audio tech. Vinyl albums begat 8-tracks which begat cassettes which begat CDs and now we're back around to snobby purists swearing that vinyl's always been the best. Transistor radios gave way to Walkmen, Discmen, iPods, and now our crazy world where I just walk around my living room and say, "Alexa, play [any song that's ever been recorded in the history of time ever]" and it just magically DOES.

I still get excited to check out new releases every week, but oftentimes I get even MORE excited to see my favorites from yesteryear getting remastered, refurbished, and re-released. This surely must be due to my natural enthusiasm for sound clarity and certainly NOT the fact that I'm becoming an old curmudgeon who just doesn't "get" today's music. At least that's what I keep trying to tell myself.

In today's streaming music era of low sales and diminished returns, record labels put a lot of faith into remastered and repackaged classics. Take an old record with an already huge fanbase, send in some engineers to clean up the sound, add a few rare tracks, and saps like me are bound to re-buy it.

Some are well worth the investment. But a lot of so-called "remasters" are nothing but cash grabs where someone just took the original recording and cranked up the volume for today's laptop culture. I felt some misgiving when I learned that a newly remastered 50th anniverary edition of the Beatles' "White Album" was heading for stores.

The Beatles discography is well worth owning. But how many times can it possibly be remastered? They did it once when their catalog first came out on CD. In 2009, a team of Abbey Road engineers remastered them again in what was supposed to be the definitive editions. So why do we now need Giles Martin, son of original Beatles producer George Martin, to remaster The White Album AGAIN? Don't get me wrong, I bought it -- but I wasn't expecting much. Boy, was I wrong.

Time will tell if this remaster will become the new gold standard of Beatles releases, but it sure is different. Rather than past attempts where the engineers remained as faithful as possible to the original production, Giles pretty much tossed his dad's work out the window and started over from scratch, taking the band's original recordings and mixing them to today's standards. The result is a White Album that sounds insanely modern.

Take "Dear Prudence" for example. Gone are the psychedelic reverberating vocals that instantly date the record to 1968. Instead, you hear John Lennon's voice raw, powerful, and up front. I was listening in the car and it sounded like he was there in the passenger seat. It's a production triumph and a must-own, although it's kinda weird to lose the vintage quality that defined their sound.

I never really appreciated The Beatles until I got to high school and found a clique of friends with an affinity for their parents' record collections. This was 1985, and even back then, the Beatles already sounded like a magical relic from a time long past. It was (and still is) great music, but to my 14-year-old ears, it was already an antique.

This got me thinking tonight. There was only a gap of 15-20 years between The Beatles and high school me. When today's high schoolers hear music from 1994, does it sound just as ancient as the Beatles seemed to me? Do today's kids think N'Sync and Nirvana sound like musty antiques? Will those kids be buying Justin Bieber remasters someday?

Pop culture moves FAST. Some of you might be able to remember a time before rock music even existed. Give or take, only 20 years separates Glenn Miller from Elvis, the Beatles from Devo, Pearl Jam from Cardi B. In my relatively short time, I've lived through disco, new wave, grunge, boy bands, and mumble rap.

If music can evolve THAT fast, who KNOWS what the future will be? I used to have a go-to joke that our Top 40 chart in twenty years will be nothing more than people screaming obscenities over recordings of power tools. Well, have you heard dubstep or listened to "Gucci Gang"? We're pretty much there already.

Will I ever give up entirely on new music? Or in 20 years will I be listening to the 70th anniversary "White Album" re-re-re-remaster, wherein holographic Paul McCartney WILL be sitting in my passenger seat singing Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da while advising me on the best route to work? I have no idea what musical future awaits us, but I'm all ears.

COLUMN: Winter Storm Bruce

Once upon a time, I really liked winter.

I used to proudly tell anyone within earshot that winter was my absolute favorite time of the year. It has SO much going for it. There's no oppressive heat or humidity. There's no bugs, bees, snakes, or any of that gross nature stuff. Everything's white and crisp. Sometimes everything is SO white and SO crisp that they cancel school. Sledding is crazy fun. Mom makes you cocoa. You get PRESENTS. Winter is amazing!

Then a few things happened:

(1) I stopped being 8.

(2) I got a car and quickly discovered that it's no fun at all to drive on the white crisp stuff.

(3) I bought a house and quickly discovered that it's no fun at all to shovel the white crisp stuff.

(4) I fell and broke my ankle a few years back and now I'm TERRIFIED of the white crisp stuff.

It didn't take long for me to go from a winter lover to a full-on grinch who now walks across icy sidewalks with the gingerly gait of someone twice my age, absolutely convinced that I'm seconds away from faceplanting and re-snapping my ankle like a twig. Winter winds now make me feel like I can't breathe. Snowstorms bring closed schools but NEVER a closed workplace. I realized I can make myself cocoa any time for any reason. Adult winters are way less magical than 8-year-old winters.

I hate dealing with snowstorms, but it doesn't stop me from being fascinated by them. When I was a kid, there was a time when all I really wanted in life was to be a weatherman. Whenever storms roll through, I still fight the urge to run outside and be in the middle of it all. Could there possibly be any job cooler than keeping tabs on tornados and blizzards and floods?

But then I discovered that meteorology ends in -ology, and that means science, and science means math, and math is my nemesis. There's a whole lot of non-exciting number-crunching in weather forecasting. You need to know how air pressure and jetstreams operate. You need to be able to read sheets of raw data and figure out if the piles of numbers before you means it's going to rain or not. There's a whole lot more to meteorology than announcing temperatures, making a wise-crack, and throwing it to Chuck on the sports desk. Plus you have to wear a tie. Yuck.

Instead, I've become an armchair meteorology enthusiast. I don't ever want the burden of having to interpret data, but I love watching that burden fall on others. If there's storms a-brewin', you can usually count on me to have active radar maps and at least 3 different forecasts pulled up. So when good ol' Winter Storm Bruce (yep, that was its official name) came rolling through last week, I may have been at a DJ gig Saturday night, but I was glued to my phone and giving weather updates to anyone who cared (okay, pretty much no-one but me cared.)

What I learned from my amateur Bruce-watch is that, despite advanced technology and near-instant streaming communications, weather forecasting is still a high-tech guessing game. All the sources I deferred to agreed that SOMEPLACE was about to get a lot of snow, but no-one knew exactly where.

The biggest meteorology nerd I know is former QC weather-sage Terry Swails, who's now in Cedar Rapids but still runs a blog that keeps tabs on our area. Whenever there's even a whisper of snow for our area, Terry's job is to terrify us with a never-ending parade of charts, models, and forecasts that make even small storms sound like the apocalypse. Terry Swails is basically my spirit animal.

As I stood there spinning records and checking my phone every five minutes, Terry kept uploading various models of Winter Storm Bruce from NAM, HRRR, GFS, and other equally impessive initials. And just during that one gig, those models had QC snow predictions anywhere from 1.0" to 21.9", which is basically a range between "you won't even notice it" and "we'll find your body come spring." I tend to gravitate towards the worst option, so I spent the night watching people gyrate to Justin Bieber wondering if they would survive the next day's 22" snowmageddon.

So thank you, Terry and your wonderful world of meterological terror, for allowing me to experience 13.8" of snow while thinking, "Man, we really lucked out." Terrify us more often and maybe winter won't seem so bad.

On a completely different note, I'm just nerdy enough to have kept track, and I'm proud and amazed to point out this is my 700th weekly column in these pages, a milestone I never dreamed of achieving. I just wanted to give a hearty thanks to all the editors who gave me a shot, had my back, and let me be silly for an occupation. Thanks to my family and friends for inspiration, adventure, and laughs beyond measure. But mostly, I give thanks to the Quad Cities and all of you in them. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, not even when there's 13.8" of fresh white crisp ankle-breaking nonsense on the ground.

COLUMN: Grief

Grief sucks.

Yes, I know. Insightful, eloquent, and original postulations like this are why they pay me the big bucks. (And maybe one day I'll get that check as soon as I figure out who "they" are and how I might be able to invoice them.)

But it's the truth. We've all spent the past week being thankful for life and the lives that surround, inspire, and nurture us. But part of appreciating life is the knowledge that we've all got expiration dates. And perhaps the only thing worse than death impacting our lives is when it impacts the lives of those we care about.

Over the past month, one of my close friends lost her mother and another lost his sister. And that -- well, that sucks. All you want to do is give them a hug and say just the right thing to make everything all better, but those words don't really exist or honestly even matter at times like this. Instead, all you can do is be there with a shoulder to cry on and as much strength, comfort, and support as you can muster.

I'm no expert in grief, but I know it can take many forms. There's no "right" way to grieve, and everyone handles loss in their own way. Its just that, in the world of social media, we now get to witness it a lot more often. Just today, I read an article about a woman who had recently lost her fiancee in a motorcycle accident. Rather than cancel her wedding photos, the grieving woman instead donned her wedding dress and posed for happy wedding pics -- solo. With some digital magic, the photographer then added semi-transparent images of her late fiancee to basically make it look like she was happily posing with a ghost.

I'll be completely honest with you guys -- it kinda creeped me out, and I made a snarky Facebook post about it. But then my friends checked me and put me in my place a little bit, and I'm glad they did. The photos might seem a bit macabre, but I also can't imagine the trauma of being in the midst of wedding planning and envisioning a future that's suddenly snatched away.

It's not the kind of souvenir I'd want on MY mantelpiece, but I've never been in this woman's shoes. If completing a set of wedding photos helps her grieve, so be it. It might seem weird, but grief IS weird. It's a complicated and insanely personal thing to bear.

I recently watched a special series of the show "Expedition Unknown" that was focused on the afterlife -- where we go when we die and how different cultures handle death, and it was fascinating. In one episode, they traveled to a remote part of Indonesia and spotlighted a tribe who live alongside their dead. When a family member passes, they mummify the remains and just leave them in the house for any number of years. The deceased are talked to daily, given meals, and treated like living family.

To them, it's just tradition. To us, it's the sort of thing that gets you locked away. One culture's normal can be another's Norman Bates. That same Indonesian tribe might find OUR burial customs just as weird as we find theirs. In that same tribe, after some time has passed, their deceased are finally removed from the home and given a funeral procession that puts the "fun" in funereal. It's basically a week-long party, and wouldn't that be the BEST way to go?

I mean, I don't particularly want my friends to think, "Finally. He's dead. Let's party!" But I don't want people blubbering over me, either. I want people to think of me, laugh, and tell stupid stories. And if there's any legacy I stand a chance of leaving, it's a cornucopia of stupid stories. I want to be remembered with a smile more than a tear.

And that is why, I beg of you people, in the event of my untimely demise, I openly encourage all of you to Photoshop ridiculous images of me into ANY AND ALL photos you'd like to post on the internet. I want my semi-transparent ghost to haunt the walls, halls, and superhighways of social media for all time.

There's a kajillion ugly photos of me out there, so use any you choose. Taking selfies at a nightclub? Stick me in the background with a serious DJ face, like I'm busily soundtracking your life from my afterlife. I never do a thing athletic in life, but it's never too late to start. So if someone captures you running a marathon, put my face on one of the other runners. Heck, put me on ALL the other runners and make it look like you're being chased by an army of ghost Shanes. Bonus points if you figure out a way to set it to "Unchained Melody."

I could become your new relationship litmus test. After all, what better a conversation starter than, "Who? Oh, HIM? That's the dead guy I put in ALL my photos. It's a long story." If the person doesn't run away screaming, they're a keeper.

At the end of the day, we're all on this marble together -- which unfortunately means we all get to leave it at some point, too. If you experience loss, don't be afraid to grieve as weird as you want, because it's a weird process. Don't hesitate to lean on your friends, and let them lean on YOU when they need it. Death might suck, but life always wins - and for that, I'm thankful.

COLUMN: Red Dead

My life is full of sacrifices. I hope you people are happy.

As a beloved and cherished local columnist and celebrity-about-town, there are certain responsibilities I must bear to my vast and ever-growing fanbase. I guess it's just the burden I have to carry for being so goshdarn loveable and awesome.

For instance: As some of you may be aware, two weeks ago the most anticipated video game of the year came out: Red Dead Redemption 2. Normally, a mature and professional writer such as myself wouldn't dream of wasting time on something so foolish and frivolous.

But what of my fans? Sure, I might be too evolved and sophisticated for such a childish pursuit, but some of you might be wondering about "Red Dead Redemption 2" and naturally you'd turn to a cultural superior such as myself for opinions.

Okay, fine. Because you people demand it, I'll waste countless hours playing a new video game. These are the sacrifices I make for my fans.

Honestly, though, I don't know if I'm the best person out there to judge a game like RDR2. I've NEVER been a fan of the Old West. I've never made it through a western without changing the channel, not even the one I'm named after. Some people romanticize the Old West as a grand historical period in our nation. To me, it just looks smelly and filthy and gross. I prefer Hyundais to horses. I am most definitely a city slicker.

Except for the past week, when I have been Arthur Morgan, cowboy outlaw with a heart of gold. Or Arthur Morgan, the cowboy outlaw who shoots his friends in the head for no reason. You can play Arthur any way you want, unless what you want is to drive a car, sit in air conditioning, or NOT kill people.

I know little about life in the Old West, but thanks to a week of Red Dead Redemption-ing, I've gained some important knowledge, such as:

- Horses are apparently a lot easier to tame than I thought. All I did was hop on a horse and ride it down a mountain when suddenly the game went "Ding! You and your horse have achieved level 1 bonding. He will now come when you whistle." This is pretty cool. My car never comes when I whistle. If I can figure out how to install a subwoofer on this horse, it just might be a keeper.

- Is it bad that I'm jealous at how Arthur Morgan can grow facial hair faster than me? There's spots in the game where you can shave, but not me. I want to see if I can make my Arthur eventually look like an refugee from ZZ Top.

- Surviving the horrific wounds of gun violence is MUCH easier if you maintain a liberal supply of baked beans on your person. Just last night, I was out jauntily robbing a train -- you know, like you do -- when I was suddenly ambushed by them pesky no-good O'Driscoll boys. I barely had time to draw my revolver when BAM! I'm hit in the shoulder and good as dead. No worries, though. I simply reached into my pocket mid-gunplay and chugged down a can of baked beans with my one good arm. Suddenly I was right as rain and would live to cyber-fight another day. Chia seeds and kale are for chumps. Pork 'n' beans are my superfood. 

Red Dead Redemption is being hailed for its detailed renderings and realistic gameplay. But there may be a such a thing as TOO realistic.

I had barely made it through the tutorial when some cowboy yelled, "C'mon Arthur, let's go hunt some deer!" The game lets you choose from various replies, but sadly none of them were, "No thanks, deer are cute. Pass the baked beans." Instead, within minutes, I found myself crouching through snow sneaking up on some poor innocent virtual deer I'd rather not virtually kill.

No worries, I thought. It's just a video game, right? I'll shoot the deer and it'll disappear, make some happy little ding noise, and probably say something like "FOOD +1." No big deal. I grabbed my bow, aimed, and fired. Ding?

Nope. Instead, I was greeted by the ungodly screech of a wounded animal and my cowboy friend going, "Aww, Arthur, it wasn't a kill shot!" And then the game makes you follow the BLOOD TRAIL and the DYING SCREECHES OF AGONY until you find the wounded deer and put it out of it's cyber-misery and now I'm pretty sure I need therapy. From there, it's just a matter of picking up the carcass, carrying it to my horse (I forgot to whistle,) and transporting it back to camp.

Impressively life-like? Yes. Moderately traumatic and emotionally scarring? You betcha. But I manned up and made it back to camp. And that is the precise moment when, hand to God, the game goes, "PRESS (X) TO SKIN YOUR DEER." Annnnd now I might be a vegetarian. Thanks, Red Dead Redemption 2. 

Bambi-murdering aside, it's a fantastic game. I've only scratched the surface, but I plan on playing a lot more -- you know, for the benefit of you guys. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go do some research on the pros and cons on sitting on the couch, eating Twizzlers, and watching Jimmy Fallon. In case you people ever need my input on it.

Sacrifice, thy name is Shane.

COLUMN: Post Malone

This is going to be a difficult column to write.

Wait, that sounded ominous. That's the kind of intro you use when you're quitting or if there's some horrible secret from your past about to be revealed. This is NOT the case (I hope.) No, this will be a difficult column because I'm about to come to the defense of someone I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to hate.

Ever since my parents presented me with a second-hand record player at probably too young an age, I've been a music junkie. I have no talent to make music, but it turns out I'm fairly gifted at listening to it. Over the years, my collection has grown from big to really-big to I-clearly-have-a-problem to hmm-time-for-a-bigger-house.

Some people get on the internet to argue about politics. I'm usually there to argue about music. My favorite t-shirt says "Your Favorite Band Sucks." My second favorite says "I listen to bands that don't even exist yet." I proudly grew up on a diet of artists like The Smiths who once pleaded for us to "hang the blessed DJs, because the music they constantly play says nothing to me about my life."

For years, I've revelled in critical attacks of bands that dumb down the musical landscape, from the despicable bro-rock of Limp Bizkit to the faux earnestness of Creed and the steaming pile of mediocrity that is Nickelback. But many critics have now set their sights on a new target -- and for once, I'm not jumping on the hate train.

In fact, I may just be a fan of Post Malone.

If you don't know 23-year-old Austin Post, then your kids probably do. Both his albums sit towards the top of the Billboard charts, and the rapper/singer's been selling out shows around the globe. His fanbase is as huge as the disdain of his critics. Last week, the Washington Post ran a claws-out piece that called him a "rhinestone cowboy who looks like he crawled out of a primordial swamp of nacho cheese," and that's about as nice as it gets.

The arguments against Post Malone go something like this:

(1) Post Malone has nothing to say. This is absolutely true. The guy had a #1 hit this year with a song about a new watch and how shiny it is (seriously.) Most of his songs are about cars and jewelry and girls -- in other words, he's just like all the other artists on the Top 40. Not every musician needs to be Radiohead or U2 and make some grand statement about the human condition with every release. There are times I want to hear challenging music that questions our world, but there are other times when the only question I want answered from my car stereo is who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp.

(2) Post Malone songs are nothing but one hook repeated over and over. This is also true -- and kind of amazing. The average Post Malone song reduces the verses to a quick whisper that just gets you to the hook without delay. But here's the thing: by and large, they're GREAT hooks that get stuck in your head for DAYS whether you want them there or not.

(3) Post Malone isn't very talented. I don't even think Post would argue this. Part of his appeal is that he's an average dork who made it big. He doesn't look like a pop superstar. He looks like any of the dudes I used to play Dungeons & Dragons with. He's an everyman with an okay voice who makes decent songs and spends his success on stupid stuff like cars and ill-advised face tattoos. There are worse crimes.

(4) Post Malone is a culture vulture. The thinking here is that a dorky white guy from the Texas suburbs has no business making hip-hop. That's just kind of unfair. I've always thought of music as a cultural uniter, not a divider. He's not pretending to reinvent rap music, and I've never seen him dishonor the origins of hip-hop. Pop music has a time-honored tradition of thieving from various cultures (do you really think the Beach Boys hung out on the beach?) Maybe he'll expand to other genres in the future. Maybe he won't even have a successful future and THIS right now is his fifteen minutes of fame. Who knows?

Music aside, it's hard to hate on Post Malone because he seems like a genuinely nice guy. Critics rip him and he laughs it off. Instead, he goes on talk shows and takes Jimmy Fallon to lunch at Olive Garden. He's a funny dude, and it's nice to have a chart-topping artist who really seems to be enjoying his moment without any pretense.

So yeah, I'm going to neglect my duties as an elitist music snob and give Post Malone a pass -- which is fine because it gives me more time to hate on Nickelback. Maybe you disagree and can't stand Post Malone. If that's the case, look on the bright side: One of the fastest ways to become uncool is to have random middle-aged newspaper columnists gush over how cool you are.

Sorry, Post.

COLUMN: Litter

When I sit down to write this column, there's only one rule I try and give myself: BE POSITIVE.

I'm not remotely qualified to discuss the problems of the world. I'm barely qualified to discuss my cats. There's enough depessing news in the world, there's no need for me to add to it. A high percentage of daily life is utterly ridiculous -- if you don't stop to appreciate the silly side of life, you're not really living.

I've always believed that humanity is innately good. You see it every day. Maybe it's a stranger holding a door open for you. A driver yielding the right-of-way. A friend enduring yet ANOTHER cat story. We're all in this absurd life together, so let's make the best of it.

But THIS week, it's been tough to stay positive.

We've had mentally disturbed people mailing bombs and gunning down innocent faithful in Pittsburgh, and that's the kind of awful you just can't wrap your head around. Obviously, the folks responsible have more than one screw loose, so I don't know if we CAN understand or if we should even bother trying. All the while, our leaders condemn the "terrible, terrible thing what's going on with hate in our country" and then seemingly contribute to it.

I've never shoveled poop in my life -- but I think I'd prefer THAT job to being the White House press secretary, no matter WHO'S in office. Remember the days when the government would call press briefings to actually brief the press? Nowadays, the press secretary's job is less news conveyer and more news spinner.

I feel bad for Sarah Huckabee Sanders sometimes. Her entire job is to defend and rationalize a vast number of indefensible tweets and gaffes while reporters bait her into MORE gaffes through a barrage of slanted and leading questions. I wouldn't take her job for a kajillion dollars (unless I got paid upfront and didn't have to return the money the first time I told someone precisely where they could shove it.)

I tried to escape news the other day and opted to peruse social media. Within minutes, I found myself roped into a war of words with someone trying to DEFEND the area teacher who got caught partying in blackface. Wow. You don't understand what the big deal is? Once upon a time, people didn't understand the problem with Amos & Andy either. At worst, it's racist. At best, it shows wickedly poor judgement. Neither are qualities I want in a teacher, sorry. 

I needed an escape, so I stepped off the information superhighway to go wait in line for deliciously awful fast food. And there I was, patiently chilling in the drive-thru lane, when the car ahead of me rolled down its windows while both driver and passenger began chucking trash out onto the ground. It was a straight-up litter party with bags, cups, and debris everywhere.

Is this REALLY where we're at as a society? Does our town matter THAT little to people that they can dump detritus on the ground in full view of strangers with nary a pang of guilt? I'm no angel. I'm sure I'm leaving a shamefully sizeable carbon footprint in my wake. But never in my WILDEST delusions would I just start heaving trash out the window.

I almost took a stand. I imagined picking up their trash while giving them the stinkeye. But then I also imagined a gigantic dude getting out of that car and starting a rumble. Although it's probably the most appropriate spot for me, I'd prefer not to die in a drive-thru lane. "Here lies Shane, He Sure Liked Tacos." So I wussed out. Actually, I yelled "Are you SERIOUS right now?" but I doubt they heard. When I got to the window, I told an employee about the trash dump, and she replied with an "okay" that clearly indicated she couldn't care less.

So it's been a tough week to be Up With People, but I haven't lost hope. There's still good out there. And if sometimes you can't see it, prove it to people. Keep holding doors for strangers. Don't hate or offend people. Don't make the world your dumpster. And if you REALLY want to be positive? VOTE. When you make your voice heard AND get a free sticker out of the deal, everybody wins.

COLUMN: A Billion

By the time you read this, someone somewhere is a newly minted lottery BILLIONAIRE. I bought a ticket. They say the odds of winning are less than getting struck by lightning twice in your life. I haven't been struck by lightning even ONCE yet, so the way I see it, I'm due.

Whether it's me or not, I'm sure we've had a Mega Millions winner by now, and all of us have had our pipe dreams duly shattered and are back to earning the incomes of mere mortals. But I'm writing this column a full week ahead of time. In MY current reality, we still have two days until the drawing and there's a ticket in my hand. The possibility currently exists that I'm days away from being a billionaire.

A pretty THIN possibility, sure, but a possibility nonetheless. I'm no physicist, but I guess I'm sort of like a walking version of Schrodinger's cat. But this time, it's Schrodinger's Lottery. Since the outcome depends upon a series of random balls ping-ponging around, and since said outcome has yet to be determined, the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics suggests that right NOW, the ticket in my pocket is both a winner AND a loser, since it hasn't been observed in one state or the other. I am, in this moment, both an inconsequential average earner AND a billionaire with enough money to literally shape the destiny of the future.

That's pretty sweet.

I know, a columnist writing about the lottery is about as played out as a comedian riffing on airplane food. But this is no normal lottery. This is a BILLION dollars. If I won a million dollars, I would jump up and down, scream til I was hoarse, and probably die from shock. If I won a BILLION dollars, I'm pretty sure I'd just start laughing. That's a comically absurd amount of money for one person to possess.

If I won a million dollars in the lottery, I might take a vacation to Bora Bora. If I won a BILLION dollars, I might be able to BUY Bora Bora. I can't even wrap my head around that kind of money. Whoever wins this prize could create foundations and charities that could SERIOUSLY help the world. You could fund scientific studies that could eradicate any number of horrible diseases.

...OR...

There are some who say that laughter is the best medicine -- and I'm pretty sure I can come up with some HILARIOUS ways to blow through a billion dollars.

For instance, I'd buy up as much New York real estate next to Trump Tower that I could. Then it's just a matter of constructing an identical skyscraper. Except mine would be ONE floor taller. And I'd name it something like "The Obama Spire," just to see Trump's face grow another shade of orange. Love him or hate him, wouldn't you want to see THAT Twitter-storm? Of course, we may want to wait until he's OUT of office. When I said I wanted to reshape destiny, accidentally causing World War III via temper tantrum wasn't what I had in mind.

Maybe I'd track down Tommy Wiseau. You know about "The Room," right? Universally accepted to be perhaps THE single worst movie of all time, "The Room" is SO bad that viewing it is one of life's great pleasures. Wiseau is the astonishingly untalented writer, director, financier, and actor behind this most rotten of tomatoes. It's said Tommy spent eight million of his own money making "The Room." Imagine what could happen if he spent $100 million of MY money on a sequel. Sure, some characters didn't make it out of the original alive, but I guarantee people returning from the dead wouldn't be the least crazy thing in "The Room 2." The world needs to see Tommy Wiseau interacting with CGI dinosaurs, I'm just saying.

And speaking of incredibly talentless people, I'd say it's about high time I record my debut album. I might not have a lick of musical talent, but when has that ever stopped someone with $1.6 billion in his wallet? With fancy producers and some auto-tune, I can probably make a banger or two. And if not, I know how it'll sell regardless. Paul McCartney's headed our way next year. Macca could SNEEZE on a record and countless Beatle completists would line up to buy it. I just need to find out how much Sir Paul charges to record sneezes. Sample it, loop it, rap over it, top the charts, date Taylor Swift, dump Taylor Swift, Taylor Swift records a hate album about me, and finally I attain my dream status as a certified Hollywood Bad Boy.

Oh, and as for Paul McCartney: if I won the lottery, Paul would be staying for a SECOND night at the TaxSlayer Center -- I mean the Shane Brown Is Awesome Center -- and THOSE tickets wouldn't go for $200 a pop. REAL Beatles fans don't have that kind of disposable income because they're already in debt with basements full of 180-gram Japanese import vinyl records. Instead, I'd give all the tickets away for free, provided you score high enough on the giant Beatles trivia quiz that I'd publish in this very paper.

The news has spent all week going back and forth telling us how great it is to win the lottery but then how TERRIBLE it is to win the lottery. For every happy winner, there's horror stories about lottery windfalls leading to murders and lawsuits and bankruptcies.

So maybe it's best that I don't win the big payout. After all, if I could ever beat THOSE odds, I'd suddenly start being REALLY afraid of lightning.

COLUMN: Jill Johnson

Well, it's that time of year when columnists like me are supposed to regale you with spooky tales of haunted happenings. The thing is, I'm fresh out.

My house doesn't seem to be a supernatural hotspot. It's devoid of tragic backstories and doesn't appear to have been built over any ancient burial grounds. The only things that go bump in the night around here are cats.

But something a tiny bit terryifying DID happen last weekend. I was moonlighting at a DJ gig when one of the employees came up to chat.

"Hey, one of my best friends went to school with you," she said.

This is a somewhat ghastly thing to hear. If you guys think I'm nerdy NOW, you should've peeped me back in my school days. There's no way I could've left a good impression.

"Ooh, I bet she told you I was crazy nerdy," I replied.

"Actually she said you were really cool and nice. Do you remember Jill Johnson?"

Wow. Talk about a blast from the past. It's good to know that I was cool -- when I was ten, because that's the last I ever spent quality time with Jill Johnson. At some point, we ended up on different sides of the district map, so we only ever went to grade school together.

I actually knew that Jill ended up in the Quad Cities. She came up to me once at another DJ gig and introduced herself. I didn't recognize her, but she knew ME right away, which confirms my fear that I apparently look like a taller and fatter version of my ten-year-old self. Regardless, it was good to see her and harken back to old memories.

But Jill Johnson and I can never share my MOST vivid memory of her -- because it never happened.

Do any of you remember your first real nightmare? The very first time you had a dream SO scary you woke up in a cold sweat shaking? A dream so awful you spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, afraid to go back to sleep? A dream that you can't forget, not even 40 years later? There aren't many things in my life that I'm capable of keeping secret -- but I've never told ANYONE about this dream. Mostly because of how stupid it was.

I was in third grade when it happened. Here's the dream: One of my classmates was secretly an alien trying to take over the world. The ONLY person who knew about it, naturally, was ME. And like the plot of SO many bad monster movies of yore, absolutely no one would believe me. Meanwhile, all of my friends were being turned into alien zombies. Heavy bummer.

If this WAS a bad movie, it'd be up to me to step up and somehow stop the alien menace. Except that I couldn't. Instead, I spent the entire dream hopelessly afraid and unable to change fate as more of my friends became mindless slaves at the hands of the evil alien. An evil alien named Jill Johnson.

Creepy, right? But I left one part out. In the dream, I knew that Jill was an alien because I accidentally saw her in her TRUE ALIEN FORM -- which looked identical to Olivia Newton-John's Sandy at the end of "Grease." Slowly but surely, Jill the Alien turned our entire student body into Evil Zombie Sandys.

We all know "Grease," right? It's the movie musical that teaches us we can woo the boy/girl of our dreams if we simply change every aspect of our personality and find some hot pants. Sandy's a goody-goody who's in love with Danny, who's a baddy-baddy. At the end (spoiler alert,) Sandy shows up in a wicked perm and a leather jacket and she and Danny go together like rama-lama-lama-ka-dinga-ka-dinga-dong. Some say it's one of the most sexist movie plots of all time. Others argue it's a feminist manifesto. And at least one eight-year-old thought it was 100% alien.

I suppose Freud would tell me this dream was symbolic of a young man's search for understanding of the alien nature of blossoming sexuality. Either that or too many Cheetos before bed. But I was in THIRD grade, and I'm pretty sure at that age, girls were just boys who had cooties. I could probably debate the deep meanings of this dream forever. I've certainly pondered it numerous times over the past 40 years.

The only thing I know for certain is that it had nothing to do with Jill Johnson. I don't ever recall her auditioning for the role of Sandy the Hot-Pants-Wearing Nightmare Alien. She's an innocent party in all this, which is why I'm not using her real name. In reality, she was -- well, she was cool and nice, as I recall. I like bumping into her, and on those rare times we DO talk, I hope she can't tell that a small part of my brain is always worried that she's going to start singing "Summer Nights" and eat my face off.

If I want a good Halloween fright, I don't need a house full of ghosts or alien lights in the sky to get creeped out. I just need a bad musical and the name of an old classmate. For now, I'm putting this column and this nightmare to bed. Here's hoping I don't spend the next eight hours being chased by a hatchet-wielding Man of La Mancha. 

COLUMN: GPS

I love technology.

If I had a nickel for every column I've started with those words, I'm pretty sure I'd have at least thirty-five cents by now.

But it's true. Some people are thrilled by antiques and flea markets and crusty old items from yesteryear. Not me. I don't marvel when I see a relic like a butter churn. We as a species have evolved beyond churning our own butter. I await a future where butter is brought to me at the push of a button from either a robot maid or a highly advanced system of pneumatic tubes.

I vowed long ago that I would forever stay at the top of my technological game. I wonder if my parents ever said the same thing? My dad is amazing. He built the house I grew up in from the ground up. He designed the blueprints, captained the construction team, and saw the project through to completion. He cannot, however, figure out how to turn on a television, play a DVD, or find the power button on a computer. My mom, on the other hand, loves computers. She has a home PC that rivals mine in processing and memory, complete with a multi-speaker surround sound system. She uses it to check the weather and play mah-jong. I've explained iTunes to her at least two dozen times. She "doesn't get" Facebook.

But against both desire and determination, I think I'm starting to reach that stage myself. Every time some new piece of tech comes along that's supposed to make my life easier, I find myself weighing the benefits of an easy life against the amount of time and patience it takes to learn and understand it. I steadfastly believe that I am neither fuddy nor duddy, but I'm starting to get fed up with keeping up with technology.

Case in point: You guys know I DJ on the side, right? Well, one of the lines on my high-tech DJ controller is acting up right now. The tech support section of their website suggests that I update the firmware, which seems like sound advice. I just need to learn what "firmware" is and how one goes about updating it. They also recommend that I install the newest version of my DJ software. No problemo, I thought, until I logged on to discover that the software I use is so old they don't even MAKE it anymore. In the three years since I bought my "top of the line" gear, everything's become outmoded and outdated.

At some point, we should get to put a cap on tech evolution and take a breather. Do we really need 5G televisions? I mean, 4G's are plenty enough G's as far as I'm concerned. Technology is cool, but sometimes it's more trouble than it's worth.

Last week, one of my favorite bands was playing the Windy City. I was meeting up with old college friends at the show, but I had to face a long solo roadtrip to a club and neighborhood I'd never been to. The Old Shane would have pulled out his trusty map and familiarized himself with the route beforehand. But not NEW Shane. Not technologically adept Shane.

Instead I did what anyone under 30 does now: I punched the address into my smartphone and put complete blind faith into an annoying little robot voice who tells you where to turn. At first, this made for a relaxing and confident drive up without a care in the world. In fact, Google's guidance system comes with real-time traffic avoidance, which was neat. It told me right out the gate that I-88 had traffic backups and recommended I take I-80 to I-55 instead. Cool, right?

Well, until I got to Joliet, when it told me that I-55 had backups and I should take I-57 instead. Well, okay. And then I got on I-57 and it told me there were immediate backups and I should take the next exit -- which was four lanes over at rush hour. I simply had to risk life, limb, bumpers, and the death glares of a half dozen drivers as I merged my way over to Google's handy shortcut.

A shortcut that involved driving for twenty minutes through, shall we say, some of the more murder-y parts of southern Chicago. I wasn't exactly positive that I'd be murdered at any second, but it was certainly a bit more murderish of an area than I ever cared to be in.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that if I had my choice of waiting in traffic for a few extra minutes versus finding myself at stop lights where people literally come banging on your windows yelling "GIMME SOME MONEY," I now know for SURE which one I'd pick. But Google didn't care that it just sent me on a scenic tour of burned-out warehouses from the nightmares of Snake Plissken. Google only cared that I shaved seven minutes off my commute.

And that's the problem with new technology. Sometimes the cost outweighs the benefits. Is an easier life worth the effort? Should I be satisfied with my current non-smart refrigerator or should I upgrade to one pre-installed with Twitter and Facebook? (Which seriously exist, apparently for those of us who don't want to access leftovers without losing immediate access to the public thoughts of Kanye West.) For now, I'm still trying to stay as high-tech as possible, within reason. I don't have any offspring to explain the new Facebook to me in twenty years, so I need to have game. But next time I go to Chicago, I'm using a paper map like some butter-churning fuddy-duddy.

COLUMN: Ham Candy

(Yep, that's an ACTUAL PHOTO.)

There are a lot of things in life that I don't want to be.

I don't want to be murdered. I don't want to build any type of city on rock and roll. I don't want to be nominated to the Supreme Court. And perhaps more than anything, I don't ever want to be one of those people who posts pictures of their dinner to social media.

You know the type, right? "I'm so much better than you because I made perfectly plated pecan-crusted salmon with mango chutney and capers!" Look, it's not tough to best me when it comes to food. I have no idea what chutney is. I don't even know what a caper is. Truth be told, I barely know what salmon is.

I'm not so great in the kitchen. Fairly early in my adult life, I discovered that it's far easier to sit at a table or drive past a window and pay strangers to cook and serve me lunch. And dinner. And sometimes breakfast. This, however, is not exactly the healthiest way to live. At any given point in time, there's a strong possibility that I am legally taco-toxicated. It's probably a good thing for everyone involved that there's no breathalyzer to test for blood-salsa levels.

But a couple years ago, I set about to change things. I started learning about some of these weird devices in my kitchen like, umm, a stove. I went grocery shopping. I bought cookbooks. Well, truth be told, my friends sort of threw cookbooks at me when I told them I was going to "wing it." I even cracked open a few of those dusty tomes my mom passed down (sample sentence: "When your husband gets home from a hard day's work, he DESERVES a hot, tasty meal!")

It wasn't always pretty, but I daresay I've made some giant culinary steps. I can grill fish. I can bake chicken. I can roast potatoes. Someone came to my last party just because they'd heard about the food (and presumably didn't show up just to laugh at it. I hope.)

Last week, though, I discovered it's possible to become a little over-confident in one's cooking ability. Last week was a big oops. An oops big enough to send me back to fast food while I re-evaluated the progress of my life. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes you inadvertently create a toxic bio-hazard. Plates had to be DESTROYED, people.

I know what you're thinking. I probably attempted a recipe well beyond my skill level, right? Something complex with multiple steps and foreign ingredients requiring an experienced delicate touch. I wish.

Instead, I ruined a HAM STEAK.

That's kind of impressive. It takes a certain level of skill to improperly cook something that comes PRE-cooked. I might be lousy at cooking, but I'm clearly awesome at blunders. The worst part? I still don't exactly know what I did wrong, but I'm blaming Youtube.

You name the recipe and there's a kajillion videos on Youtube to help you. I found over 50 different videos alone on how to cook ham steak, which is notable considering all you have to do is warm it up, and even that's optional.

But Chef Shane wanted to elevate his ham steak game, so I found a video that seemed super easy to follow. Cook the steak until "it browns nicely." Add some pineapple juice, brown sugar and dry mustard to the leftover juices, let it caramelize, and then pour your delightful glaze over your delightful steak, presto bango.

Well, I cooked that ham steak like a champ and it didn't brown one bit. Either I'd discovered a race of heat-resistant pigs or I was cooking too low. So I turned up the heat and kept at it until I finally gave up some fifteen minutes later and plated my decidedly NON-brown steak.

Then I added pineapple juice, brown sugar, and mustard. A few minutes later, it started bubbling just like the video, so I let it caramelize for a minute and then poured the glaze over my steak. At this point, things looked pretty good. I suppose my first clue something was amiss was when I touched my knife to the ham steak and heard a noticeable "clink."

Somehow, some way, in the two minutes between pouring the glaze on the steak and attempting to eat it, the entire concoction had solidified into a hard blackened plate of nightmares. Instead of a succulent and juicy ham steak, I'm pretty sure I had just invented ham candy, and let's just say no one would turn up at a party to sample it (at least not without a pickaxe.) I tried my best to chisel and scrape away the smellier and/or more carcinogenic parts of my meal, but it was a lost cause. All that's left now are some photos that are blurry because I was laughing too hard at my ineptitude to hold my phone steady.

Maybe one day charred ham candy will be a delicacy and I'm simply waaay ahead of the curve. Or maybe I just royally botched it. But I'm not giving up. After a few days of self-doubt, laughter, and a LOT of carryout tacos, yesterday I attempted a casserole that came out so perfectly, I took a picture and put it on Facebook without hesitation.

I guess if there's one thing I REALLY don't want to be, it's a quitter.

COLUMN: Racing Mowers

Well, it's official. Summer's over.

All we have now are a few blissful weeks of crisp autumn air before ice scrapers come out, coats come on, and meteorologists start talking about the dreaded "wintry mix." I suppose the only thing to do now is sit back, reminisce, and take stock of those random moments that made summer special. In 2018, I have a clear favorite.

It must have been mid-July-ish or so. As is lazy Saturday custom, my friend Jason showed up at my door and we set off in search of anything to do or see. Usually this involves whining about having nothing to do before getting sidetracked in conversation and then eventually we'll look up and find ourselves 100 miles away and road-weary. On this Saturday, we set off in a vaguely northwestern direction and eventually landed in the uninteresting back country of Iowa.

You're a fine state, Iowa. You have, after all, "Fields of Opportunities." But on this particular day, we had journeyed well beyond the opportunities and found ourselves in nothing but fields. This was Nowheresville -- and, as it turned out, Nowheresville was having their county fair.

Now when I say "county fair," I'm sure images come to mind. Carnival rides, food vendors, happy families, et cetera. Right? Not in Nowheresville. As we drove past, all I could see were parked cars surrounding drab exhibit halls and sale barns. In Nowheresville, even their fairs are boring.

That is, until Jason yelled, "STOP! STOP! TURN IN!"

This generally means one of two things. Either (1) Jason had spotted something amazing, or (2) there was a bee in the car and I was seconds away from veering off the road and killing us both. Thankfully, this was the former.

Along the back edge of the parking lot, I hadn't noticed the primitive drag strip or the dozen or so trailers unloading their racers. But these weren't cars. These were souped-up, heavily modified LAWN MOWERS -- and we just happened to arrive at pre-race qualifying.

As we walked up, the noise was deafening. Once upon a time, these beasts were simple garden tractors. Now they were customized monstrosities of polished chrome, elaborate pipes, and nary a muffler in sight or sound. 

Why do people do this to these poor mowers? I suppose I understand the desire to be able to mow your lawn in 3.8 seconds, that's perfectly understandable. But I'd reckon none of these beasts had seen grass in quite a long time. It had to have taken HUNDREDS of man-hours to customize these mowers, and for what? This one day of the year when you get 30 seconds of muscle-mowing fairground glory? That's much of a payoff. Only later did I discover that there are racing LEAGUES for these things, and some of these guys are probably taking their Franken-mowers all over the midwest.

The one thing missing, though, were spectators of any kind. Only a small set of bleachers was set up for qualifying, and the only people around were drivers and their families. In fact, the only thing truly being spectated seemed to be the two of us. It didn't take long before we realized that many, many eyes were turned our way. We clearly did not belong.

"What if someone asks us what we're doing here?" Jason whispered under the roar of the engines.

"Simple," I replied. "We put on our best Italian accents and explain we're with Ferrari Motors, Lawn & Garden Division, and we're obviously here scouting for talent."

The stares didn't stop. It became clear that everyone in Nowheresville knew everyone else in Nowheresville -- except the two of us. It was unnerving. I checked to see if my fly was undone or something -- nope, all good there. But it still felt like some Invasion of the Body Snatchers scene where someone was about to point and yell "OUTLANDERS!" and then they'd all turn and point and scream and come at us zombie-style. I was plotting an escape route when Jason nudged me.

"Dude, hand on heart!"

"Whaa?" I started to reply, but then I heard it, too. Never mind the craziest sporting event I'd ever seen. Never mind that there were less than a dozen people in attendance. That didn't stop Nowheresville from bringing out a teenage girl who, behind all the engine noise, had begun a humble a cappella rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.

So there we were, standing in the middle of the parking lot, hands on hearts, given a brief respite from the Stranger-Danger staredown thanks to the stars and stripes. We gave the song the respect that it deserves -- while also silently stepping back towards the car.

"Oh, say can you see" (Step back.)
"By the dawn's early light," (Step back.)

Two seconds after respecting the Home of the Brave, we were in the Car of the Chicken, beat-feeting out of town before the Nowheresvillagers grabbed pitchforks and hopped on Husqvarnas that could likely outrun my Hyundai. I'm all for seeing lawn mowers that go zero to sixty, but I'd rather do it in a town that DOES cotton to strangers.

In the meantime, the only thing I'm fixing to modify are some pumpkins. Hello, fall. Good to make your autumnquaintance.

COLUMN: NASCAR fail

You shouldn't ever feel guilty about harboring a guilty pleasure. I've got tons.

I know I'm a nerd, but a nerd with some fairly advanced pop culture credibility. I love esoteric and thought-provoking TV shows like Twin Peaks and Mr. Robot -- but I also religiously watch Big Brother. I love dark movies with detailed character studies -- but I've also seen "Bridget Jones' Diary" like fifty times. I thrive on left-of-center artists that push the boundaries of contemporary music -- but I also own the entire discography of Debbie Gibson.

There's nothing shameful about liking something you're not supposed to. Well, unless that something is illegal. Don't murder people, even if you like to. That's a no-no. But other than criminal activities, I say embrace your guilty pleasures and wear them with pride.

Except my guilty pleasure is dying off, and if quick action isn't taken, it might not be ANYONE'S guilty pleasure for much longer.

I like NASCAR. I can't explain why. I've never been able to. I realize it represents pretty much everything in life that I'm supposed to hate. Whether it's fair or not, there's a stereotype of people who like NASCAR, and it's not pretty. Just listen to the folks who call in to NASCAR talk radio and you'll know what I mean. The scarier takeaway here is that I sit around and listen to NASCAR talk radio. It is my guiltiest of pleasures.

I know there's plenty of great NASCAR fans out there, so please don't think I'm trying to tear you down. I am one of you -- and like me, I'm sure you hate the unfair stereotype that most NASCAR fans are uneducated drunken hillbillies. That's just not true. I mean, look in the stands at any NASCAR event and you'll find... well, you'll see a wide variety of... err, no one?

I just watched the 25th running of the Brickyard 400, one of NASCAR's most iconic races. By and large, the stands were empty. No matter how positive the announcers sounded and even though they completely ignored the attendance, there was no hiding the empty seats around the track. In fairness, this year's Brickyard had to be rescheduled to a Monday after a weekend rainout, but still. Do you think Soldier Field would be empty if the Bears had to push back their game by a day? No chance.

The ugly truth is that fans are leaving NASCAR in droves -- and as fans leave, so are the sponsors. And when sponsors dry up, teams dry up. Last week, Furniture Row Racing announced that they're ceasing operations at the end of this season due to a lack of sponsor commitment. And Furniture Row is the home of defending Monster Cup champion Martin Truex Jr. If a championship team can't stay afloat, how are the others going to make it? Imagine if the New England Patriots went belly-up and gave Tom Brady a pink slip.

Strangely, though, as NASCAR flounders, they have yet to consult with ME as to how to fix things. Which is a shame, because I have the answers.

For starters, let's put the S back in NASCAR. Today's top level cars are far from "stock" -- they're aerodynamic racing machines that require a team of highly-paid engineers to perfect. I visited the Hendrick Motorsports complex a while back and it looked more like a science lab than an auto garage. The teams that routinely win are always the teams with the biggest engineering budgets. The new cars might be technical wonders, but racing was a lot more fun when it was souped-up cars you could actually see at a dealership. I'd rather see the best drivers win instead of the best pocketbooks.

Speaking of drivers, it'd be nice if they had some personality. Over the years, NASCAR has made a commitment to making their events family-friendly, and that's great -- but not when it's at the expense of racing. In order for NASCAR to captivate fans, it needs good guys to root for and bad guys to boo. It needs cars that bump and tempers that flare. NASCAR recently had a changing of the guard with the retirement of several older drivers who mostly couldn't adapt to the new high-tech cars. This new crop of drivers are talented, promising, smart -- and super boring to watch.

It's sad to say, but NASCAR's only saving grace right now is Kyle Busch. Most fans hate Kyle Busch. He's an egotistical jerk with a short fuse and a win-at-all-costs attitude. Best of all, he's a skilled driver who wins a LOT. Earlier this year, Busch and Kyle Larson were fighting for the win at Chicagoland. On the last lap, Busch intentionally spun Larson to take the win. Grabbing the checkered flag to a cavalcade of boos, Busch found the first camera he could and mimed cry-baby tears. The outrage was palpable -- and fantastic. Hating Kyle Busch is incredibly fun.

Today's combination of safety, science, and engineering is impressive, but it doesn't sell tickets. Nobody wants to see a race where elite cars get a half-lap jump on the rest of the field and everyone else politely drives in circles for three hours. I'm not saying NASCAR needs more wrecks -- if you're one of those people who goes to a race for the thrill of seeing a driver get injured or worse, you're pondscum. But now that the cars and tracks are MUCH safer, why not let drivers bang it out a little while balancing the technology to give all 42 of them a shot at winning? Once races get exciting again, fans will get emotionally invested and they WILL come back.

I know first-hand that NASCAR's not for everyone. My friends come over and I try to show them an amazing last-lap pass that I've recorded and their eyes roll before I can even grab the remote. But for a lot of us out there, Sundays wouldn't be the same without cars turning left all afternoon. Here's hoping they can figure it out before I have to find a new guilty pleasure. I hear pro wrestling's still a thing, right?

COLUMN: Late

Dear Boss,

I'm sorry I was 25 minutes late for work. Trust me, there's a simple explanation.

I am nothing if not NOT an investigative journalist. And I have carefully utilized my non-journalism degree and lack of investigative skills to uncover a very real conspiracy that runs so deep I might not even be able to convert it into an award-winning screenplay. I hope you people can handle the shock of what I'm about to reveal to you.

Why was I late for work? Because there exists a massive anti-Shane conspiracy involving (I'm pretty sure) the Hyundai Motor Company, Circle K Convenience Stores, The Iowa Interstate Railroad, Apple Computers, The Illinois Department of Transportation, and the passionate libido of a man known only as "Bill." 

As you may know, our office recently relocated to our new home near the East Moline riverfront. I reside in Rock Island. Allowing for my daily stop for caffeinated provisions, it takes precisely 22 minutes to get from my garage to the office parking lot.

Or so I thought. As I backed out of my garage, I noted that I'd left my driver side window cracked. This was noted when it started raining on my face. I generally prefer to make my daily commute free of facial precipitation, but when I hit the "up" button, my window instead made a noise like "gronk" and proceeded to roll DOWN.

My power windows occasionally go a little wonky when it's humid out, and the only way to fix it is to pull over, open the car door, and force the window back into position. Easily accomplished, but I was now sopping wet AND a minute behind schedule. No problem, I can make it up at the gas station.

Or so I thought. Every day when I stop for gas, I'm greeted by the same friendly clerk who has my morning coffee already rung up by the time I get to the counter. THIS day, though, I walked in to see a new clerk I'd never encountered before, who was on the phone with the regular clerk who was running late, and there was much dialogue and explanation to be had. Don't get me wrong, I love that place and everyone who works there, but I was now running FOUR minutes late. A challenge, but one I could handle.

Or so I thought. My car basically drives itself to work. Take the one way around Augie, left on 7th Ave., left on 44th St., annd... TRAIN. Grr. I come from Galesburg, land of trains. I know there's no avoiding trains. They simply make you late and you just have to deal. So as I sat there growing ever more tardy, I simply took solace in the passing graffiti alerting me that "Bill Loves Sweet Pea." Aww.

Five minutes later, I was rolling again, now on pace to be nine minutes late. That's bad, but not awful, and I was in the home stretch.

Or so I thought. Let's get one thing clear: no one asked ME if I wanted a new bridge across the Mississippi. Sure, the old I-74 bridge is a crumbling narrow deathtrap, but what's a trip to Iowa without fearing for your life at least once? I'm a fan of progress, but when progress closes River Drive without warning for God-knows-how-long, I'm less than enthusiastic.

So, too, were the other 30 cars impeded by the sudden detour. So now I was stuck deep in traffic and the only way out was to cut back to the one-way, which meant running into the SAME train AGAIN. In case you were wondering, Bill continues to love Sweet Pea. As I sat there now 14 minutes late, I realized I'd better call the office -- which I would have, had I not left my phone sitting on my couch back at home. I suppose one could argue that I'm more to blame here than Apple, but I wasn't the one who made the iPhone sleek and black and easy to blend into my couch. J'accuse, Steve Jobs!

With the train passed, I just needed to get up to the one-way and haul butt to work. Except the train had caused gridlock in all directions and it took SIX light changes to move three blocks. By the time I got to East Moline, it was too late. I turned to the office in JUST enough time to see the crossing gates go down.

And THAT, friends, is how I got stopped THREE times in one commute by the SAME TRAIN. As I sat there, looking at my office just past the boxcars, I wondered what Bill and Sweet Pea were doing just then. I'd like to think that Sweet Pea dumped Bill later that night because he showed up late after getting stopped by the very train he had just graffitoed. You suck, Bill.

And then, as the last car passed, I saw it. Just there, in the corner, was one simple piece of graffiti: "BILL RULES." I hope my co-workers didn't hear me cursing Bill from a block away, but it's a distinct possibility.

So THAT, boss, is why I was late. It's clearly a Bill-helmed masterplan. I guess I'll be setting the alarm a little earlier. I bet Bill gets to sleep in. Hey Sweet Pea, if you want to date a REAL man, give me a call. Just don't expect me to be on time.