COLUMN: Best of 2019 - Music

 2018 was a lousy year for music. As a chart-obsessed musical optimist, I didn't really broadcast that sentiment. But truth be told, when it came time for last year's annual recap, I was hard pressed to find ten records I liked enough to merit inclusion in a best-of list. Thankfully, 2018 was a fluke. This past year busted loose with musical greatness all over the place. Here's ten of the best to check out:

10. Red Hearse - Red Hearse - Less a band and more a meeting of musical genius, Red Hearse is the Fun (pun intended) new collaboration of super-producer Jack Antonoff (Taylor Swift, Lorde, and his own bands, Fun and Bleachers) with beatmaker Sounwave (who was responsible for much of Kendrick Lamar's "DAMN!") and singer Sam Dew, who's written for Rihanna and Zayn Malik among others. Together, they've crafted a sleek minimal album of modern R&B led by Antonoff's future-retro synths, Sounwave's pulsing percussion, and Dew's impressive falsetto. It's a short record of relentless urgency and confidence from three players at the top of their game.

9. Morrissey - California Son - No artist is more polarizing to his fans these days than Morrissey, former vocalist of the Smiths and the once morose messiah for an entire generation of misunderstood, maladjusted youth. Decades on, Morrissey keeps damaging his legacy through his support of extreme right-wing UK politicians and a series of controversial statements some have labelled xenophobic at best. It's a shame, too, because "California Son," his first ever album of all covers, is a charming and solid collection. Perhaps the most shocking thing about 2019 Morrissey is that he finally sounds like he's in a good mood.

8. White Reaper - You Deserve Love - Kentucky's White Reaper jokingly called their last album "The World's Best American Band," but they weren't too far off the mark. Shrugging off modern rock trends and focusing instead on harmonized guitars and power hooks, White Reaper owe more to Thin Lizzy and Cheap Trick than the current radio sound. Landing a major label deal this year with Elektra Records this year, "You Deserve Love" is a slightly more polished affair, but still full of the same headstrong snottiness, killer tunes, and absolute lack of pretention that makes them one of the most vital bands on the planet.

7. Billie Eilish - When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? - HOW could an album this striking, confident, and professional come from a 17-year-old noodling around with her brother in their bedroom studio? Did they have any idea they'd be redefining the pop landscape? "Moody" doesn't begin to describe this record -- it's downright dark and haunting, with Eilish's barely-above-a-whisper ASMR croons flowing loosely over her brother's minimal musical landscapes. It's emotional, affecting, and holds a gravitas that defies her age yet resonates with a new generation of pop fans. Billie Eilish is the hero our radios needed in 2019.

6. Sekai No Owari - Eye/Lip - The charts may have been owned this year by Lizzo, Billie, and Ariana, but the grandest pop music being made right now comes from a band who are massive superstars in most of the world but virtual unknowns in America. Japan's Sekai No Owari are SO prolific that in 2019, they released TWO full-length albums on the same day, "Eye" and "Lip." Both are spectacles of sing-along pop sunshine even if you don't speak the language. Despite running the gamut from dancefloor techno to wistful ballads to New Orleans jazz and big band swing, "Eye" and "Lip" are still strangely cohesive and utterly enjoyable. Just try it. It won't leave your headphones for a long time, trust me.

5. Deep Cut - Different Planet - I've reached the age where I'm starting to repeat the sort of cringe-worthy things my parents once said to me: "Today's kids just don't understand what good music is." But hey, it's not MY fault the greatest music of all time ever just happened to come out when I was in college. Deep Cut is the family project of Mat Flint, who once fronted one of my favorite bands of that era, Revolver. Together with his wife, brother, and brother-in-law, they sporadically release albums that harken back to that magical era of psychedelic swirls, fuzzy guitars, and magnetic melodic jangle-pop that makes me yearn for the days of mixtapes and midterms.    

4. Sault - 5 - Not much is known about the mysterious outfit Sault, who arrived in 2019 with not one but TWO albums, "5" and "7." Based on what limited information has been made public, the loose collective may rotate around producer Inflo and is rumored to also involve British rapper Little Simz and Kanye West protege Kid Sister. One thing we DO know, though - the results are magic. Both records ("5" is a little more striking than "7") are groove-heavy experiments that melt R&B, funk, dub, and tribal rhythms into the best vibe of the year. There's no better soundtrack to drive around town and lose yourself in. 

3. Susto - Ever Since I Lost My Mind - South Carolina's Susto have become an annual crowd favorite at Maquoketa's Codfish Hollow, and it's easy to see why. Leader Justin Osborne's hook-filled, no-pretenses songwriting is refreshing in an era where every acclaimed tunesmith seems to compete for who has the longest beard, highest falsetto, and most obtuse lyrics. Known for songs about rebellion, substance abuse, and the celebration of youth, "Ever Since I Lost My Mind" finds Osborne coming to terms with adulthood, a new wife, and a baby on the way. None of this has settled or compromised Osborne musically, and his newfound maturity hasn't affected his ability to craft emotional barnstormers that tackle weighty subjects with honesty and an unspoken optimism.      

2. Ride - This Is Not A Safe Place - When 90s Brit shoegazers Ride announced their reunion back in 2014, it was a dream come true for yours truly. I've spent most of my life championing the band to anyone who would listen, and when they announced their first US comeback show, we packed up the car and drove to NYC to be in that crowd. But no one, not even me, could have anticipated their post-reunion output to be as good as it's been. "This is Not a Safe Place" is their second album since the comeback. Rather than retread their vintage psychedelic sound for the nostalgia circuit, Ride continue to challenge and expand their sonic palette while giving bands a clinic in what a second go-around should sound like. "It's funny, people hate you to change," they sing on "Repetition." "They want you just to repeat and stay the same." No worries here, lads. We're still along for the Ride. 

1. Tripmaster Monkey - My East Is Your West - Here's where I have to convince you that of all the kajillion records released in 2019, the best one of all comes from a Quad Cities band. But it DOES. Well, technically they're not all from the QC anymore. After a noteworthy career in the 90s, half of Tripmaster Monkey moved out west, but this year they reunited for little more than the love of four friends making music together. For a record conceived and mostly recorded via the internet, it's shockingly the most cohesive record of Tripmaster's career and expands their patented alt-rock sound with decades of influences. It's not just a welcome reminder of the things that make the Quad Cities special. It's not just a feelgood story for a hometown newspaper. It's the best album of the year - period. 

COLUMN: Big City Boyfriend

I'm an evolved person. I should be wandering around a museum. I should be at a college lecture series listening to someone analyze post-war Scandinavian economic strategies. I should be sipping fair trade coffee around a table of literary snobs discussing the role of masculinity in the later works of Ibsen and Tolstoy. I should be doing things both hoity and toity.

Instead, I am sitting here watching the girl from Full House as she finds Christmas love. After that, I will probably watch the OTHER girl from Full House as SHE finds Christmas love. Curse you, Hallmark Channel. I am once again under your incredibly stupid spell.

Each Yuletide season -- and by Yuletide season, I mean pretty much half the year -- the otherwise innocuous Hallmark Channel turns into a tinsel-covered cheesefest I like to call "CCN": the Caucasian Christmas Network. Twenty four hours a day, for months straight, they air nothing but made-for-Hallmark holiday romance movies. Like Christmas clockwork, every two hours someone will find their soulmate and have the perfect holiday season. 

The Hallmark people aren't stupid. They know what people want, and they turn out dozens of these low-budgets lovefests every year. They all pretty much have the same plot. They all pretty much star Candace Cameron-Bure. And they're all pretty much insipid garbage. Yet every year, my TV drifts to that ridiculous channel. Sure, I should be watching C-Span. But you know what? It's cold outside, I'm sitting here with a cup of cocoa, and my house is bathed in magical twinkling lights and the smell of fresh balsam (courtesy Bath & Body Works. I'm not a heathen who actually brings nature indoors.)

Maybe I don't want to watch some esoteric art movie this time of year. Maybe I just want to watch people kiss under mistletoe and believe in Christmas magic. Sue me.

It really IS amazing how much these movies are alike, though. Most of them really DO have the same plot: Work-obsessed Big City Girl is in a loveless relationship with Big City Boyfriend, when she's suddenly forced into a last-minute holiday business trip to a small town that's economically depressed yet still looks like a Norman Rockwell paradise every Christmas. There she'll meet some hunky guy who's terrible at running his Christmas tree farm but great at being a single dad to whatever precocious child actor is assigned to Holiday Movie #304A. 

Over the course of 3-4 days, she will fall in love with the hunky guy AND use her big city wits to save his tree farm from foreclosure. Snow will fall. ONE kiss will occur. Everyone will live happily ever after.

Or will they? The more I think about these movies, the more I realize there's one big plot hole. You know who doesn't live happily ever after? Big City Boyfriend. He gets dumped for Christmas -- and the worst part? It's usually not his fault.

In the first year or two that Hallmark was churning these things out, Big City Boyfriend was usually a reprehensible jerk we couldn't wait to dump. Sometimes he was revealed as a cheater right out the gate. Boo on you, Big City Boyfriend. But Hallmark soon discovered you can't make Big City Boyfriend a complete ass, because it reflects poorly on our beloved heroine. If she's a perfect person (which she always is), how could she have ever had such lousy taste in men? 

In the more recent Hallmark movies I've seen, Big City Boyfriend is far less of a heel. Sometimes he doesn't even exist at all. Sometimes, our heroine's only boyfriend is her job. When Big City Boyfriend IS there, his biggest crime is that he works too much, or he works for the company that's trying to foreclose the Christmas tree farm. Either way, he's not that bad of a guy. He's just not THE guy.

Ergo, here's my idea for a TRULY great Hallmark Christmas movie: Big City Girl gets sent to Nowheresville, meets hunky guy, falls in love, blah blah blah. As is the common trope, Big City Boyfriend turns up in Nowheresville to surprise Big City Girl on Christmas Eve. They realize they've grown apart as people, and Big City Boyfriend is gently dumped. But instead of following her back to the party, instead the film follows the newly-minted ex-boyfriend back to the Big City.

We see him go home, microwave a Salisbury Steak TV dinner, and eat in lonely silence. Better yet, in a totally meta moment, we see him flip his TV to the Hallmark Channel and watch a stupid Christmas romance movie alone while a single tear rolls down his cheek. The next day, he goes to his family's house and we see the heartbreaking moment when his mom asks, "Where's Jill?" and he has to reveal that Jill is clearly an insane person who chucked their entire relationship away to move in with a stranger she met three days ago. 

But then we follow him to the station to catch the train home, and there's only one other person on the platform. It's Small Town Girl. She just finalized a bitter divorce with her jerk of an ex-husband. No longer would she have to put her dreams on hold for his stupid Christmas tree farm that only makes money one month out of the year.

"Say," says Big City Boyfriend. "Would you like to come over?"

"Sure," says Small Town Girl. "After all, my precocious child is staying with my ex this weekend."

"We could watch a Christmas movie on the Hallmark Channel?"

"Nah," replies Small Town Girl. "Let's just make out. Those movies suck."

Roll credits. Dear Hollywood, please send my check to the usual address. 

COLUMN: Rosario

Normally I shy away from politics in this column for one simple reason: you people rely on my expertise too much. As a beloved and cherished cultural icon, I know how much my opinion must mean to you all. An endorsement from Shane would clearly be a golden ticket to the White House for whomever I bestowed such an honor upon. For me to openly support a candidate just wouldn't be fair to the other campaigns. 

But the heck with it. You've pressured me long enough, and I'm willing to share ONE nugget of political wisdom with you all. After having weighed all the options and studied everyone's platforms, I can safely issue one proclamation: of all the candidates running for President of our great land, Cory Booker's girlfriend smells the nicest.

Okay, maybe no one cares what I think. That's probably a good thing, because I'm not very politically minded. If I were enough of a journalist to merit an interview with an actual presidential candidate, I'd probably just ask them about their favorite band. Worse yet, I'd probably vote based on their answer.

Still, I like to stay informed. Living a stone's throw from Iowa gives us a chance to see most of the major candidates as they inevitably stump through town. So when opportunity presented itself last weekend to check out both Cory Booker and Pete Buttigieg in the same day, I was in.

Up first was our paper's forum with Cory Booker at St. Ambrose University. It was great to pull up a bench and see a candidate in such an intimate setting. Little did I know how intimate things were about to get. All it took was a tap on my shoulder to wreck my world.

"Excuse me? Can I share this seat?"

"No problem," I whispered, before turning around and dying a little inside. Thus begins the story of how I spent an hour sharing a bench with Rosario Dawson. THE Rosario Dawson. In all the hubbub of Booker's appearance, I had completely forgotten he and the A-list actress were dating. I sure didn't expect her to be schlumping across Iowa with him. I assumed she had more, well, Hollywood-y things to do. 

What followed was an insightful hour of policy discussion, probing questions, and deep dialogue about the state of our nation. At least I think it was. People occasionally clapped, and I clapped along with them. Truth be told, I was only catching about every other sentence. Okay, truth REALLY be told, Cory Booker could have been advocating for the murder of toddlers and I would've absent-mindedly clapped along. My brain had other agendas:

OMG OMG ROSARIO DAWSON JUST TOUCHED ME. ROSARIO DAWSON IS SITTING NEXT TO ME. Someone who was once in a Tarantino film is sitting next to me. She KNOWS Tarantino. I wonder what Tarantino's like? Wait, who cares about Tarantino, IT'S ROSARIO DAWSON. Should I turn around and look at her? I should totally look at her. Wait, don't look at her. You'll look psychotic. I don't care, I'm doing it. Here I go, I'm caaaasually turning around.

OMG I LOOKED AT HER. SHE LOOKED BACK AT ME, SMILED, AND WAVED. I just made eye contact with Rosario Dawson. We are clearly now friends and she will soon ask me to co-star in "Rent 2." Shut up brain, stop it. You're a grown adult. Stop geeking out. Yes, she's a famous actress. So what? She's just a person. Except better. I want to look at her again. DON'T LOOK AT HER AGAIN. LOOK AT ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD.

See? There's Todd Mizener, our paper's marketing director, with his trusty camera. I wonder if he got a picture of us. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let him have gotten a picture of us. I AM NOW SENDING PSYCHIC VIBES TO TODD MIZENER TO TAKE OUR PICTURE. Please, Todd, please. Wait, everyone's clapping. I should clap, too. Oh wait, Rosario is snapping her fingers instead of clapping because she's just that cool. Should I snap instead of clap? I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SNAP MY FINGERS!

Okay, Shane. Get ahold of yourself. You're starting to sweat. Focus on what Cory Booker is saying. Something about education. Yes, Cory Booker, education is very important. God, she really does smell fantastic. Wait, if I can smell her, CAN SHE SMELL ME? Do I smell bad? Oh GOD, I had a hot dog at lunch. DO I HAVE HOT DOG BREATH? Am I sitting next to Rosario Dawson while she regrets sitting down with HOT DOG GUY?

Uh oh, my phone's vibrating. Let me just nonchalantly slide it out of my pocket and OMG ITS TODD TEXTING ME A PICTURE OF ME & ROSARIO. He knows me too well. Maybe I AM psychic! I'm SO stoked he got a picture of... NOOOO! She looks like a goddess and I look like a warthog. TODD, YOU HAVE TO GET A BETTER PIC. Can I casually text that to him? Let me try.. annnnd I just dropped my phone. Smooth, Shane.

Focus up. You have a task at hand. When this event ends, everyone's going to clap. And then you will have thirty golden seconds in which you can commence small talk with one of your favorite actresses. It has to be something suave. It has to be something you can tell ALL your friends about. It has to be PERFECT. And it certainly can't be about politics because you've only listened to about 20% of what Cory's been saying. Wait, he just wrapped up. Everyone's clapping. This is it, Shane. This is your moment. Don't dream it, be it. 

And that is when I turned to People's Choice Award nominee Rosario Dawson and said the following:

"HA HA HA THAT WAS WEIRD LIKE SITTING NEXT TO YOU! I'M A BIG FAN! YOU'RE GREAT! GO CORY! THIS IS SO WEIRD HA HA!"

At which point, MTV Movie Award nominee and "Men In Black 2" star Rosario Dawson looked at me and said:

"I hope not bad weird?"

To which I suavely replied:

"NOT BAD WEIRD! DEFINITELY GOOD WEIRD! HA HA HA, I'M WEIRD! IT WAS GREAT TO MEET YOU, WE HAVE TO GO NOW, YOU'RE SO COOL, BYEEEEE!"

And then I left before hyperventilating into a sea of embarassment. Ten minutes later, we were across town watching Pete Buttigieg, who was equally inspiring. I still don't know who I'll be voting for in the coming elections. For the record, I did NOT share a bench with Pete's husband Chasten, but in fairness, I bet he smells okay, too. 

COLUMN: Lights

I am bad at math. This isn't exactly a newsflash in my life. I came to terms with my disdain of numbers long ago.

I'm not entirely mathematically incompetent. When not writing this column, I sell ads for our various media platforms. I work with numbers all the live-long day. But when customers call, thankfully they can't see me counting on my fingers and gripping a calculator for dear life.

Most definitely I was one of those people who sat through algebra and geometry classes muttering through clenched teeth, "I will NEVER use any of this." And you know what? By and large, I was 100% correct. I can't think of ONE single time I've needed to know the square root of ANYTHING. I have never looked at a triangle and gone, "Man, if only I had the length of that hypotenuse." Math is for suckers.

Or so I thought. Every year about this time, I'm reminded of why geometry is a thing. You clearly need a deep math background in order to hang Christmas lights.

When I got my own house, the realization that I could finally have my own outdoor Christmas lights made my heart grow two sizes larger. Or maybe it was just the cholesterol. Either way, I was excited.

Don't get the wrong idea. I've never gone overboard, nor will I. My crippling fear of heights sees to that. I might be bad at math, but I can definitely tell you that an object weighing over 250 lbs. falling from a 20 foot ladder at a gravitational speed of 10.93 m/s reaching an impact energy of 6774.01 joules WILL HURT. A LOT. My December decor will always remain at ground level, thanks much.

I also prefer my Christmases holly and jolly rather than wacky and tacky, so no inflatables or animatronic Santas for me. Sure, there's a part of me that would love a display visible from space with lights sequenced to a yuletide dubstep soundtrack, but who has time for that? (Other than that one AMAZING house in Coal Valley everyone should see.)   

Instead, I play it simple. Each year, I deck the edges of my front porch with a modest arrangement of red Christmas lights. To the holiday connoisseur, it's probably a ho-hum display at best. To me, it's a triumph of the will.

I own exactly eight strands of red lights and five extension cords. This is all I need to run lights around the railings and support columns of my porch. And every year, I have to spend an hour remembering how to do it. Then I spend another hour actually doing it, then another hour realizing I did it wrong before tearing it all down and starting over. It is easier to solve a Rubik's Cube than hang these lights.

Light strands 1-4 plug into one another and cover the south and west railings. Strand 5 covers the north railing, while 6, 7, and 8 adorn the three support columns. Strands 1-4 plug into extension cord A, strand 6 plugs into B, and strand 7 plugs into C. Strand 5 plugs into D, which in turn plugs into 8, which plugs into E, which runs under the porch and plugs into C. A, B, and C then plug into power, and voila -- Christmas magic. And the reason I'm telling you all this is so I can re-read this column next year and remember how on Earth I did it, because I WILL ALWAYS FORGET.

This schematic is the only possible way to get all the lights to my available outlets without cords running across my porch like a snare trap waiting to string my mailman up by his ankles. This year, it only took me three days and two failed attempts to remember the pattern. It also doesn't help that the sun now sets a few seconds past noon each day, so if you were wondering about the idiot fumbling around in the dark stringing up Christmas lights to the glow of his smartphone, that was me.

I have no idea how the Griswolds of the world pull it off. Eight strands of lights is enough to do me in every year. But it's done and my house is officially festive. I've gotten some different feedback online, though. "All red?" one of my Facebook friends wrote. "Isn't that kind of evil?" Another said it's a sign that I'm running a bordello -- and if that's the case, there are SERIOUS problems with my business model, because customers are few and far between. Someone else said red lights on your porch now means you're showing solidarity with the anti-gun movement.

The only notion I want to show solidarity with is that red lights are pretty. My house is tan and brown, and red looks nice against it. Besides, it's the one month I can invite people over without making them figure out the exact address. "It's the house with the red lights." Boom.        

This year, I had a harder time than usual piecing together my tangled puzzle of lights and cords. I tried six different ways of stringing everything together before realizing I was missing a cord. Apparently sometime during the year, Cord E got stolen for DJ Gig A and never returned to the spare laundry basket I've dubbed the "holiday hibernator." But I was so bad at math that I didn't realize I was trying to do the impossible -- I just assumed I was being bad at math.

If anybody needs gift ideas for me, I could use a new calculator. Feel free to drop it off at my house. It's the one with the red lights.    

COLUMN: Jordan

I'm not one to dwell on mortality. I don't need reminders that I'm not immortal. I'd rather keep on writing about cats and bad TV and doing my best to coax some more smiles into the world. It's pretty rare for me to get all gloomy and serious.

But it's also thankfully pretty rare when someone I know gets murdered.

"I've never known a homicide victim," one of my friends eloquently stated this weekend. "I don't think I care for it." 

I have to agree. My friends and I have spent the past week running the emotional gamut from shock and disbelief to anger and confusion and just kind of a helpless unreal ache that something so awful could happen to someone we knew. But it did. Denial stops the minute you see it on page A1 in this very newspaper.

My friend Jordan Murphy was killed. Her body was found last week in the garage of her home. By the time the police issued an arrest warrant for her on/off boyfriend, he had already taken his own life in a Davenport hotel room. Those are the facts we know. While authorities try to piece together what led to this nightmarish outcome, all that really matters is our friend who's no longer with us, and it's sad beyond words. I just got back from her visitation, and it was a room full of other numb people not really knowing what to do or say.

Somebody asked me this week if I was going to write a column about Jordan or if "it'd be too hard to find the right words." Honestly, there's no pressure to find the right words, because there aren't any. No eloquent prose can undo the unthinkable. 

But I can take a few minutes to tell you about Jordan and why we all loved her, why we're going to miss her, and why she's way more than just a headline or a statistic. Jordan and I weren't BFF's or anything -- but for a few years, she was pretty darn important to my life.

I survived most of my adulthood to date with the unevolved skill sets, maturity level, and personal responsibility of your average college student. In my twenties, it may have been charming. In my early thirties, perhaps it could still be written off as quirky. But when you reach 35 and your apartment is still full of pizza boxes, trash, and irresponsibility, it's just pathetic. Then I logged onto Facebook one day and saw someone post, "My friend is looking to make some extra money cleaning for slobs and single guys who don't know how to use a vacuum. Any takers?"

I took.

Honestly, I had no idea what to expect. It was embarassing enough to let friends into my messy apartment, let alone a stranger. That's how I found myself in the ludicrous position of cleaning up the place to impress the person coming over to clean up the place. She knew right away. Maybe it was the look in my eyes. Maybe it was the smell of desperation mixed with bleach trying to cover up the bags of trash I'd just jogged out to the dumpster. Either way, she knew.

"Hi," she said confidently as she walked in and looked around. "I'm Jordan. You cleaned up for me, didn't you?" I sheepishly nodded. "Don't do that. I do that. You do your thing."

Thus began a paid friendship that lasted for years. I pretended to the world that I could live independently without a babysitter while Jordan wheeled by once a week to wash, clean, and brush away the evidence of my continued ineptitude. It was a partnership that got me through the better part of my thirties, and I couldn't have asked for better assistance.

Last week, we ran an article where a neighbor referred to Jordan as "withdrawn." The Jordan I knew was many things, but "withdrawn" wasn't one of them. She was loud, brash, funny, tough, cocky, opinionated, and had a laugh that could melt the icecaps. Half the fun of having her clean was just getting to hang with someone so hilarious. Even when life handed her lemons, which it did often and without mercy, she'd find a way to joke about it. Jordan's stories -- and there were ALWAYS stories -- were epic in scope and more salacious than soap operas. Her unsolicited advice, which flowed fluidly and without prompting, helped me on more than one occasion. From cleaning hacks to dating tips, she was a dispensary of wisdom. More than one of these weekly columns were read aloud to her for input -- if I could make Jordan cackle, it was ready to turn in.

Most of all, she was a lioness of a mother who did everything for her two kids. Tonight, I hugged her amazing daughter under the worst of circumstance. The last time I saw her, she was half the height, pouting on my couch that her mom had dragged her to the lame dude's house. When Jordan became pregnant with her son, it was bad news for me. "I can't touch the litterbox anymore," she said unapologetically. "No cat cooties for this momma."

Eventually, life took us in different directions. Just as I bought a house and make a concerted effort to finally grow up, Jordan went back to cutting hair and opened her own salon. We'd still bump into each other and share a laugh -- and a while back when my parents gave me just a day's notice of a visit, you can guess the first number I called for an emergency cleaning assist. She rearranged her whole schedule that day to help me out.

If you're looking for sage wisdom to cope with grief, keep looking. I'm not your guy. All I know is this: It's super easy to take a tragedy like this and say, "The world is horrible. I'm done with it all." But even in the worst scenarios imaginable, good wins in the end. It always does. At the visitation tonight, there were just as many smiles as tears. When I think about Jordan, I won't think about newspaper headlines. I'll think of her going, "Get off the couch and play some music. The least you can do is DJ for me while I clean!" I'll think of her mopping my kitchen floor while rolling around reclining in my desk chair. I'll think of the time she picked up a cat toy off the floor to discover it was, in fact, a very deceased and very REAL mouse. We both started screaming like ninnies, and when she caught me stifling a giggle, she deservedly threw it at my head before we both fell down laughing. 

She was my housekeeper. She was my hair stylist. She will always be my friend. We love you, Jordan.   

COLUMN: Twas 2.0

 

'Twas the month before Christmas, and all through the halls

Not a creature was stirring; they're all at the malls.

The stockings were hung by the chimney last week,

Even though it's November; I sure want to shriek.

Children everywhere nestle snug in their beds,

While visions of Fortnite toys dance in their heads;

And I with my checkbook, about to be fleeced,

Have yet to sit down for my Thanksgiving feast.

At cooking I'm still what they call a 'beginner',

Which explains tonight's Salisbury steak TV dinner.

In front of the TV, I plopped like a brute,

grabbed the remote and I took it off 'mute'.

I flipped past Netflix and ESPN

before settling in on a rerun of "Friends."

When, what to my wandering eyes should appear,

but ad after ad after ad... oh, dear.

As commercials flew by me so lively and quick,

I thought for a minute I was gonna be sick.

More rapid than eagles, the endorsements they came

Filling my head with a thousand brand names:

"Shop Wal-Mart! Watch Hallmark! Visit Bed, Bath, Beyond!

Shop Northpark! Shop Southpark!" Me? I just yawned.

Yuletide ads in November are such a pet peeve

I'd rather be lazy and not shop til Christmas Eve.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly

Cash flows from my hands in the blink of an eye.

I need presents for Mom, Dad, and my three cats so hairy,

And the gift exchange at work, which is always quite scary.

So even though Christmas is really not near,

Let's set up our trees and our plastic reindeer.

These greedy retailers are likely the reason

Why one day in December became a "holiday season."

These ads make me want to stomp, pout, cry, and yell,

But it's too late; we're already under their spell.

We buy all their toys, clothes, and perfumes so smelly,

And gift sets with miniature jars full of jelly.

So go wait in line; enjoy your Black Friday riot,

And buy Christmas sweets that'll ruin your diet,

Buy gift after gift 'til you hurt your bad back,

And wish you took to the mall a mule you could pack.

Christmas time is for families to be jolly and merry

Like an Afterschool Special or "Little House on the Prairie"

But we don't have time to go play in the snow,

We're too busy spending what's left of our dough.

See, the networks want us in a shopping mood

So they air holiday specials until we're all screwed.

Our shopping habits they try hard to hasten

It's November and I've already seen Rudolph in Claymation.

I suppose that I probably shouldn't complain

About this month-long holiday shopping campaign.

This Christmas bastardization doesn't give me any thrills;

But I work for a newspaper -- those ads pay my bills.

So I'll keep my yap shut and stop this lampoon,

Until one day Christmas sales start up mid-June.

And I say to you all with just a hint of fright,

"Merry Thanks-mas-O'ween, and to all a good night!"

(My first take on this originally appeared in our late great Iowa paper, The Leader, where I got my start back in 2004. It deserved a revamp with some tweaks. This will forever be dedicated to the great Brian Nelson, whose rhyming skills and booming voice in our hallways is missed to this day.) 

COLUMN: Bamazon

DISCLAIMER!

The following morality tale is a work of fiction. It is merely an imaginary anecdote to serve as a valuable lesson why one should never ever cheat the system. Any resemblance to any person, place, and/or newspaper columnist should be considered pure coincidence. This fictional story in no way constitutes or should be construed as an admission of guilt, wrongdoing, or liability by any party.

Once upon a time long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a smart youthful prince of a man who was beloved by all. Let's call him... Shawn.

About a year ago, Shawn was hanging out at his house watching TV with his friend, umm, "Felissa," who had been raving about a show that she wanted Shawn to check out. There was just one problem, and it made Shawn very, very sad.

The program in question was on a streaming service that Shawn didn't subscribe to. Let's call it, oh I dunno -- Bamazon Rhyme. This bummed Shawn out a great deal. You see, Shawn was a pop culture junkie. In fact, some townsfolk in the village went so far as to accuse Shawn of "wasting his life in front of the TV." Shawn didn't care. He wanted to see ALL the shows.

"No problem," said Felissa. "I can just log onto my account from here."

Within minutes, Felissa had synced her Bamazon account with Shawn's TV, and the two had a great afternoon channel-flipping and geeking out.

Time passed and Shawn forgot all about Bamazon Rhyme -- until the night Shawn happened to catch the Emmy Awards, where nearly every top prize went to something on Bamazon. Grr. If there's one thing Shawn hated, it was feeling like he was missing out on something special. But sadly, even though Shawn had few complaints with his station in life, he wasn't exactly rolling in expendable income. He already had subscriptions to Metflix, Hooloo, and Zpotify. He just couldn't afford Bamazon Rhyme.

But the lure of these award-winning shows simply proved too much. Here he was, sitting at home, while others were probably enjoying quality Bamazon programming like the Fabulous Ms. Faisel. How could he call himself a pop culture expert when he hadn't seen a single episode of Phleebag? That's when Shawn made a bad choice.

In a moment of pure pop culture weakness, Shawn may or may not have called his old friend Felissa up and asked to use her Bamazon Rhyme account.

Was this illegal in the fictional world in which Shawn and Felissa lived? Who's to say, other than perhaps a team of highly-paid entertainment lawyers? Bamazon Rhyme members get to stream on three different devices, and Felissa only used ONE. It might be legally fine for Shawn to temporarily lay claim to one of those extra devices with Felissa's permission. Shawn had to admit, though, that it was probably a grey area at best.

But Shawn had no time for internal debates about fairness and morality. He was too busy watching Phleebag. Hooray!

Several months passed. Shawn had only watched his bootleg Bamazon Rhyme shows for about a week before moving on to the next trendy show that came along. But last week, something tragic happened. There was a new novel he'd been looking forward to reading, so good ol' Shawn hopped onto Bamazon's website and quickly ordered the e-book.

Later that night, he opened up his Bamazon Kindle... but there was no book there. "What the...?" pondered Shawn. In his mind, he was already composing the indignant e-mail he'd fire off to Bamazon's tech support line in the morning. First, though, he logged onto the Bamazon website to make sure his credit card processed, and that's when he saw it.

"THANKS FOR YOUR PURCHASE, FELISSA!"

OMG. When Shawn used Felissa's account to watch Bamazon Rhyme months ago, it logged him onto Bamazon as HER and never logged her out. A really nice friend had done him a solid favor, and he had just repaid that favor by accidentally sending her a book -- worse yet, he had just unknowingly charged it to HER credit card! Shawn had made some awkward apologetic phone calls in his day, but never one like, "Hey, I just bought you a present! Umm... and you paid for it!"

Thankfully, Felissa was kind and forgiving and not too upset at her unwittingly purchased "gift." Thankfully it was a cheap fantasy novel and not something embarassing like "How To Talk To Women" or "Stop Picking Your Nose In 10 Easy Steps."

Moral of the story? Don't be a Shawn. Don't use your friends' streaming services. And if you DO, log out before you accidentally spend THEIR money. And whatever you do, you probably shouldn't write about it in a widely distributed newspaper column. Thankfully this was all a work of fiction and clearly never happened in the real world.

On a completely unrelated note, Dear You-Know-Who, my apologies again for you-know-what. I'll pay you back soon.

COLUMN: Rugby

It's time once again for another riveting installment of what I like to call "Shane Attempts To Understand Sports." Trust me, I'm about to give it a good try.

I've just never been one for the gridiron. Or the diamond. Or the court or the pitch or the rink or the field, for that matter.

Some people grew up on ESPN. I grew up on MTV. Some kids collected baseball cards. I collected records. Some kids spent Friday nights cheering their high school's basketball team to victory. I was a few doors away in the cafeteria, lugging in speakers and getting set up to DJ the after-game dance.

This is not to say I live an entirely sports-free existence. I'm pretty skilled at fair-weather fandom. I've breathed rarified Jordan air at the United Center. I was in the stands at Wrigley during Sosa's streak. I seldom miss a Super Bowl and I'm glued to the Olympics every four years. But if there isn't any regional or national pride luring me in, I usually can't be bothered.

Well, with one exception. I like NASCAR, and I'm tired of apologizing for it. Sure, it might represent most societal aspects I detest, but cars that go fast are cool, so sue me. On most Saturday nights, I'm DJing at some club until the wee hours. That usually means I wake up mid-day Sundays groggy and braindead. In those ugly Sunday moments, about the only thing my brain can successfully process is cars turning left for three solid hours.

Last Sunday, I woke up in my usual addled state of post-gig numbness. I flipped on the TV, but no race was on. That's because it was Saturday, not Sunday. (Told you my brain was addled.) Instead, I happened to have tuned in to the start of the final game of the 2019 Rugby World Cup.

"Well," I thought, "this could be a rare treat." Here was a perfect opportunity to see a sport I'd only glimpsed for fleeting moments while channel-flipping. And this wasn't just a chance to watch some rugby. This was a chance to watch the BEST rugby on Earth, right? This was the World Cup, and the last match of said World Cup. (Honestly, until last weekend, I didn't even know rugby HAD a World Cup.)

I sat there and watched the whole thing. And two hours later, I can safely report that I still have absolutely no idea what was happening. I'm somewhat convinced that the players didn't have any idea what was happening. I'm not even sure if the announcers were speaking English. I'm not even sure rugby is a sport.

I like to think I'm at least of average human intelligence. As the game/match/whatever its called went on, I assumed I'd eventually understand the gameplay. Nope. The more I watched, the less I understood. The less I understood, the madder I got. By the end of the game, players were celebrating and I was seething.

Rugby is sort of like football, in that there's a ball and you (sometimes?) use your feet. The field/pitch/whatever it's called looks footballish in nature, but with way fewer lines. Players attempt to score the rugby version of a touchdown, which is called a "try." This I like, because "good try, Brown," was really the only compliment I ever heard from any P.E. teacher (albeit often with an eyeroll.) If only we had been playing rugby, I would've been a hero!

So rugby is like football... mixed with a fair dose of Red Rover, keepaway, and "A Clockwork Orange" level of ultra-violence. If we had been playing rugby in P.E. class, I'd be no hero -- I'd be dead. Every rugby player looks like an MMA fighter. Just giant menacing dudes running full bore into one another. In most sports, when a player starts spitting blood, they're considerately and promptly led off the field. In rugby, they wipe it on their shirts like a bold fashion choice and just keep on keepin' on.

The teams try for a try (sigh) by running, kicking, and passing the ball downfield. Well, except they actually have to pass the ball UPfield, because you can only pass to a player that's behind you. The opponents, meanwhile, attempt to tackle the ball carrier -- and that's when things go entirely off the rails.

If a defender stops a ball carrier's progress, a bunch of players come together for a violent game of footsie called a "ruck." If the carrier keeps the ball in his hands, it gets even more violent and is appropriately called a "maul." If neither of those resolves the issue, someone yells for a "scrum" and all hell breaks loose. Basically, all the players dogpile into one another in an attempt to become WAY more intimate than necessary with the nether-regions of their smelly, bloody teammates. Based on the evidence I saw, I believe the objective of a scrum might be to successfully insert one's head entirely into the buttocks of the player in front of you. No offense to you rugby enthusiasts out there, but that's not the kind of try I'd ever care to try, thanks much. Eventually, the ball comes flying out of the middle of the fracas and play resumes as soon as the players gather up their missing teeth.

So, congratulations (spoiler alert) to the South Africa Springboks for (I think) beating the British team, who apparently have no name because nothing else makes sense in rugby, so why start now? The Springboks, by the way, are also called the Amabokoboko, because presumably that's the noise one makes when your teammate behind you successfully scrums.

Does anyone out there actually understand this game? I'd love someone to explain it to me. The crowd sure seemed to dig it. The announcers REALLY seemed to love it. I tried to understand all the tries, but it was too trying. Maybe it's a great game. Maybe it requires alcohol to appreciate. Or maybe I should just stick to spinning records and watching cars turn left. Go Springboks! (p.s. What's a springbok?)

COLUMN: QC Pizza

Dear Dispatch-Argus Guest Columnist Josh Boelter,

J'ACCUSE!

You, sir, are a heretic! A blasphemer! A very incorrect opinionator! Dare I say... you may even be a PIZZAIST.

But you're also a funny writer, and I laughed my way through your recent column, "Floppy Pizza... A QC Tragedy." Just, please, let us know where to forward the hate mail.

I've been blessed to own this little parcel of newspaper real estate for some years now, and I'm still learning as I go. When I was first given this outlet to spout my weekly nonsense, I was SUPER intimidated. I wasn't sure what to write about, how to approach it, or if anyone outside my friends and family would remotely appreciate anything I had to offer.

The first time I heard positive feedback from a reader, I was over the moon. The first time someone recognized me on the street, I felt like a rock star. Honestly, whenever anyone takes the time to read this column, it fills me with sincere gratitude and sheepish pride and I want to grab the nearest microphone and have a Sally Field "you like me... you really like me" moment.

But oh, how the tide can turn. A few years back, the Rock Island City Council was debating whether or not to allow residents to keep chickens within city limits. As in real chickens, not the Kentucky-fried variety. In my usual role as an allergy-riddled weenie with a well-established fear of nature, I decided to write a cutesy little anti-chicken column. As it turned out, the local pro-chicken contingency did NOT find it cutesy. People showed up at the office wanting me FIRED. My inbox flooded with hate mail. My house got egged. Someone covered my back steps in chicken poo.

There are some column waters not worth wading in and certain topics best left to poles longer than ten feet. Thankfully, most don't apply to me. I don't care about the Cubs OR the Cards. I hold no ill will toward Iowa drivers. I am relatively ambivalent about the fate of the county courthouse. And I know some things in the Quad Cities are sacred. Whitey's Ice Cream. Boetje's Mustard. Combine harvesters. And above all else, Quad City style pizza. Never criticize our pizza.

Don't feel bad, though, Josh -- once upon a time, I held a similar mindset.

It was September 1988. I was a young, sheltered, extremely naive high school graduate experiencing freshman orientation weekend at Augustana. With few exceptions, it was my first real weekend away from home. I was excited, terrified, intimidated, and guided only by a desire to fit in and make friends. At some point during that weekend, Augie threw a pizza party for the entire freshman class. Cool, I thought. In this crazy new world I found myself in, one thing I could cope with was pizza.

But instead of a slice, I was handed this weird strip of... what WAS it? It looked like a rectangle of pure cheese. How do you even eat this thing? Do I use a fork? THERE WERE NO FORKS. The only thing I could think to do was flop it over onto itself, shovel half of it into my mouth -- and almost retch at the weird sausage grit I'd never before experienced. I was clueless at living on my own. I didn't know how to cook food, I didn't know how to do laundry -- and now it was clear that either I or the Quad Cities didn't even know what pizza was.

I was a kid from the country experiencing city life for the first time ever. But most of my Augie friends were from Chicago. To them, Rock Island WAS the country, and I'd have to listen to them bemoan about being trapped in a town so hick it only had (gasp) THREE major shopping malls (sob!) You backwards "townies" took a lot of ribbing, as did your weird backwards rectangle pizza strips.

So much so, in fact, that I never touched the stuff again. Until, that is, I took a job at a plucky daily Moline newspaper, who once rewarded their hard-working staff with a pizza party. "YAY!" I thought, until I saw them bringing in boxes of weird rectangle pizza strips. Eww! Not townie pizza! But I was a new employee once again eager to fit in, so I grabbed a piece and this time I DID have a fork. "Okay," I told myself. "You'll just have to suffer through this. Don't think about how gross this weird pizza is. Just take a bite and try to get it down quickly." I steeled myself, grabbed a forkful of rectangle, begrudgingly stuck it in my mouth, and... and...

OMG. It was good. It wasn't just good, it was delicious. Wait, was this the best pizza I'd ever had in my life? How could I have ever found this gross? Thus began my love affair with Quad City style pizza. I'm Team Harris all the way, but any will do in a pinch. And now our beloved pizza strips are written about in major publications and considered a delicacy in Chicago.

Poor Josh has already seen some negative comments for daring to critique our pizza in his debut guest column. But you guys need to cut him some rectangular strips of slack. If you bothered to read past the headline, you'll find that Josh actually LIKES QC-style pizza. He's just new in town and doesn't understand why its cut into strips. But here's the thing, Josh. If you took a Harris Pizza and sliced it traditionally, it'd fall apart in a heartbeat. That delicate malted crust can't support a mountain of cheese and a metric ton of sausage. Just slide it onto a plate, grab a fork, and deal with it. It's way worth it.

No matter how you slice it, Quad City style pizza is a treasure. Maybe it's why I never left after college. Or maybe it takes becoming a townie to properly appreciate our townie pizza. It sure worked for me. So stick around for a while, Josh. You're a great writer and I look forward to more guest columns. Next time you're at the office, stop by my desk and let's do lunch. Your next rectangle's on me. 

COLUMN: Halloweenie Again

Well, here we are again. Hallo-week. Hurrah.

Can you sense the enthusiasm in my font? What's that, you say? I don't sound enthused? Whatever gave you THAT idea? Was it perhaps the umpteen columns I've written about how much I despise this week? Well, it's time for one more.

Truth be told, I actually adore a good chunk of Halloween. I love brisk, crisp fall air and the crunching of leaves underfeet. I love buying WAY more candy than I ever need for trick-or-treaters. And I love devouring the non-stop stream of cheezy paranormal shows on TV this time of year almost as much as that candy.

I adore spooky stuff. I'm in favor of all things eerie, creepy, and haunted. I love the mystery and magic of dark woods, abandoned houses, and cemeteries at night. Tell me ghost stories all the live-long day and all the dead-long night. Life needs a little mystery and wonder and spirits and things that go bump in the night.

But there's some things Halloween doesn't need -- like grown adults in costumes. Some find it charming and fun and a chance to let one's hair down and act a fool. Others (specifically: me) find it disconcerting and off-putting and a chance to make a fool out of oneself.

I've said these exact words in a column before and I'll say them again now: I am a weird, socially awkward, somewhat sorry excuse for a human being on my best days. I have a hard enough time making eye contact with you as is. PLEASE don't make me do it while you're dressed up like Chewbacca. I know these words will never stop you. Year after year, you will put on some outlandish costume that you've proudly spent hours perfecting, and then at some point you'll want to come over and have small talk with your favorite newspaper columnist. But John Marx will be busy, so instead you'll find me. And I will laugh and stammer and make idle chit-chat while my brain has 1000 little panic attacks over how to respond whilst talking to a vampire and/or princess and/or Marvel superhero.

I know this makes me a no-fun-nik Halloween grinch, and some of the costumes people come up with every year are amazing. A couple years back, I saw a guy dressed up like Lloyd Dobler from "Say Anything" complete with fake arms holding aloft a paper mache boombox and it was pretty much the best Halloween costume ever. But I've never been one for dress-up. Hated it as a kid, hate it more as an adult. I only remember two costumes I wore as a kid: once I dressed up like an impoverished hobo, and once like a Native American. Two costumes, and both were essentially hate crimes. Thanks, mom.

But the only thing more awkward than adults in costume is when those adults are trying to scare the pants off you. I am NOT a haunted house-goer. Give me creepy and eerie, but do NOT give me things that jump out all boogity-boogity. I prefer to keep my urine safely inside my bladder where it belongs. People are scary enough when they're NOT dressed up like chainsaw-wielding zombies, thanks.

I'm sorry that I'm a Halloweenie. I have friends that work at Skellington and I know how much effort they put into terrifying their eager ticket-holders. If you want to be mentally and emotionally scarred by some of the best and kindest people I know, I can't recommend it enough. But I'll be recommending it several blocks away from the relative peace and zombie-free quiet of my living room.

When it comes to frights, I am a self-admitted fuddy-duddy. But sometimes it's less fuddy and more common sense. Did you guys see the story about the "world's scariest haunted house" down in Tennessee? If you want to check it out, you need to sign a 40-page waiver and bring a doctor's note certifying you have the stamina. You also have to watch a two-hour video of others giving up and leaving early. If you make it to the end, you get $20,000. Thus far, no one's made it. The price of admission? One bag of dog food for the owner's pooches.

Ummm... I have some questions. First off, the waiver and the physical are genius. Movie studios have done that sort of thing for decades. "Psycho" and "The Exorcist" came with warnings that the films could cause adverse physical effects on their audiences. That's just good marketing. But that only makes sense if you're trying to get rich. This guy's just getting dog food. At what point does it stop being a "haunted house" and start being some weird dude's torture fetish basement?

He claims to have invested over $1 million on this "attraction" and makes no money from it. That means the joy he gets from terrifying people is worth over one million dollars to him. That's a bit of a red flag. I mean, a clown named Pennywise once hosted his own free haunted "attraction," too, but you don't see me lining up with dog food outside the sewers of Derry to find out just what floats down there.

I'm guessing that guy's dogs are eating pretty well right about now. Honestly, if you're willing to sign your life away and drive to Tennessee with some Alpo for the privilege of being tortured until you surrender, I can't be too sympathetic towards your plight. Besides, I'm too preoccupied trying to figure out what to say to the dude next to me dressed up like Donald Trump. Don't worry, I have a few ideas.

Happy holidays, all. Even the scary ones.

COLUMN: Country

I love a good challenge.

Okay, that's a lie. I hate challenges. By their very nature, they're, well, challenging. I'd much rather coast through life doing precisely what I want to do and having no obligations or challenges whatsoever. Of course, it's pretty tough to get someone to pay you for that sort of lifestyle, unless your last name is Kardashian or you're that one guy in Depeche Mode who doesn't actually do anything but stand on stage and try (and fail) to look cool.

Instead, like most everyone, I'm sidled with responsibilities. Bills to pay, chores to postpone, and jobs to work. Luckily, thus far in life I've been able to land jobs that I actually like. As many of you know, I actually have THREE.

Nothing beats the hustle and bustle of a newspaper office and working alongside a devoted staff dedicated to bringing you decidedly NON-fake news and advertising. On the weekends, you can often find me behind the counter at Moline's Co-Op Records, which was kind of a no-brainer since I hang out there all the time regardless. And on Friday and Saturday nights, you can usually find me sweating away in some DJ booth, sacrificing my hearing for the good of a dancefloor. 

Some might think I'm getting too old to play records for people half my age. All I can say is come dance and let me try to prove you wrong. DJing's been a passion of mine since high school, and that passion hasn't subsided. I love it when strangers talk to me about something I wrote in the paper. I love spending time with fellow music nerds at the record store arguing over the best albums of all time. But nothing -- and I mean NOTHING -- beats that moment when you drop JUST the right song at JUST the right time to send a dancefloor over the edge. I know I'm just pressing play on someone else's song, but for those few seconds, it's the closest this chubby dork will ever come to feeling like a rock star.

But just because I like a job doesn't mean it's free of challenges. I'm sure a lot of you think the "art" of DJing is little more than button-pushing a stereo, but I could spend the rest of this column talking about tempos, floor control, blending, mixing, syncing, beat juggling, and DJ theory (there really is such a thing.) Don't worry, I won't. Suffice to say there's a lot more to it than just pressing play. If you're NOT a music geek, you might not recognize when you're in a club with a good DJ, but I'll guarantee you'd notice when you suffer through a bad one.

Right now, I'm facing the biggest DJ challenge of my life -- and so far, it's been nothing but fun. As I mentioned last week, I've got a new gig in the District of Rock Island. This is nothing new for me -- I spent over a decade running the music mix at one of the District's most popular clubs. I'm used to the late night crowds and controlled chaos. But there's one teeny tiny difference this time around.

I'm DJing at a country bar. Challenge, thy name is Shane. Yee-haw?

I'm not exactly your stereotypical country music enthusiast. I've never worn a cowboy hat or a shiny belt buckle. I don't have friends in low places. All my rowdy friends are NOT coming over tonight. I am NOT rednecker than you. I do not believe we are currently making America great again. I fit in a country bar like a vegan at a barbecue.

But here's the thing. I don't look like a hip-hop DJ, either, but that doesn't matter when I'm at a club. At home, I listen to mopey pale Brits who sing about disillusionment and depression. But DJ Shane has no time for Radiohead and remorse. I'll play anything that gets feet moving and floors swelling. I'll play "Baby Shark" if I have to. I might not be a country guy, but I can BE a country DJ.

Heck, I'd probably have an easier time if it was all country on our playlist. But here's where the REAL challenge lies: The club I'm working at has country bands lighting up the stage until midnight. Then I take over, and we proudly switch to what DJ's call "open format." You might call it "anything goes." You want country? You betcha. You want hip-hop? I'll play it. Rock? No problem. Thumping techno? Yessir. Some vintage 80s gems? My specialty. Disco? Dare me. Basically we specialize in party music, regardless of genre.

The challenge is finding the perfect balance to make fans of all music genres happy. The challenge is figuring out a sexy way to mix Luke Bryan into Rihanna into AC/DC into Lizzo. The challenge is still all about dropping JUST the right song at JUST the right time to make a crowd full of cowboys, college kids, line dancers and lunatics all feel the party vibe.

So wish me luck, Quad Cities. Better yet, come down to the District, put your musical hangups aside, and come have a blast. I'll do my absolute best to play the most fun songs I can muster. This old DJ's still got a kick or two left in him. So does our mechanical bull. If you need to find me, look for the guy who absolutely does NOT belong. Then watch him hopefully fill that dancefloor. This is MY kind of challenge.

COLUMN: TV Bars

Long before I was Shane The Columnist, and even long before I was Shane The Guy Who Takes Your Classified Ads, I was Shane The Socially Awkward Weirdo Who Still Got Invited To All The Parties Because He Brought The Music.

When I was in high school, the DJ they always hired for our sanctioned dances was terrible. I knew I could do a better job, and my friends agreed. When the next dance rolled around, we underbid the other guy, showed up with our home stereos wired together and a mixer powered by four D batteries, and somehow managed to turn a lame high school dance into an epic party.

Sure, maybe I got in a teeny bit of trouble for playing the Sex Pistols and causing a mosh pit to break out in the cafeteria, but I suddenly found myself as our school's resident DJ. Thus began my long side career pumping tunes for parties, proms, frat houses, raves, and dance clubs. Since my teens, there's seldom been a weekend that I haven't been pushing bass cabinets to their limits.

What a lot of you don't know is that, for the past few months, I've been gig-less. The Davenport bar I've worked at for years changed hands and the new owners decided to take the place in a decidedly non-musical, non-Shane direction. I was sincerely considering DJ retirement. I'd had a pretty good run. I manned the decks for my hometown's only teen club, I kept our frat house bouncing for years, I helped bring rave culture to the Quad Cities, and I held down a dancefloor residency for over a decade in the District of Rock Island.

And now I'm back. Just when I thought I was out of the game, a phone call from an old friend has brought me back to a DJ booth in the District. I'm still getting a feel for the place, which is honestly the hardest part of starting any new gig. Sometimes when I try to figure out a new club, I picture myself in the crowd. Sometimes I compare it to other places I've worked.

And sometimes, I compare it to the bars, clubs, and coffeeshops I know best: the ones on TV. I'm a television junkie, and some of my favorites drinkeries don't even exist in the real world. This got me thinking about some of television's best known liquid lounges and how well they'd actually stack up in the real world.

Let's start with CENTRAL PERK. Okay, so they don't serve booze, but in the world of "Friends," I'm not sure if bars exist. Instead, everyone's favorite sitcom characters gathered daily at one of the least interesting coffeehouses in all of New York. From the evidence we know, Central Perk makes its name on bad service and folk songs about smelly cats. Also, all of the seating is generic save for ONE couch that's somehow always available to any of our six heroes upon their arrival. Could Central Perk BE any more boring? Hard pass.

Instead, if we're talking coffee, you'd be more likely to find me at CC JITTERS. The coffee is pretty much liquid caffeine, the ambience is dark and futuristic, they serve cronuts, they hold trivia nights, and there's always about a 20% chance of a superhero fight or amazing supernatural event that will NEVER hurt you because The Flash is always around to protect you. Last week, a freaking BLACK HOLE opened up at its front doors. That's something I'd like to see.

If we're discussing proper fictional bars, everything has to be compared to CHEERS. Frankly, I'm back and forth on this place, and I was actually INSIDE its replica once when I visited Boston. A basement bar means cool ambience, and Norm WILL make you laugh. Cliff is kind of a nightmare, but its a big enough place to avoid him. The problem I have with Cheers is the clientele. Watch any episode. It's a weird mix of old alcoholics, street hustlers, businesspeople in suits, vapid floozies, and an owner who -- let's face it -- in the #metoo era is likely behind bars.

In fact, I can't think of any fictional big city bars I have an affinity for. It might always be sunny in Philadelphia, but not at PADDY'S PUB. The neighborhood is terrifying, the furnace is fueled by trash, the rats outnumber the staff, and there's an unfixable "yuck puddle" in the bathroom. Come to think of it, this would be the PERFECT place to throw a rave.

They DID throw a rave once at THE PEACH PIT. David Silver DJ'ed, Dylan stole all the money, and I think Donna and Kelly learned an important lesson about drugs. It might have been a burger joint by day, but when the Peach Pit After Dark opened up, it became the hottest club in all of 90210, playing host to the likes of Color Me Badd, Adam Levine, and even the Flaming Lips, which caused Steve Sanders to utter the immortal words, "I've never been a big fan of alternative music, but these guys rock the house!"

Then there's the SNAKEHOLE LOUNGE, "Pawnee's Sickest Nightclub." If it's good enough for the staff of Indiana's finest Parks & Recreation department, it's good enough for me. Drizzled in neon and awash with loud music, binge drinking, and cocktails with a high enough alcohol content to get Ron Swanson dancing, this hotspot is a sad testament to the... oh, who am I kidding? If I lived in Pawnee, I'd probably be heading there with a stack of records right now.

But if you want MY opinion, no better bar has ever NOT existed in real life than The Roadhouse from "Twin Peaks." (I'm trying SUPER hard not to be a nerd and point out it's actually called The Bang Bang Bar -- Roadhouse is just a local nickname. I've clearly failed.) But where else can you walk into a rustic rural bar half full of bikers while being serenaded by any number of ethereal otherworldly musicians. Nine Inch Nails played there! Our own Lissie played there! And if you're lucky, a terrifying dream giant might appear in a prophetic vision. Is there anything better than booze, mellow tunes, dream giants, and an overall sense of foreboding dread? I love the Roadhouse so much I've walked into OTHER Roadhouses hoping it'd be even 1% like the Bang Bang Bar and it never is. Not even one dream giant. Boo.

Maybe one day I'll see a club on TV that looks like the one I'm spinning at now. Odds are slim. It would need a mechanical bull. More on that next week.

COLUMN: Smoke Detector Hell

Sometimes it's good there are only twenty-four hours in a day.

Recently, I had a day that may have set a new record in stress. I've been telling you guys about it for three weeks now. It started with me waking up in a pointlessly foul mood and my last nerve already frayed before breakfast. This led to a lunch hour where I tried an Impossible Whopper. True to form, it was Impossible to fix my bad mood.

When I got home from work, I was met by an adorable soggy stray cat in need of rescue, which led to an evening vet visit, some emergency supplies, flea baths aplenty, and a friend coming through with a second litterbox at the eleventh hour. But as it turned out, I could have really used help at the twelfth hour, too.

The night was starting to look up, or at least starting to look DONE. My new houseguest was safely quarantined. Litterboxes and food bowls were deployed. It was 11:45 p.m. There was nothing to do but call it a day and quite litter-ally put this bad mood to bed. Since my new feline friend was making herself at home in the bedroom, I decided to set up shop on my comfy living room couch. I put on some relaxing music ("Victorialand" by the Cocteau Twins, my go-to relaxation mood-fixer,) dimmed the lights, and laid down for peace, quiet, and

BEEP!

Except it wasn't a beep. The word "beep" has kind of a pleasant connotation. There was nothing pleasant about the shrill, high-pitched nightmare noise that suddenly pierced my entire house, shot straight into my ear canals, and traveled directly to the part of my brain that controls wincing. If I had to attempt to make a word of it, I'd probably go with:

SKREEEE! Then silence.

I shot straight up and assessed the situation. Was I having an aneurysm? No. Did I imagine it? No. Was the house on fire? Maybe.

The advent of smoke detectors is a wonderful thing. I'm certain they've saved many, many lives. I'm happy they're in my house. And I know how important it is to change their batteries. I mostly know this because when said batteries get low, they start chirping. Or at least they SHOULD chirp. Actually, they should make no noise whatsoever. They should just send an e-mail. "Dear Shane, my batteries are low. Love, your smoke detector." That would suffice just fine. If it HAS to make a noise, give it a different noise. A change-your-batteries noise. A pleasant noise. A beep, if you will.

Instead, when my smoke detectors need new batteries, they make the exact same noise as when they detect smoke -- only shorter. So it's kind of like being alerted to a dozen tiny fires spaced about five minutes apart. This would still be acceptable, were it not for one crucial thing:

Whoever installed the smoke detectors in my house is a sadist.

When possible, smoke detectors should be placed on the ceilings. Groovy. Except my house has a lofted bedroom and vaulted ceilings. Changing them generally requires multiple people, aerial acrobatics, and a two-story ladder. I own two ladders: a tiny one and a fancy telescoping beast gifted from my dad which weighs eleventy tons and takes a master's degree in physics to assemble. The last time I had to haul it out, it took my best friend and I about an hour to change one battery.

This time, though, it was the smoke detector in the lofted bedroom that was chirping. Well, it's kinda in the bedroom. It's more like right on the edge of the loft, at the perfect position where even a fall off the tiny ladder could drop you two stories. With a brave sigh, I brought the tiny one up the stairs and tried to climb it.

Remember earlier this summer, though, when I hurt my foot? Okay, let's just be honest: I'm pretty sure I broke my foot. But I was also a stubborn idiot and didn't go to the doctor and instead spent the majority of the summer limping around like a fool. Fool or no, my foot feels fine now, or at least it DID until I stepped on that ladder and felt stress on the exact spot of the injury. Between my fear of heights and my fear of my foot collapsing into bone shards, I was NOT doing this on my own.

Instead, I decided to sleep in the basement. I hauled blankets downstairs, tried to get comfy, and SKREEEEE! Glad to know that my smoke detector is SO powerful, even the nearly soundproof walls of my house are no match for its shrill wails. At least I know I will never ever sleep through a fire. I also might never sleep again.

I tried to process my options: (1) I could stay here and go insane. (2) I could spend money I don't have on a hotel room in the pitch middle of the night. (3) I could get on Facebook and post about how horrible my life is. I picked up the phone when it suddenly hit me: Jeff Konrad.

Jeff is one of the best people I know. He's an area musician, studio engineer, and tech geek. We're not BFF's or anything, but at least once or twice a year, I can count on him showing up at my door, sometimes unannouced, with a pizza from Alfano's and a dire need to geek out to new wave synth jams while discussing everything from music theory to world religion. He's a weird, fantastic human being. A weird fantastic human being who happens to live about five blocks away from me and who often shuns sleep in favor of recording music in the wee hours.

I sent a desperate text: "Hey man, you up late by chance?" "Yessir," came the reply seconds later. "Can I cash in EVERY friend favor I've ever earned and get you to come over right now for a quick assist?" Five minutes later, he was at my door, battery in hand. Ten minutes later, this lifelong audiophile was never happier to hear the sound of silence.

The next day I was a sleep-deprived zombie, but a happy zombie. My bad mood was gone (yay!) My smoke detectors were no longer torturing me (thanks, Jeff!) And, strangest of all, I think I have a new cat (skreee! The good kind of skreee!)

Here's to better days.     

COLUMN: New Cat

I don't often write column sequels. But I also don't often have days like the one I experienced last week.

If you're a regular visitor to this nook of the newspaper (and thanks if you are,) you might remember last week when I told my tale of Shane's Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day. It was just like any other normal workday, except I woke up in a foul mood, pretty much hated everyone and everything, and decided it was a jolly time to try one of those Impossible Whoppers at Burger King, which immediately turned the day into sunshine and roses and made me swear off meat for life.

Or not.

Truth be told, the burger was better than expected, other than causing my stomach to make a delightful array of odd noises all afternoon as it figured out how to digest this foreign soy invader. Still, I couldn't quite shake the bad mood. As it turned out, I needed help to do that -- help that would come unexpectedly a few hours later.

I have long been a sucker for anything with four legs, sad eyes, and a well-timed meow. I share my living space with two cats who have graciously allowed me to house them, feed them, and see to their every need. But at any given time, I also have anywhere from 1-8 stepcats, who long ago realized that showing up at my back door with big eyes and timid meows usually results in a bowl of food their way.

Rock Island is rife with feral and stray cats, and I'm pretty sure most of them know my house. I'm an easy mark, or at least I used to be. A few years ago, one sad kitty started dropping by every night for a meal. Then it started bringing a friend. And another friend. But one day when I opened my back door to find no fewer than seven raggedy alley cats impatiently awaiting dinner, I closed up shop on Cafe Shane. Well, for a while.

I've recently had a new visitor to my back door. I first saw her tiny little frame last fall, timidly slinking around the edges of my yard. When I surprised her on my steps one day, I did what any normal grown adult would do: I looked her square in the eye and went, "Meow?" To my surprise, her tail perked up, she marched right over, and meowed back.

Thus began our long friendship. It didn't take long until I gave in and started feeding her. But this cat is no ordinary stray. She'll carry on full conversations with you. She'll ignore the food in favor of skritches and a lap to jump in. Her purr is so loud I can hear it from across the yard. But when the weather got cold, she disappeared for the winter. "Awesome," I thought, "she has a home somewhere." But as soon as spring sprang, she was back.

All summer long, this cat has been living in my yard. No matter the day or time, you can find her lurking nearby. I get home from work, she's on my back steps. I get back from a DJ gig at 4 a.m., she's there. I leave for the office first thing in the morning, she's under foot. Maybe she DOESN'T have a home? When I stepped out a couple weeks ago and found her politely sitting there in the middle of a rainstorm drenched to her little kitty bones, I decided it was time for action.

So last week, I put a collar on her with a day-glo note that said, "READ ME! Is this your cat? She's been visiting me and I want to help if she doesn't have a home. Call me!"

That brings us to my Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, when I came home from work to find her on my back steps, still wearing the collar I'd put on her days before. No one saw the note. No one called me. It was fixing to rain. There was no better time to act.

So I took her to the vet to get some answers. She's definitely a she. No micro-chip, but she's been spayed -- if she's not somebody's cat, she probably once was. But the vet also said she has several broken teeth, which is the sign of a cat who's led a hard outdoor life. Best of all, the tests came back negative and she didn't have any toxic cat heebie-jeebies.

So, as I type this, I have a new houseguest. The vet wants me to quarantine her for a couple weeks to make sure she doesn't have any lingering respiratory issues, so I've turned my bedroom into a makeshift kitty hotel. I'm still desperately trying to find out if she has a home -- I've put flyers around the neighborhood, ads in the paper, and posts on social media. If you or someone you know in Broadway/Longview Rock Island is missing a kitty, e-mail me.

But if no one claims her, I might just have a new roomie. The key word is "might." She seems cool with the arrangement, but my other houseguests appear less than enthused. She doesn't have any cat cooties, but she was providing transportation services to a wayward family of fleas, so now all three cats had to get flea treatments and stink to high heaven. And I won't gross you out, but there's been some tummy issues. Let's just say my new friend gets a little less cute every time I have to clean her poop off my WALLS. Ugh.

So yeah, what started as a Very Bad Day ended with me getting a new roomie. If she has an owner, hopefully I can find them. If not? Time will tell. But there's no bad mood a purr can't fix.

Or so I thought. Wait, isn't this crazy day OVER yet? Nope. Part 3 next week.   

COLUMN: Impossible Whopper

Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Okay, that's a lie. I didn't wake up on ANY side of the bed. I fell asleep on the couch watching TV. The bed had absolutely nothing to do with the lousy mood I've found myself in all day, but I want to blame something, so j'accuse, cursed bed!

From the moment I was greeted by the shrill tones of my alarm clock, I've wanted to take a mulligan on the day. Once upon a Shane, I would've most definitely switched the alarm off and been asleep before my head hit the pillow. But those days were called "college," and they're long gone. Adult Shane has a job and responsibilities and things to do regardless of random mood swings.

So instead I sighed deeply, grumbled something incoherently at a passing cat, and got ready to face the yucky day ahead. And, as is always the case whenever I find myself in a bad mood with a short fuse, people and places and things began queueing up to test my patience.

At least three drivers cut me off on the way to the office. I got stopped by a train. The woman ahead of me in line at the gas station chose that exact moment to purchase FIFTY lottery tickets -- and with my luck, she probably won. The other woman in line looked at me and then suddenly covered up her hand as she entered her PIN number at the register as though I were a Nefarious Dude Up To No Good -- then again, I'm sure the scowl I was sporting would have frightened anyone at that moment.

At the office, my co-workers (who are all honestly lovely people) accidentally did everything to get on my last nerve, from chomping on butterscotch candies to, well, breathing weird. Or breathing normally. I've never noticed my co-workers breathing before. But today? Suddenly I did, and I wanted them all to stop their needless breathing immediately. Clearly, I was in a rotten mood.

A perfect time, then, to tackle a topic I've been meaning to for weeks. On my lunch hour, I went straight to Burger King to try their much-touted vegetarian creation: an Impossible Whopper. My logic was infallible: Nothing could make my day any worse, not even a patty of soybeans pretending to be meat.

I've actually been curious about the Impossible Whopper for some time. I just assumed it got its name because it's impossible to make soy taste good, let alone taste like a burger. Still, I wanted to give it a shot. I've never met a burger I didn't like. But I've also never met a burger without the meat. But if I can give my arteries an occasional break from non-stop red meat infusion, I might just get to live a little longer. So I summoned up all my courage, pulled through the drive-thru, saw a menu full of hundreds of delicious things, and instead proudly ordered a bag full of (shudder) vegetables. Or legumes. Or whatever the hell this thing masquerading as a "burger" is.

I'm no food critic, but here's my take on it. First, there's the look. Honestly, it's kind of impressive. The patty has the right color. This is due to something called "soy leghemoglobin," which I believe is science-speak for bean blood. It gives the patty a brown-pink hue that legit looks like beef. That said, the patty's also thin and a little too unnaturally uniform. It's a perfectly round disc of whatever-the-heck-it-is that clearly says, "This did not come from a cow."

I did my best to just unwrap the thing and bite into it without judgment like it was any other Whopper. From a texture standpoint, it sure felt like digging into a burger. But I've got to be honest, the first taste that registered was definitely not-a-burger. It's a savory flavor, but not a beef flavor. Epic fail, I thought.

But only for a second. Because right after that flavor hits, its replaced by everything else a burger should taste like: ketchup, mayo, pickles, mustard. Grilled deliciousness. And the more I ate, the less I registered the not-a-burger taste. Maybe I just had to get used to it. After a few bites, I was pretty much okay with the thing. I still wouldn't call it a burger. But it's enough like a burger that I absolutely didn't mind it.

We as a society have a love-hate relationship with food that is bad for us. We don't call it "unhealthy," we call it "decadent" or a "guilty pleasure." Whenever we learn that some food item is slowly killing us, we don't stop eating it. We just look to science to make a healthier, less scary version of it. Our store shelves are stocked with diet sodas, almond milk, low-sodium salt, and whatever laboratory miracle "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" is.

A red meat diet is not good for you. So should we abandon burgers altogether? Or should we be happy there's a fairly-okay meat-less burger option out there? It reminds me of NBC's "The Good Place," when Michael the Architect attempts to explain why the afterlife is packed with frozen yogurt shops. "There's something so human about taking something and ruining it a little so you can have more of it."

Is the meat-free Impossible Whopper better tasting than a Whopper? Nope. But it's not awful, either. If you're the kind of person who can eat frozen yogurt and pretend it's ice cream, you can probably eat this and pretend it's just as good as a Quarter Pounder. And let's be real -- anything can taste good if you cover it in enough mayo, ketchup, and pickles. The whole thing was better than expected, and almost enough to turn my day around.

As for my bad mood? Well, a few hours later it got a infinitely better. And then infinitely worse. More on that next week.

COLUMN: Youtube

Everyone needs a hobby. I've got a few.

I love music. I love driving around aimlessly and seeing new places. I go to movies, restaurants, and concerts. I like auto racing. I like spending time with friends, listening to podcasts, and playing with cats.

But this past month, I've been nursing an injured foot that's turned me into even more of a hermitic couch-dweller than usual. For a while there, my biggest hobby was playing frostbite roulette with an icepack. That's when I developed a new passion: Youtube. Yes, in front of me sits a television capable of receiving 236 channels programmed by, written by, and starring people whose sole job is to entertain me -- while I instead choose to watch random snots with GoPros filming their version of "entertainment." (Spoiler alert: most of the time, it's not.)

The days of burying time capsules for future generations is over. Instead, I hope there'll be an archive of Youtube clips somewhere. That way, our children's children's children can look back, examine the evidence, and come to the natural conclusion that life in the 2010's consisted mainly of makeup tips, dumping ice over your own head, dancing to Drake, and watching other people play video games.

Thanks to the miracle of Youtube, you can watch the new Billie Eilish video. Then you can watch other people watching the new Billie Eilish video. Then you can watch Billie Eilish watching other people watch the new Billie Eilish video (seriously). What's HAPPENED to our world?

But Youtube really is amazing. You name the topic, there's channels and clips for it. If you want to watch lizards, there's a channel for you. If you want to watch Elizabeth Warren, there's a channel for you. If you want to watch a guy tell you that Elizabeth Warren is secretly a lizard working with the Illuminati to hide the fact that the Earth is flat, there's a channel for you. There's videos to love, videos to hate, and videos you love to hate. But what does Youtube have to say about OUR neck of the woods?

I've fallen down some deep online rabbitholes before, but never had I attempted what I just did: an entire evening of searching Youtube for "Quad Cities," "Davenport," "Moline," etc. The results were staggering, and I've learned much.

To be precise, I've learned that:

• Way too many people own drones. I've seldom seen drones flying around the Quad Cities, but it's clear they are. In fact, Youtube is home to dozens and dozens of soundless scenic aerial videos shot from drones flying above our downtowns, bridges, and flooded rivers. And they're all super duper boring. The only fun thing is trying to date the videos by whether or not you can see my car parked in the lot of our old downtown Moline office. I miss that place.

• People like trains waaaay too much. Look, I get it. Trains are cool, I guess. They're a vital part of our nation's history and infrastructure. They were also my dad's employer and a vital part of my financial well-being. But I don't really get the appeal of standing next to railroad tracks filming every car of a seventeen-minute-long coal train, let alone watching someone else's video of it. If you're into trains like I'm into music, you're as weird as me. But I'm also kind of jealous of you railfans out there. When I get stopped by a train, I'd love to feel joy and fascination instead of my usual response, which is to swear like a sailor and make exasperated sighs to no one at all.

On a side note, there's also an alarming number of videos out there of people sneaking onto freight trains and filming themselves free-riding to who-knows-where. This is just especially stupid. For one, here's a pro tip: when committing a crime, you should probably switch your camera to the "off" position. I'm all for the occasional act of rebellion, but if you think freighthopping is cool, I'll let my dad tell you the story about how he once had to helplessly watch a freeloader get decapitated. Use your head, don't lose your head, people.

• Fifteen years from now, there's going to be a lot of Quad Citians REALLY embarassed that their parents put their dance recitals online for all to see.

But I also found some real gems.

Search Youtube for "Davenport police" and you'll find a promo video from 1965 showing off the cutting-edge police technology of the time (radios! meter maids!) as well as some amazing shots of yesteryear Davenport.

I stumbled into a series of videos from street evangelists ministering and scolding Quad City pedestrians and passersby. To each their own, and I'm all for freedom of speech and religion, but they all come off a little self-righteous and mean-spirited to me. But then I discovered that there's another street evangelist in Oregon who takes issue with the street evangelists in the Quad Cities and there's a whole series of response videos and a Biblical battle royale I never knew existed. Fascinating stuff.

I've been at it for hours. I've seen everything from rap battles to cemetery tours. I've seen tornados in Davenport and UFOs over Moline. But I also found a clear winner - my favorite local video on all of Youtube. It's simply called "Cruisin' in Davenport" uploaded by a user called "OLDSCHOOLNEVERDIES". It has 546 views - well, now proudly 547. And it's just a fixed camera on the dash of what I believe to be a vintage Lincoln Town Car as it drives around the Quad Cities at night blaring all 6 minutes and 48 glorious seconds of the vintage disco/funk jam "First Time Around" by Skyy. And that's only one of several inexplicable videos of the same car night driving around the QCA unapologetically pumping amazing disco ear candy. Dare I say, in one of the videos, he drives right past my house.

We all need hobbies to cope with and avoid the stresses of everyday life. But my life is a LOT less stressful just knowing that somewhere as I type this very sentence, an anonymous disco avenger is out cruising our streets making the Quad Cities a whole lot funkier. If you're reading this, OLDSCHOOLNEVERDIES, please know that if you ever need a co-pilot in that sweet, sweet ride, I'm always available. Forever in disco, your funky pal Shane.