COLUMN: Cats (With A Capital C)

Congratulations, Hollywood. You actually did it.

I'd read some of the reviews and I just couldn't believe it. "The scariest thing you'll ever see," they said. "A new masterpiece in modern horror," some proclaimed. I didn't believe the hype. There was no way it could be more terrifying than the classics. But I've seen it for myself, and they're not lying. Move over, The Exorcist. Make way, The Shining. Step aside, Mr. Krueger. Hollywood has just released the most terrifying film you'll ever see.

I speak, of course, about the brief trailer for the upcoming movie adaptation of "Cats."

Last week, Universal Pictures released this nightmare fuel unto the world with little warning. Mankind was clearly not prepared.

The "Cats" trailer is truly two of the most off-putting minutes you'll experience all year. If a brief montage can elicit this kind of repulsion, the full movie (coming this Christmas) might be the end of us all. You've officially been warned.

It isn't just that you're watching a star-studded cast prance about in cat costumes. That would be bad enough. But the makers of "Cats" then took the footage and added CGI effects to make everyone look like beastly half-naked singing-n-dancing cat aliens from some untapped plane of Hell. If there really IS a secret UFO stronghold under the mountains of Area 51, we now have a pretty good idea what its residents resemble. Finally, the world has answers to questions that have plagued mankind, such as "What would Dame Judi Dench look like with fur and a tail?" (The answer? REALLY creepy.)

It doesn't help that this trailer is for the movie version of my least favorite musical of all time. Even without CGI and fraudulent feline fur, "Cats" creeped me out as a kid and continues to creep me out today.

For one, it has NO plot. Zero narrative. Zilch. Here's what happens in "Cats": cats sing about being cats. The end. Okay, maybe there's a TINY plot. "Cats" is the story of a tribe called the Jellicles, who meet once a year to elect one cat to travel to the Heaviside Layer, where they'll be reborn into a new life. Essentially, the entire musical is nothing but cat-people singing about why they should die -- and frankly, if I was trapped in this plot, I'd be pleading to die, too. In the end, I presume one of them does. I don't know for certain -- I've never made it that far without fleeing for my life and sanity.

I don't know a THING about how "Cats" came to be, but I have a guess. Once upon a time, Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote an amazing song called "Memory." It's a boss tune. A real tear-jerking show-stopper fit for a diva. Trouble was, he had no musical to put it in. Just then he looked down, saw his cat sleeping, and thought to himself, "That'll do." "Cats" is a two-hour excuse to hear "Memory" and little else.

At some point, he must have come up with the word "jellicle" and thought it was cool. But nothing rhymes with "jellicle," so most of the songs rhyme "jellicle" with "jellicle." If "Cats" had a drinking game where you had to swig every time someone said "jellicle," the entire audience would be dead of alcohol poisoning fifteen minutes in.

Other songs just abandon rhyme altogether, because why bother? You're already in the theater, you've already paid the money, and you're only there to hear "Memory" in the first place.

Mr. Webber, I know cats. Cats are friends of mine. This is not cats.

Either my cats are really weird (admittedly a possibility) or Andy Webber got it all wrong. Despite my constant encouragement and deepest desires, my cats have never spontaneously broken out in song and dance. At best, I might get a meow, and even that's pushing it.

Maybe its up to me to fix what's broken in "Cats." I might not be able to carry a tune or play a lick of music, but tonight, my cats and I put our heads together and came up with the basics of a musical I like to call "Actual Cats."

Act I, Scene I. The curtain opens to reveal two housecats sleeping on a couch. Upon the sound of a housekey turning a lock, they yawn, stretch, and immediately go into the opening number, "Hungry Songs for Hungry Cats."

This is followed quickly by other memorable sing-along numbers, such as:

"Back To Sleep"
"Guess Where I Peed (It's Not the Litterbox)"
"I Know You Have Food, Where Is The Food?"
"I'm Not Staring, I'm Judging You"

Act II is a little more emotional, with songs like "Pet Me Pet Me DON'T PET ME THERE" and the dramatic tale based on a true story, "I Don't Know This Girl You Invited Over (So I Pooped In Her Shoe.)"

Then, once the audience is deeply invested, hit 'em with the show-stopper. "Hunnnngry! It's so eeeasy to feeeed me / When you feeeed me, I'll understand what happiness issss, tilll the food bowl... FILLS AGAIN!" The audience weeps. Someone hacks up a hairball. Curtain.

Easy peasy. No need for a Heaviside layer or cat reaping ceremony. No one had to hear the word "jellicle." No one had to see a furry Dame Judi Dench. Dear American Theater League, you may send my Tony to the usual address.

COLUMN: Too Hot

Well, well. We meet again, empty white Notepad screen.

I can't wait to share the super exciting column topic I have this week -- except I don't have one.

Here's the thing. I usually write about what I see, where I go, and the things I do. But THIS week, the only place I've gone is my couch, and the only thing I've done is sit here on my e'er-expanding fanny. Sorry, but it's just too hot to do anything else, and I have ZERO patience for triple-digit forecasts.

I just looked out my window and witnessed a dude jogging by. In these temps, that's just death-wish levels of insanity. It's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk right now. At least I think it is. It's too hot to go outside and actually try it. But that's not gonna stop Joggerman. He had a clear look of superiority on his face as he proudly strode past all shirtless and self-righteous. He's not gonna let a little thing like an Excessive Heat Warning interfere with HIS exercise regimen.

As a rule, I don't generally wish ill fortune upon people, but I've gotta say, it would probably serve him right if he doubled over and started power barfing all over the sidewalk. Well, as long as it's not MY sidewalk. If it's hot enough to fry an egg, I don't wanna know what it would do to THAT. Eww.

Give us chubby nerds one bit of credit: We know how to stay indoors, especially when outdoors feels like a torture sauna. I'm supposed to be skilled and gifted at wasting time watching bad TV and obsessing over good video games, but I've already got cabin fever. How does this happen? A few years ago, I broke my ankle and spent the better part of six weeks surfing this couch with few complaints. Why can I not spend six hours on it today without the walls closing in?

But hope is not lost. On my lap sits a machine of infinite power, with access to all the knowledge of the world and at least 10,000 cat memes. If there's an answer to these heat-addled doldrums, surely it can be found on the internet. Back in a second...

BOOM. It took less than five minutes. I just went to a self-help site and pulled up an article entitled "GREAT THINGS TO DO ON A HOT DAY." Shall we dive in?

- "Cool off in the nearest stream or river by kayaking." Umm, okay. First off, don't own a kayak. Second off, can't swim. Third off, this author's clearly never endured a spring flood in the Quad Cities, because the nearest river is barely in its banks and still reeks of unhinged raw sewage. This helpful hint might as well just say, "Nothing to do on a hot day? Why not drown yourself in fetid feces water?" Hard pass.

- "Fill a child's swimming pool with ice and jump in!" It's so hot outside I'm not entirely sure that a bag of ice wouldn't just turn to steam the second I walk outside. Plus, this solution would first require me to roam the streets approaching random children and asking to borrow their pools. Clearly not a good look. Shane-ger danger.

- "Grab some water pistols, fill them up, and shoot your friends!" Because it always ends well when you go running around the neighborhood brandishing a mock weapon. That's never gotten anyone in trouble. Pass.

- "If you have a dog, give it a bath! Watch it run around like crazy trying to dry off!" I don't have a dog. I have cats. Specifically, I have cats smart enough to hate stupid activities like baths. If I tried to give my cats a bath, they'd watch ME run around like crazy trying to find something to stop the bleeding. No thanks.

- "Put on your favorite beach music and dance like a crazy person!" The music's already playing. In my house, it's never NOT playing. But the sight of me dancing is too embarassing for ANYONE to witness, including my cats or, God forbid, myself should I accidentally side-eye a mirror. Absolutely not.

- "Get in your car and drive somewhere you've never been before, somewhere cooler!" It's a 22.5 hour drive to Lake Windigo, Ontario. That's the furthest point north of here accessible by car. It's only 8 degrees cooler there, though admittedly you might catch a refreshing breeze whilst running for your life from angry moose.

But just when I thought this list didn't know me very well, I think I just found one of their pieces of advice that might be doable:

- "Stay in, write an opinion column, and see if your local newspaper will publish it."

Hi, I'm Shane, and my opinion is that it's too [expletive] hot outside. Let's see if my local newspaper will publish this.

COLUMN: Love Island

Sometimes it's easy to believe the world is beyond saving.

After all, the evidence in support of a society beyond redemption is staggering. Half of us hate the other half for entirely asinine reasons. Social media was supposed to unite the world, but it just gives us new and exciting ways to argue with strangers. Taxes are rising. Businesses are closing. Racism. Sexism. Homophobia. Tom Cruise. The future looks grim. There are some who say we're done for.

Not me. I'm an optimist. This morning, I watched a man nearly trip over himself to hold a door for an elderly lady. On my lunch hour, a car backed up an entire lane of bridge traffic just to let me make a left turn. At the gas station, a stranger complimented another stranger on her shoes. We as a people are innately good, and goodness is always worth saving. Humanity is strong and intelligent and one day, we -- or at least our children's children's children -- are going to live in world of positivity, equality, intellect, and hope. This is what I believe.

Then I turned on the TV and watched "Love Island" and I take it all back. Society has failed. We're doomed.

I have no patience for schlocky reality dating shows, but I needed to check out "Love Island." The British version has been a ratings juggernaut and the talk around every UK water cooler. When CBS announced the risky commitment of launching the American version five nights a week all summer long, I had to see what the fuss was all about. It must be great fun, no?

No, indeed.

I've now watched three episodes of "Love Island," and I'm honestly not even sure WHAT I've been watching, other than I definitely feel icky for doing it. It is a reality show? A dating game? Or has CBS just finally figured out how to air family-friendly pornography in primetime? I dunno what it is, other than gross.

Today's young people have advantages we never did. They've been raised in a tech-savvy world of limitless potential, walking around with instant access to all the knowledge of the world right in their pockets. Surely this new generation must be the smartest, most worldly, woke creatures ever raised on this planet, right? Just imagine the important discourse, soul-sharing, and refined conversations a modern dating show would contain.

Then chuck it all out the window, because here's how "Love Island" starts:

"Hi, I'm Caro! I'm 21, I'm a marketing student. I recently just started loving my hair, so I'm, like, really trying to own it, and so that would be my number one best quality!"

Within minutes, "Love Island" has already set us back as a society by about a kajillion years. Caro was quickly followed by Alana.

"I think my personality is a good quality," she announced to the camera. "Well, and I've got a nice butt! I really do! I'm just gonna let Jesus take the wheel!" I'm hoping if Jesus took the wheel, he'd immediately pop a U-turn and drive as far away from Love Island as he could.

In a post #metoo world, how could something this insipid, shallow, and sexist ever get green-lighted? Then I rapidly discovered it's not just the girls who are an embarassment. No, thankfully "Love Island" is an equal opportunity flaming dumpster pile.

Ladies, meet Michael. "Being this good looking is a gift and a curse," he philosophizes. "People make assumptions and judge, like I'm this dude who's way into myself. That's just not me. I also love animals." Clearly Michael's a catch, or possibly someone you could catch something from.

The plot of "Love Island" is simple. Painfully simple. Five impossibly attractive women are instantly paired with five gym-raised dudes and forced to live together in a tacky villa in Fiji. Remember that 80s music video that ruined the career of Billy Squier? The one full of bad decisions where he pranced around a neon set that looked thrown together by the decorators of "Miami Vice" during a bad cocaine binge? 

"Love Island" is like being stuck in that video forever, except Billy at least had the decency to don a pink t-shirt. On "Love Island," shirts and pants are clearly optional, and most residents opt out. The rest of the show is just skeevy makeout sessions, muscle flexing, catfights, and camera crews with itchy trigger fingers on the zoom button. In the end, somebody wins $100,000 but I still have no idea how. If this is what modern love's all about, then consider me perfectly cool with being eternally unlucky in love.

Maybe one day someone will green-light "Nerd Island," where human beings with actual personalities sit around watching anime, playing video games, and judging others not by the niceness of their butts but by truly important standards, such as the contents of their record collections. I'd watch that show. Heck, I'd go ON that show.

If "Love Island" becomes a hit over here, I'm officially pronouncing society beyond redemption. PLEASE tell me you have better things to do with your summer than sit around and watch vapid hot people be vapid and hot. Don't worry, I'll tell you everything you missed later. I mean, SOMEONE has to keep tabs on this show for the survival of mankind. These are the sacrifices I make for you, for journalism, and for the common good. Now if you'll excuse me, its almost 7 p.m., gotta go. Caro's going on a private date with Cormac. SQUEEEEEAL!

COLUMN: Blue Angels

I may have had a full-on Top Gun moment last week, folks.

At least, I THINK I had a Top Gun moment. Truth be told, I have no idea what a Top Gun moment even is, because I've never seen Top Gun. Like all movies starring a certain shiny-veneered thespian with the unmitigated gall to have once married MY future wife Katie Holmes, I took a pass.

Here is precisely everything I know about Top Gun: Some dudes fly planes. Berlin sings what might be the only 80s song I truly despise. Someone feels the need for speed. And worst of all, I'm pretty sure Tom Cruise's character does NOT die, and I hate movies with sad endings.

Still, I think I had a moment that captured the essence of Top Gun.

It was lunchtime, and I was leaving the office in search of fast food. I'd been listening to a quiet podcast on the commute that morning and had left the volume on my car stereo fully jacked. When I turned the key, it kicked on LOUD. But instead of the quiet podcast, it defaulted to a dance music channel on satellite radio, and suddenly vintage house music was blaring out my speakers at an entirely inappropriate, unprofessional, and unhealthy decibel level.

In other words, it was awesome.

Instantly I was swept back to my raver days of 1992, when my biggest concern in life was funky dope beats and how to make them funkier. For a fleeting moment, I didn't care what any of my co-workers or our customers may have thought (apologies all around.) The publisher of the paper could have been pulling into the lot with Donald Trump and Joe Biden for all I cared. For just a moment, I was going to sit there, close my eyes, lean back, and let the bass thump. But that's when a new noise popped in. Somewhere behind the familiar oontz-oontz-oontz of some sweaty French DJ, I heard it.

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Man, I didn't remember the bassline in this song being that wicked?

rrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRR

Suddenly I realized what was happening. "No way," I thought to myself as I sprung open the car door and leapt out.

RRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

And that's when my subwoofer immediately lost the good fight to the majestic thunder of the U.S. Navy Blue Angels searing through the sky overhead in a formation so tight it looked like they were only inches apart. The fly-by was so low I could actually see their little heads in the cockpits. Like that stupid Berlin song, it literally took my breath away.

As it turns out, I have an instinctive reaction to witnessing a squadron of F/A-18 Hornets soundtracked to wicked house music. And that reaction, friends, was to yell "YEAAAAH!" and throw a clenched fist triumphantly to the heavens. I've never seen Top Gun, but that HAS to be something Tom Cruise would do, right?

Now, to any non-insane person who may have happened upon our parking lot at that moment, what they clearly witnessed was a sad fat man having a spontaneous midlife crisis. But to me, I was living the dream -- well, until I sheepishly realized how ridiculous I must have looked before quickly returning my arm to a normal and decidedly less triumphant position, turning down the volume on my stereo, and self-consciously driving away.

But let's be honest, the Blue Angels are rad. As far as I'm concerned, they can headline the air show EVERY year. I've witnessed them a handful of times, and they never fail to amaze. These are military folk who have crossed the line from heroes to death-defying lunatics, and I love 'em for it. No words can properly express the respect I have for the speed, precision, and technical might of those magnificent men & women and their flying machines.

There's nothing like witnessing aeronautics in motion -- provided I'm safely on terra firma. Flying is not for me. I lose my stomach when I reach the second rung of a ladder, let alone pulling 5.2 G's in a vertical ascent to 8000 feet. Occasionally the Angels invite local journalists up for an aerial cruise. Not that they'd ever turn to the dude who writes about cats and bad TV, but trust me when I say they can spare the call. I guarantee I'd be the first ridealong to use the barf bag before the plane even fires up.

I am, however, a fan of watching others defy gravity. Youtube offers a surplus of amazing flight videos, from the Blue Angels to beyond. One of my favorites is a guy named Tucker Gott who fills his Youtube channel with paramotoring videos. That's the hobby and/or suicidal deathwish where you put on a parachute, strap a gas-powered fan to your back, and literally wing it. His selfie videos, where he's basically open-air cruising at 8000 feet in a wind-fueled lawn chair, are unreal. Except they ARE real, which is even more unreal.

In this world, there are some who slip the surly bonds of Earth and forge a new path through the heavens -- and there are others who yell "YEAAAAH!" and fist-pump like no one else is watching. I'm pretty sure I know which camp I fall in. Thanks for a great air show, Blue Angels. You're welcome back anytime I need a Top Gun moment. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a huge stack of Tom Cruise movies to not watch. 

COLUMN: Dear Uncle "Jack"

Dear Uncle "Jack,"

We need to talk.

You've been my uncle for most of the years I've been alive, and for that I'm grateful. You've always treated me with kindness and a smile, and I love spending time with you guys when you come to town. You're a great uncle and I'm proud to say we're family.

But I'm a little less proud to have you as a Facebook friend.

I realized long ago that we're NEVER going to agree on politics. Every time I log onto social media, I brace for whatever offensive memes, cartoons, and manifestos you decide to share with the world. Your goal is to provoke, and you do a pretty good job. I've come to learn that the best course of action is usually to bite my tongue and resist the urge to return fire. Whenever someone disagrees with you, it just fans the flame and inspires more eye-rolling content.

I'm never going to change your opinion when it comes to politics, and you're never going to change mine. So rather than waste our time starting flame wars on Facebook, it's usually best if I just ignore your rants and keep my trap shut. Trust me, I've become pretty adept at swiping past your many posts.

But I can't swipe this week away. You can rag on #fakenews and invent Benghazi conspiracies all the live-long day for all I care. But now, you've decided to celebrate Pride month by unleashing a daily stream of gay-bashing, and I can't ignore hateful nonsense like this. So let's have a chat.

I'm not gay, but I try to be an ally to my friends in the LGBTQ+ community. I support their rights, but I also support freedom of speech. As long as it doesn't escalate into threats, hate speech, or libel, you have the right to express your opinion on anything you want. That's what makes America so great. When those hateful clowns from Westboro show up to picket funerals, most of us justifiably want to punch their lights out. I choose to ignore their despicable rhetoric and instead celebrate that we live in a country where even ignorant buffoons have the right to speak their minds (or lack thereof).

I get that you have some religious issues with "alternative lifestyles." That's your right, too. I'm no theologian, and I'm not qualified to argue on the accuracy of the specific translations of those one or two Old Testament verses you repeatedly fall back on. But I'm pretty sure using the Bible to justify and fuel hatred and intolerance is the exact opposite of everything I know about Christianity. Jesus said nothing in the New Testament about being gay. If it wasn't a big enough deal for him to weigh in on, why do you feel the need?

You don't like gay people. Well, I don't like onions -- but you don't see me outside of McDonalds onion-shaming everyone who walks out with a Quarter Pounder. If you think it's wrong to be gay, then my best advice to you is: don't be gay. Is there really need for more discussion? No one is trying to indoctrinate you or your grandkids into the gay cabal. If you're not gay, then the gay agenda shouldn't concern you. Love who you love, and let others love who they love. Everyone lives happily ever after, and I can go back to checking Facebook without wincing.

The other day, you asserted that being gay is "a choice." I hold a different opinion, and so does most of the country, and so does science. But for the sake of argument, let's do an experiment real quick. If you're certain that a person "chooses" to be gay, then put your money where your mouth is and give it a whirl. For the next five minutes, choose to be gay. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I dunno, go find a picture of the dude who plays Aquaman and see if you can choose to be attracted to him.

No luck? I guess this means one of two things. Either (a) you're more of a Clooney type, or (b) maybe there's a teensy tiny chance that folks don't get to choose who they're attracted to.

What really made me write this column, though, was this gem you posted today: "Dear LGBT, if you don't want to be treated differently for being gay, then stop acting like being gay somehow makes you special. Your sexual orientation is neither an achievement nor a holiday." This, more than anything else, shows how much you're missing the point. Pride has nothing to do with wanting to be seen as special. It's about wanting to be seen as equal. It's about bravery and strength. It's about taking pride in your true self. It's about tolerance and acceptance and celebrating the diversity that makes life so rich.

Equality shouldn't be an argument. It should be common sense. I have friends who are straight, gay, transgendered, and some whose orientation I don't know or care about. I just call them friends, and that's enough for me. I'm not a soapbox columnist who writes impassionated pieces that inspire social change. I'm the guy who writes about cats and reality TV. I'm the guy unashamed to quote Taylor Swift -- and to that extent, Uncle Jack: "You need to calm down, you're being too loud."

I hope everybody had a wonderful Pride month. I see that July is National Aunt & Uncle Month. I'd send you a card, Uncle Jack, but I don't want to unfairly insinuate that being my uncle somehow makes you special. After all, having me as a nephew was a choice, and your familial orientation is neither an achievement nor a holiday.     

You're my uncle and I love you. You'll always be family. But I just wanted you to know why you're no longer my Facebook friend.