COLUMN: East Moline

I wonder what everyday people think our newsroom is like? Do you picture a bunch of neurotic, overly-caffeinated chain-smokers wearing fedoras with little cards that say "PRESS," each struggling to be heard over the clickety-clack of typewriters and screaming editors? Wrong -- we lost the hats, like, years ago.

Or maybe you envision one of our popular "fake news" cabals, where me and the rest of the Illuminati gather routinely to sup the blood of the innocent while figuring out the best ways to subvert you and your government THIS week.  You poor sheeple, you probably still think a METEOR killed the dinosaurs. (It was Hillary.)

The honest truth is that our office is probably a lot like YOUR office: mostly boring, sometimes fun, often not at all fun, and very seldom column-worthy. But they say you should write what you know, and all I know this month is that we've moved to a new office in a new town and I'm trying my very best to defy my inner nature and not FREAK OUT.

After umpteen years (and 22 of my gainful employment,) we've parted ways with our long-time home in downtown Moline and have now set up shop in uncharted waters on the edge of downtown East Moline. Whenever change occurs in my life, it's usually my job to curl up into a little ball and assume that the world is ending. But the only thing I'm accomplishing by curling into a ball is making myself late for work. Besides, I bruised my tailbone so bad on the ice that curling is outside my range of motion at the moment.

So I've been taking the optimistic route. Or at least the quiet route. It hasn't been bad. It's just been... different.

• The only real red mark against the new digs is that it increases my commute by eleven minutes each way. That's eleven additional minutes I could be sleeping, and that's a huge infraction in my book. At least, it's eleven interesting minutes commuting alongside the Ben Butterworth Parkway, which offers compelling views of ducks, water, nature, and the occasional beloved seafood restaurant tragically engulfed in flame. (RIP Captain's Table, please come back soon!) 

• The future's so bright, I gotta wear shades. Windows were such a rare commodity in our old building that we notoriously had a light that management would switch on to let us know it was raining outside. Our new building, however, appears to be fully constructed and supported by windows. I'm not kidding. If Ella Fitzgerald cracks ONE high C, we're done for. It's a bit intimidating.

• We've gone from a building with countless nooks, crannies, and hiding places to a one-room cubicle farm. I am now a pod person, communicating with co-workers only when their heads pop over their cubes like prairie dogs.

• I've never even worked on the same floor as our reporters before. Now I share a cubicle wall with them. Specifically, with their police scanner, which every eighteen seconds goes, "KKKK! ROGER 12 ADAM WE HAVE A 10-43 IN PROGRESS. ONE ADAM 19 CHARLIE TANGO VICTOR OUT! KKKK!" I have no idea what any of it means, but it definitely sounds more exciting than what I'm doing.

• We all have new phones at our desks, and they're great, except when they're ringing, which is always. For some ungodly reason, every default ringtone on these phones sounds like a wicked new age harp solo. And when eight of them are ringing at once (as is often the case,) it sounds like a gaggle of Enyas arguing with one another.

• On the plus side, there's nothing more fun than watching my co-workers get co-worked up over having to wait for trains. I hail from Galesburg, a town where you're lucky to get from your kitchen to your bathroom without having to wait for Amtrak to pass. Take it from a professional trainspotter: when the gate comes down and a coal train comes sauntering by, all you can do is accept that you're going to be late, relax, and enjoy the travelling museum of graffiti art before you.

• Dear East Moline, you've been very welcoming. You all seem quite lovely. But your water tastes icky. And I live in Rock Island, so I know plenty about icky-tasting water. Please don't be offended while I stick with Dasani.

Actually, East Moliners, now that I've insulted your water, I need a little help. I don't know much about your town, and I need to find some good lunch haunts in our new neck of the woods. Any suggestions? E-mail me at sbrown@qconline.com and let my stomach be your plaything.

COLUMN: Butthurt

Well, I wondered how long it would take for the winter of 2018 to cause me bodily damage.

The answer, as it turned out, was seven days. If you had ONE WEEK in my injury pool, you're a winner. The worst bit?  It COULD be argued that there MIGHT have been a SLIGHT chance that this one was avoidable.

It was one of those blessedly boring Sunday afternoons where I was groggily waking up at the crack of noon. That's about when I received an unusual text from my mom.

"FOR GOSH SAKE WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T GO OUTSIDE."

This is not the normal sort of communique I'm used to receiving from my mother. My mom's texts are usually more like, "YOUR AUNT CALLED. THEYRE OK." Or "HOW IS CAT?" Or, on a particularly brave day, "WHAT IS A SNAPCHAT? CONFUSED." Mom is not usually prone to issuing prophetic warnings via text message.

Whatever I do, don't go outside? This isn't good. I had exactly four things in my refrigerator -- three of which were condiments and the fourth appeared to be growing a fifth. I had a long-standign plan for the day in my head which involved me, my car, and a large plate of enchiladas from whatever restaurant lucky enough to serve me.

Maybe the world was ending. For a minute there, my sleep-addled brain almost forgot that we now live in a world where each day should really begin by checking Twitter to ensure that our commander-in-chief didn't get a 4 a.m. urge to hurl race-baiting insults at nuclear countries with itchy trigger fingers. But no, apart from a routine jab at CNN, Twitter was joyously Trump-free.

I looked out the window and everything seemed fine. My folks live fifty miles south of here. Maybe there was some freakish snowstorm that we missed by miles. Outside MY window, birds were chirping and no snow was falling. Call it curiosity. Call it a quest for knowledge. All I knew was that whatever I did, I had to go outside.

The back steps looked safe and inviting. I mean, sure, it was a little more brisk than usual, but a sudden cold front shouldn't be enough to keep one from an enchilada destiny, no? What the heck could my mom have possibly been --

KER-WHUMP!

I take that back. It didn't go KER-WHUMP! There wasn't enough time for KER-WHUMP! I'm pretty sure there was only time for "KE" and I was already on the ground.

As it turned out, this pretty winter day was especially gleaming due to the glaze of ice that had frozen onto pretty much everything. I had stepped off my back steps onto a makeshift ice rink, wherein my feet went flying over my head while my, err, southern lands came promptly down butt-first onto the sharp, hard, and impressively sturdy edges of my back steps.

At least, that's what I THINK happened. The whole affair took about 1/16th of a second and that's about all I can piecemeal together of the incident. I was too busy reacting to the fall - and the reaction I chose was to immediately start FAKE LAUGHING.

I think the initial adrenaline boost kicked my brain into this split-second reasoning: "You just fell. Hard. This is horribly embarassing, and extra stupid since your mother just warned you about this very sort of thing. I bet you looked hella foolish to any neighbors who may have been watching. You need to play it off as though you're in on the joke and can take a harmless pratfall for the team. HA. HA HA HA HA. HA HA HA HA. Are they buying it? We're all just having fun, right? RIGHT?"

I looked around. No one was pointing or laughing. No one was there at all. Why? Because my neighbors aren't idiots. THEY listened to their mothers and stayed inside when they were told. THEY knew it was icy out. THEY were probably watching football and eating mountains of enchiladas.

I, meanwhile, was bleeding. My arm was all skinned up, and no amount of fake laughs could mask the pain that was starting to shoot up from Down Yonder. I gingerly stood up and nearly passed out from the tingly pain searing from my tailbone, which I'm pretty sure I've either bruised, cracked, or otherwise turned into abstract art. A week and a half later, it's a LITTLE better, but not much. Everybody I've talked to says this is to be expected. The internet says to give it a month.

How do ice skaters do this sort of thing on a daily basis? I was watching Olympic trials recently and saw little girls a third my size take harder falls to the butt, only to get up and moments later perform a triple axel like nothing had happened? I, meanwhile, performed a triple whimper on my way to the freezer to sit on ice for the rest of the night.

I've learned many truths this past week: (1) There's no way to look casual when you're 47 with the top speed of an 85-year-old. (2) There's no way to look cool when you're carrying one of those butt donuts to sit on. (3) Whoever invented those butt donuts should be our next president. (4) Listen to your mothers. (5) For gosh sake, whatever you do, don't go outside. Not til spring, at least.

COLUMN: Trax from the Stax

If you could have your ultimate dream job, what would it be?

The answer might be harder than you think. For me, one immediate thought came to mind: Somehow getting paid to watch TV.

Some people out there get paid to be TV critics, right? But TV critics don't get paid to WATCH TV. They get paid to CRITIQUE it. That might be a fun job, but it's no ultimate dream job. Why would you want an ultimate dream job where you had to actually USE your brain to constantly drum up critical thought? I don't want to analyze TV; I just wanna watch it.

Plus, I would also want full control over WHAT I was watching. It'd be just my luck to land a job where I get paid to watch TV only to discover that the only TV they'd pay me to watch was reruns of "Full House." That "dream job" would suddenly be a nightmare.

So I thought about it some more and I know what my ultimate dream job would be. It's a job that would be fun, rewarding, and perhaps even beneficial to all mankind:

My ultimate dream job would be lecturing to strangers about good music and forcing everyone to listen to all my favorite bands.

Okay, maybe it wouldn't be quite as beneficial to all mankind as, say, building houses for the homeless. But what could be more horrific than building someone a house only later to discover that someone was inside that house listening to Nickelback? Shudder.

I like awesome bands that not enough people on Earth know about, and I could run around the country like a musical Santa spreading peace, joy, and awesome tunes throughout the land.

And I can't believe it, but it's happening.

I got a call a few weeks back from Lucas Berns. Lucas works for the Bettendorf Public Library and runs a free monthly program there called Trax from the Stax. The program's goal is to expose folks to music they might not be familiar with. Guest presenters come in every month, play a few selections highlighting an artist or genre, and then chat about it for an hour.

This wasn't the library calling me. No, this was DESTINY calling me! I'm pretty sure I was put on the planet to lead one of these presentations. Most of my friends remain my friends because either (a) they like the same esoteric and weird music that I do; (b) I've convinced them to like the same esoteric and weird music that I do; or (c) they lie and tell me how much they like the same weird and esoteric music just so I'll shut up.

This phone call was it. My moment of fame. My ultimate dream job was... was...

"I'm calling because we heard that you're somewhat of an expert in the genre of K-Pop? Would you be willing to..."

Okay, you know what's worse than getting hired to watch TV only to find out you can only watch "Full House"? I do. How about landing a job where you can talk to strangers about music only to find out you have to talk to them about Korean boy bands?

I pride myself in having a wide knowledge base about all kinds of popular (and more often than not, UN-popular) music. But I don't know a single thing about the crazy manufactured world of Korean Top 40 pop music lovingly known as "K-Pop." This was a horrible dilemma. I wanted to curate one of these presentations so bad I could taste it.

"Maybe," the little devil guy on my shoulder said, "You could pull it off. Tell him yes, then race home and spend the next month learning everything you can about Korean pop music. You can fake your way through it, you know you can."

But I couldn't. The music's just too awful. I'd be in my basement, going insane, trying to jam out to music normally reserved for either 16-year-old Korean girls or 50-year-old Korean pedophiles. I just couldn't do it. So in one breathless e-mail, I wrote back and politely explained that I knew nothing about K-Pop but that I would quite literally sell my soul to a stranger for the opportunity to host one of these nights and pick the genre of my choice.

Shockingly, they consented. And this Thursday, Jan. 20th, at 7:30 p.m., I'll be the guest presenter at the Bettendorf Public Library's "Trax from the Stax." Ever wanted to meet me? More specifically, ever wanted me to play music in your earholes and tell you why it's awesome? This is your chance. It's open and free to the public and I'd love to see you there.

So what genre did I pick? It was an easy choice for me.

In the early 1990s, a collective of fringe bands from the UK figured out how to crank the volume to 11 while creating ethereal soundscapes of pure sonic bliss. Some fans claimed the music could take them to a higher state of consciousness. Bewildered critics called it "shoegaze" -- and it changed my life.

I have one hour to help it change yours, too. Come down to the library and give it a chance. Trust me, it'll be fun. If nothing else, I get nicely embarassed when it comes to public speaking, so even if you're not a fan of the tunes, it'll be worth it to see me get all sweaty and awkward. I won't care, though -- it's my ultimate dream job.

COLUMN: Best of 2017 - TV

One of the most famous -- and perhaps most misunderstood -- pieces of advice given aspiring authors is this: WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. Okay, then, let's be honest: I know a lot about TV. At least, I sure watch a whole lot of it. So every year, I get one week to write what I know and tell you my picks for the best TV series of the past year:

#10 - Kevin (Probably) Saves the World (ABC). - This show could have been SO hokey. An everyman loser gets visited by an angel who tasks him to do good deeds and save righteous souls. This could have been "Highway to Heaven" or "Touched By An Angel" or any number of schlocky heartstring-tugging ratings-grabbers. But Jason Ritter plays everyman Kevin with such a childlike naivety and innocent charm that it salvages the sometimes silly plotlines and makes this show just plain fun to watch. I hope it sticks around long enough to make an impact.

#9 - Life in Pieces (CBS). For three years now, "Life in Pieces" has seemed to exist simply to fill time after "The Big Bang Theory," which is incredibly unfair. Joke for joke, it's the funniest show on network TV right now. THe formula's simple: Assemble the most talented ensemble comedy cast you can, give them a script full of edgy jokes at a frenetic pace, and watch the magic happen.

#8 - Riverdale (The CW). When I first heard they were making a teen drama based on the classic Archie comics, I rolled my eyes HARD. But then it aired, and all was forgiven. This is not the Archie we read as a kid. This is Archie done CW style. That means murder, intrigue, and romance delivered in a deliciously hammy package. It's an over-the-top Riverdale where street gangs named Serpents and Ghoulies get high-schoolers hooked on drugs called "jingle-jangle." It's a world where Archie's parents are played by Luke Perry and Molly Ringwald. It's ridiculous and it's wonderful. Welcome to your new guilty pleasure.

#7 - Legion (FX). Just when I was ready to scream "ENOUGH WITH THE SUPERHERO SHOWS!" comes this genre-saving mind-melter from FX. Based on a fringe splinter X-Men comic, Legion tells the story of David Haller, a man diagnosed with schizophrenia at a young age who's spent much of his life in a psychiatric hospital. But what's real and what's a delusion? Is Haller really schizophrenic? Or could he possibly be the most powerful mutant on Earth? Maybe he's both. The show's not big on answers, instead presenting it to you through Haller's unreliable narrative as he tries to understand and control his truth and identity. It's a non-stop headspin and captivating as all get out.

#6 - The Good Place (NBC). Never bet against Michael Schur, the veteran SNL writer who went on to produce the "The Office" and create shows like "Parks & Recreation" and "Brooklyn Nine-Nine." His newest inventive sitcom tells the story of Eleanor, a soul who lived a bad life but, thanks to a clerical mix-up, ends up in "The Good Place." It's a heavenly oasis created and run by Michael, an "architect" played with scene-chewing gusto by Ted Danson. Watching Eleanor struggle to be good is a premise that seems too odd for network TV, but Schur pulls it off with liberal doses of laughs, humanity, and a surprise ending to season one that made me jump out of my chair.

#5 - Rick and Morty (Adult Swim.) The most innovative show on TV, "Rick & Morty" somehow manages the impossible: It makes the gags on "South Park" seem tame and dated. This envelope-pushing cartoon is the brainchild of Dan Harmon, who brought us the sitcom "Community" and knows a thing or two about how to push envelopes. For 3 seasons now, Rick & Morty have let us tag along with their inter-dimensional adventures, and the new season's just as shocking and laugh-out-loud funny as you could possibly want.

#4 - Search Party (TBS). Laughs come easy in this bleakest of dark comedies, where a numb hipster desperate for feelings and ambition sees a former classmate on a missing persons poster. When she tells her pack of self-absorbed and nearly intolerable friends, they begin a mission to find their missing friend, despite the fact that they were never really friends with her in the first place. Occasionally terrifying, mostly silly, and the breakout performance of the year from Alia Shawkat in the lead role.

#3 - Game of Thrones (HBO). Sometimes it's tough to even remember that "Game of Thrones" is a TV show. It certainly plays more like a movie, and new episodes are getting rarer than Star Wars sequels these days. As winter finally comes to Westeros, only a few episodes of the fantasy epic remain. This year, tensions started rapidly rising towards a looming conclusion no one knows the answers to yet. If you haven't gotten onboard GoT, you're running out of time. Trust me, it WILL be your loss.

#2 - Stranger Things (Netflix). The second season of the nostalgia-filled 80's monster throwback returned to Netflix this fall and most certainly did NOT disappoint. The Upside Down gets turned inside out this season, and as you'd expect, the only ones capable of saving the world are the same ragtag group of kids that saved it last year. It's fun, it's scary, and it might be the most binge-worthy show of all time.

#1 - Twin Peaks (Showtime). I never thought it would happen. 25 years after my favorite TV show of all time signed off with an infuriatingly vague ending, Twin Peaks returned. But this was no ordinary reboot with a new cast and similar plot. No, this was a brand new chapter to the original story, with most of the original cast returning and the plot picking up 25 years after we left it. But this time, freed by the move from network TV to Showtime, Twin Peaks director and co-creator David Lynch could -- and DID -- go full-throttle freaky, turning the new series into a nearly incomprehensible coda that fans will be dissecting on message boards and at conventions for years to come. It's not TV; it's a work of art.

The only thing bad about television in 2017 is that there might not ever be another year this good.

COLUMN: Best of 2017 - Music

It's the most wonderful time of the year -- when you have to suffer through my pics for the 10 best records of the year. 2016 was a dull year for music, but 2017 made up for it in spades. Last year, I had to fight to find ten records worth celebrating. This year, I'd love to fit about 24 records into ten slots. If I have to narrow it down, though, they go like this:

10. St. Vincent - Masseduction - Annie Clark has spent a decade now making left-of-center subversive pop music under the guise St. Vincent, but never on as large a scale as "Masseduction." If critics are right when they call her the "female Bowie," then this is her "Let's Dance." Clark is a gifted guitarist, but you'd barely know here. "Masseduction" is all about the synths, driven by in-demand producers like Fun's Jack Antonoff and Kendrick Lamar's primary beatmaker Sounwave. If Clark doesn't watch it, the pop music she excels at subverting might soon be her own.



9. Grace VanderWaal - Just the Beginning - Grace VanderWaal won last year's season of America's Got Talent. She's 13 years old. Neither of those facts are as astonishing as how good her debut record is. It's one thing to be a kid and know how to write songs. It's another thing altogether to be a kid and make THIS. The plucky little ukelele that helped her win AGT is present, but now it's surrounded by rich production that runs the gamut from pop to Caribbean to psychedelia. Most mind-blowing of all is the mature control VanderWaal has over her trademark raspy voice at an age when most kids only care about zits and homework. This record isn't just good for a 13-year-old. It's better than most of her peers.



8. White Reaper - The World's Best American Band - Most indie rock upstarts pride themselves on the same influences: a little Talking Heads, a bit of Pavement, a working knowledge of The Smiths & Dinosaur, Jr., etc. But you get the feeling that the boys of Nashville's White Reaper never spent time record-diving in an indie shop. Instead, it sounds like they were raised on a steady diet of Thin Lizzy, Kiss, and The Cars. The resulting bubblegum-rock might be derivative, but in a sea of bearded indie troubadors who take themselves way too seriously, this is the most refreshing record to cross my stereo all year.



7. Kendrick Lamar - DAMN. - 2017 was a lousy year for rap music. Greatness was out there, but the charts were defined and dominated this year by an assortment of flash-in-the-pan mumble-rappers destined for one-hit-wonderdom. So in a world of disposable hip-hop, what do you do if you're the best rapper on the planet? If you're Kendrick Lamar, you come out fighting. "DAMN." is right. This is Kendrick at his most biting and aggressive, knocking out clever wordplay at a lightning-fast pace, proving haters wrong and the critics right. No one can touch him.   



6. Lorde - Melodrama - Lorde arrived on the scene four years ago as a snotty but talented 16-year-old who already seemed to have the world figured out. A few years later, it sounds like she's realizing just how much she didn't know. "Melodrama" finds the Australian chanteuse ruminating over love lost and loneliness, all set to a sparse soundtrack from producer Jack Antonoff that lets every quirky element of Lorde's intimate voice shine. Lead single "Greenlight" provides the year's ultimate "dance like nobody's watching" moment, and this record should ensure a long career is hers for the taking. 



5. Ride - Weather Diaries - It's fairly tough to be level-headed when your favorite band reunites after 25 years for a brand new record. It's even tougher when the record's great. Ride could have made a noisy retread into 90s shoegazing and made their fans happy right there. Instead, they use their wall-of-sound background to expand their sonic palette into a record that should satisfy fans of new indie rock as it does with us old guard who've loved them since 1991. I still say they're the best band on Earth. "Weather Diaries" might not be the best record of the year, but it's definitely my favorite.



4. PWR BTTM - Pageant - 2017 was set to be PWR BTTM's big year. The queer rock duo had already garnered headlines like "America's Next Great Rock Band" and the advance buzz over their second album was palpable. But two days before its release, allegations of sex abuse involving the band arose on social media. Within 48 hours, the band had been dropped by their record label, their tour cancelled, and stores asked to return unsold copies of "Pageant." What could have been a powerful rallying cry for equality may end up little more than an obscure rarity. It's a real shame.



3. Bleachers - Gone Now - Jack Antonoff has morphed from "that guy from Fun" into one of today's most sought-after producers. In fact, he helmed 3 of the albums on this very list. Thankfully, though, he saved his best work for his own project. For his second outing under the Bleachers moniker, Antonoff pushes his bedroom laptop production skills to the limits, layering every track with bombastic effects, vocal change-ups, and interesting samples that make for a compelling, confident masterpiece.



2. Slowdive - Slowdive - When 90s shoegaze pioneers Slowdive announced a surprise reformation and reunion album last year, it was music to fans' ears. But no one was expecting them to produce the most cohesive and creative album of their career. The wall-of-sound guitars are still there, but the teenaged Slowdive of yore have now become mature songwriters, adding a delicate and refined beauty to their soundscapes. Thirty seconds in and you're already floating away like a shimmer on a sea of aural bliss.



1. SUSTO - & I'm Fine Today - Justin Osborne is a Southern man and a troubled soul, and we know because he either brags about it or apologizes for it in nearly every song of SUSTO's small but rich catalog. But behind the "aww, shucks" country-folk facade lies some of the greatest pop songwriting ever committed to wax. SUSTO's second album is augmented with sounds no Americana band is supposed to feature -- strings, horns, synthesizers, drum machines, and even a few Cuban rhythms surround inescapable hooks that require your immediate attention. What should be a simple album ends up being quite simply the best record of 2017 by a country mile.



Even if you just listen to ONE of these, it's worth it. Next week? My picks for the ten best TV shows of 2017.