COLUMN: I Voted

Well, here it is. As I sit writing this column a few days ahead of schedule, it's another Tuesday election night and primary results are beginning to roll in on my TV. So far, it looks like most predictions are coming true and there will be no UMBC-style upset surprises out of this governmental March madness.

As for me, a couple of my picks are going to take home primary wins tonight, while a couple of my dark horse favorites aren't faring so well. It doesn't seem like there'll be any hanging-chad style squeakers tonight, so in the long run, my vote probably didn't matter a whole bunch. I'm still glad I cast it, though.

It's neat to be reminded that we live in a democracy where everybody has their say. Of course, we also live in Illinois, where only multi kajillionaires with enough money to coat TV screens in fear-mongering stand a chance of governing, but hey -- we're also a state that has no problem sending the ones who do a bad job straight to prison, so I suppose it balances out.

There's something about voting, though, that makes me feel so... adult. That's kind of ridiculous given the fact that I've been one for 30 some odd years now, but still. Walking into a polling place and hearing your name called out just sort of says, "I matter. I am part of your community. Now give me my Sharpie and my little 'I voted' sticker."

Truth be told, the voting process is nothing for me but concrete proof of what an ill-informed human being I am. I went to my polling place today for the big ticket races: Governor. Attorney General. Sheriff. Beyond that? I had no clue what I was doing. I don't know anything about tiny local races, and I WORK FOR A NEWSPAPER. In full disclosure, I have no idea what a comptroller is or does. It sounds like someone who gets paid to insult you on the internet, and we've already got a President who does that weekly for free.

Thankfully, in this primary, most of the undercard races were running unopposed -- so why bother forcing us to fill in the little circle by their name? Has there ever been an unopposed candidate so virulently hated that not ONE person voted for them? All it would take is that candidate to vote for him/herself to get elected, right?

Worse, though, were the two small races that DID involve multiple candidates. Since I knew nothing about any of the candidates, I should have done the mature thing and abstained from voting in those categories. But nope, not me. I was on a roll. I just picked the ones whose names I thought sounded the nicest. There's a smart move, Brown. So I suppose the biggest takeaway from this column is that you can be a rapist Nazi running on a comprehensive platform of puppy torture and forced public feeding of brussel sprouts, but as long as your name SOUNDS pleasant enough, THIS voter has your back. This, of course, is equally bad news if you're a saintly humanitarian named Stabby McMurderpants.

Every once in a while, I'll think to myself, "You should make a difference, Shane. Maybe you should run for city council." And then I'll feel very self-important for 2 seconds. And then I'll usually start laughing. It seems the one thing stronger than my need to make a difference is my childish need to be liked and accepted. And if you've ever yearned to become instantly hated by half the populace, there's no easier way to do it than run for office.

And I don't mean disliked. I mean HATED. Look at my uncle down in Alabama. To my knowledge, he's never met any major national politician or even sat through one of their stump speeches. That said, his Facebook feed informs me constantly of his firm belief that Hillary Clinton is a murderer, the entire Clinton family are Satanists, Barack Obama is a devout Muslim intent on bringing Sharia law to the U.S., and every Democrat is coming for our guns so that we'll all be defenseless when the great scourge of Socialism infects our shores. These are things he really believes.

I'm not built to withstand such irrational hate. I wrote a column last year that ticked off a handful of backyard urban chicken-keepers and it was nearly enough to give me daily panic attacks. Some people are born to lead. My role is best served supporting those leaders I support, and, well, comptrolling the ones I don't. Here's to the ones brave enough to give it a shot.

I just hope that today's winners end tomorrow's political gridlock. 

COLUMN: Ray

My usual role here is to be the snarky guy who makes fun of the crummier parts of life. I suppose it's a fairly easy gig. After all, a whole lot of life is crummy. But even the crummiest parts of life are better than the alternative.

A couple of weeks ago, we lost our friend Ray. If you're from the Quad Cities and you consider yourself a music nerd, you probably knew Ray Malone. If you went to a show at Circa '21 in the past decade or so, you've heard his audio mix and probably didn't realize it. If you were ever in a struggling penniless Midwest punk band, there's a pretty good chance that Ray helped record your music.

He probably could have made a name for himself in the big leagues of sound mixing. After high school, Ray went to school for audio engineering at the Conservatory of Recording Arts and Sciences in Arizona. Afterwards, he moved to Los Angeles and interned at a reknowned recording studio while spending his nights moonlighting as a drum tech, setting up and soundchecking percussion for a growing list of L.A. musicians.

But rather than stay out west and try to make it big, Ray decided to move home to the Quad Cities and concentrate his efforts on helping struggling musicians in the midwest. There were a number of ramshackle studios built on the cheap, from the Kanga in downtown Davenport to the infamous Hilltop locale that musicians would affectionately call "The Lab." For awhile, he operated out of his dad's basement before creating a semi-permanent home at the Sound & Vision Studios in Moline. At the same time, he picked up a steady job running the soundboard for Circa '21's award-winning dinner theatre.

Over the years, dozens of bands from all over the Midwest would throw their gear in a van and make the pilgrimage to Moline to trust Ray's growing reputation as a knowledgeable yet affordable producer.

"It was always exciting to see young musicians come in to record with Ray," explains Jon Burns, Ray's friend and former bandmate. "A professional studio can be pretty intimidating, but Ray had an uncanny ability to immediately make his clients feel at ease. His friendly, charming nature helped relax musicians into feeling comfortable, and that's an important factor in getting a good recording."

"Ray entered into every project like a kid in a candy store," Jon says. "He sometimes seemed more excited about a recording than the musicians themselves."

"I respected Ray on a level that I did not exist on," says area musician and Daytrotter illustrator Johnnie Cluney. "He was a real engineer and musician. He went to school for recording, but forget that. He had a great ear and he was a hell of a player."

And now those same musicians are helping pay back the memory of their friend and mentor. This week sees the online release of "Songs in the Key of Ray," a 23-track compilation on Bandcamp of songs Ray either performed, produced, or recorded over the years. A minimum donation of $10 gets you a download and streaming code for the entire compilation, and all proceeds go to an education fund set up for Ray's daughter Rose.

For me, Ray was just one of those guys we were lucky to have around. You seldom had a bad time if he was in the room. In my experience as a weekend club DJ, sometimes those who consider themselves "real musicians" turn a nose at those of who press play on other people's music for a hobby. I never got that vibe from Ray. Of all the hours I've spent in a DJ booth, few were more fun than when Ray and his friends would saunter in and vogue their way around the dancefloor to any Michael Jackson songs I could scramble to play.

I hadn't seen Ray in a while, but was lucky enough to bump into him on the street a couple months ago. I wasn't even sure if he'd acknowledge me outside of a DJ booth. But when he saw me, his face lit up, and a great bear hug followed as we stood around chatting about music and Rose and his future plans of opening a new and better studio this year. It's tough to think that future generations of new bands won't be able to seek his ear or mentorship. Music and stories, however, last forever -- and we've got those in spades.

So thanks, Ray Malone, for making the Quad Cities a lot more interesting. Rest in peace? Ha. He'd never want it that way. Rest in bedlam's more his style. If there's a heavenly reward waiting for us, Ray's up there now scoping out the scene and teaching the angels how to make an unholy racket. I hope I see my friend again one day.

Until then, I'll settle for listening to him. You can download the charity compilation "Songs in the Key of Ray" at https://quadcitiesmusicarchive.bandcamp.com/album/songs-in-the-key-of-ray.

COLUMN: Gucci Gang

I just can't ever get through the day without at least one person coming up to me and asking, "Hey there, award-winning columnist and man-about-town, Shane Brown. How do you stay so gosh darned COOL AND HIP all the time?"

The answer is simple: I keep my ears to the street. It's a pre-requisite for my favorite hobby of DJing. On the weekends, I spin records at clubs that feature both hipping AND hopping. This means I have to constantly be aware of the urban sound of today and appreciative of such a complicated and intelligent art form.

"But Shane," you say, "isn't most of today's popular rap music little more than recycled trap beats and throwaway mumble-rap made by stoned losers destined for tomorrow's one-hit wonder charts? Apart from a few special artists like Kendrick Lamar, Tyler the Creator, and Chance the Rapper, isn't this the worst era for hip-hop to date?"

"Pshaw!" I retort to you. Clearly you don't have an ear for the complex artistry that comprises today's chart-topping trap bangers. It might sound like talentless mumbling to you, but that's just because you've never taken the time to analyze and fully appreciate the lyrical genius and depth of today's best-sellers.

Take, for instance, the majestic chart-topper "Gucci Gang" by the renowned poet Lil Pump. Not only has this "song" graced us with its presence in the Top 40 charts for the last month, but it's also brought us some of the most ingenious wordplay of our day. Yes, it takes a real poet like Lil Pump to take a complex phrase like "Gucci Gang" and rhyme it with an equally complex phrase such as "Gucci Gang." And then when he only occasionally departs from rhyming "Gucci Gang" with "Gucci Gang," that's when things get truly interesting. Instead of finding any words that actually rhyme with "gang," he opts instead for some words he deems, well, close enough. I'm pretty sure he might even fall asleep at one point during the song, which is clearly a sign of an artist who lives and breathes for his craft.

Let's take a closer, family-friendly look at the words of "Gucci Gang," a wistful yet crowd-pleasing ode to his group of friends, whom he affectionately calls the "Gucci Gang."

LYRIC: "Yuh, ooh, brr, brr. Gucci gang. Ooh! Yuh. Lil Pump, yuh. Gucci gang, ooh, yuh, brr."
TRANSLATION: Yes, oh, I may be catching a cold. My friends. Ooh! Yes. I am Lil Pump, ooh yes, and I am a bit chilly.

LYRIC: "Gucci gang. Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang. Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang."
TRANSLATION: My friends. My friends, my friends, my friends, my friends, my friends. My friends, my friends, my friends.

LYRIC: "Spend three racks on a new chain, my [expletive] love do cocaine, ooh."
TRANSLATION: I just bought a spanky new necklace for $3000. The bad news is that my female dog has somehow become a drug addict!

LYRIC: "I [expletive] a [expletive], I forgot her name brr yuh, I can't buy a [expletive] no wedding ring."
TRANSLATION: Yes, I just love my female dog, despite not being able to recall her name. I cannot, however, marry her, for I am a human and she is a dog and I am clearly a firm believer in traditional marriage.

LYRIC: "My lean cost more than your rent / Yo momma still live in a tent / Still slanging dope in the jects, huh yeah!"
TRANSLATION: The expenses of my drug addiction are greater than your cost of living. Were you to incur my expenses, you would be homeless like your mother. [Note: Ooh, sick burn, Lil Pump.] If you're inquiring as to whether or not I still deal drugs in low income housing areas, the answer is an enthusiastic YES!

LYRIC: "They kick me out the plane off Percocet / Now Lil Pump flyin' private jet / Everybody scream [expletive] Westjet!"
TRANSLATION: This is where Lil Pump and I think alike. A year ago, he was kicked off a flight for being under the influence of drugs and disturbing the peace. So, for his first national commercial single, he opts to use his 15 minutes of fame to insult the airline.

Bravo, Lil Pump. Honestly, I'd do the same thing. Well, except for the female dog stuff. But if I were to suddenly get MY fifteen minutes, I'd like to think I'd also use it to right some personal wrongs. My closest friends don't have a cool clique name, though, so my single wouldn't be called "Gucci Gang."

I fear my single would be more like:

"Jason, Linn, Sunnie, Dianna, and Reid,
Jason, Linn, Sunnie, Dianna, and Reid,
They're all the friends I need,
Jason, Linn, Sunnie, Dianna, and Reid.

Hunger pangs kept me up wide awake,
Late night drive-thru i did partake,
Came home to instant heartache:
Where's my chili? Curse you, Steak 'n' Shake!"

Sorry for the edginess there, folks, but sometimes that's what it takes to remain as gosh-darned COOL AND HIP as me. I just hope one day I'll be cool enough that Steak 'n' Shake won't forget to give me my chili.

COLUMN: Bathtub

(Note: NOT my actual bathtub. LOL.)

One of the problems with writing a column every week is that with one wrong turn, you can reveal TMI -- Too Much Information. Sometimes it's easy to give away details about your personal life that nobody needs or wants to hear. This week's column might just qualify as TMI, because honestly, it's kind of gross.

But I've got a problem, Quad Cities, and I need your help. Unfortunately, it's also kind of a disgusting problem, so apologies all around if you didn't pick up your Monday paper expecting to read about my bathroom. Trust me, though -- two months ago, I wasn't expecting to WRITE about my bathroom. But I promise, no bodily functions are involved. It's not THAT gross.

I've never made a huge secret of the fact that I'm not exactly the tidiest of humans. My house is very likely messier than yours. I will guarantee it has more cat hairs than yours. Spic and span are two words NOT often found in my vocabulary.

That said, I try not to let things ever get out of control. I think I'm somewhere around the standard of single-guy messiness. I know the difference between messy and filthy, and I try never to cross that line. Yes, when you come over to my place, there will be junk out and you may have to scoot aside some papers, boxes, or 1-2 cats to make room on the couch. But I don't let things ever get truly dirty. It's probably the only GOOD thing about being a hypochondriac -- I can live in mess, but not in filth. If things start getting bad, I won't hesitate to get out the bleach and scrub-a-dub-dub.

But two months ago, a first for me happened since moving into this house some five years ago. I was in the shower when I suddenly realized I was ankle deep in standing water. Nope, I hadn't accidentally kicked the stopper on. My tub was simply not draining. When the water finally DID work its way out, I discovered the culprit -- there, atop my drain, was a thin layer of... what can only be described as "ick." Like a gross slimy grey film of nastiness that was blocking the drain.

I steadied the gag reflex, grabbed a rag and some bleach, and cleaned it right up and the tub drained fine... for 2 days. Then the tiny layer of ick was back and once again clogging my drain. This time, I attacked with some drain cleaner, which decimated the stuff... for 4 days. Then it came back AGAIN. I've been playing this disgusting game for two months now, and I have yet to figure what this congealing gross goo is. The way I see it, there's only a few possible answers:

(1) I am somehow emitting a sticky grey filmy substance while showering and should probably seek immediate medical attention. While I'm pretty sure this is NOT the case, it's interesting to note this was my first general worry, as if it were perfectly natural for a person to start randomly molting grey slime. I am not the sort of person to leave my house unshowered, let alone dripping with any kind of grey discharge, plus no one (not even friends) has pointed at me and gone "Eww!" since about junior high. I'm thinking I'm safe.

(2) Some kind of ghost, monster, and/or ectoplasm-covered stranger has been sneaking into my house and using my shower while I'm not looking. This may be a horrifying prospect, but I would still greatly prefer it to (1) above. Plus, I enjoy ghost hunting shows and I think I'd be cool sharing my living space with a spirit whose only unfinished business is simply taking repetitive showers.

(3) Could some kind of soap or cleanser be to blame? Odds are slim. I'm a creature of habit and I've been using the same bathtime products since I moved in here. Either it takes half a decade for my body wash to turn grey and filmy or I'm barking up the wrong tree. Plus, I really DO clean my tub on a regular basis, so I'm not casting the blame on a build-up of Garnier Fructis. I've even been using the same tub cleaner since I moved in.

(4) A believable culprit COULD be Rock Island's water supply. I love my town, I really do, but let's get real here: Rock Island water comes out of the tap grey. If you pour it into a clear glass, it's still grey five minutes later. I'm sure it's legally fine, but you still won't ever catch me drinking or even cooking with the stuff.

(5) Perhaps whatever's coating the top of my drain is actually coming UP from the drain itself. It HAS been a rather wet season, so I could see the potential for some kind of stomach-turning septic backup situation. But if this were the case, wouldn't it be happening to ALL my drains? Not even the sump in my basement looks to have taken on any water, and the only drain seemingly affected by this toxic muck is my bathtub. And it's only a very tiny layer that never seems to leave the drain guard itself.

So I remain perplexed. Has this ever happened to you? If so, what the heck did you do about it? "Call a plumber" isn't a fun answer because I'm cheap. "Call my dad" would likely result in the problem getting solved, but I could also easily see myself coming home from work to my bathroom in about 184 pieces before hearing my dad's "a-ha!" of triumph. I would greatly prefer my usual solution of pouring something super toxic somewhere and hoping for the best.

I open the floor to your advice. E-mail me if you have any guesses as to what I should do to combat the Weird Filmy Scourge of 2018. Bonus points if you're an exorcist, shaman, or hobbyist plumber. If you need me, I'll be in corner checking myself for grey slime and waiting for my heebies to progress into jeebies.