COLUMN: Mayomust

I've been called many things in life. "Go-getter" has never been one of them.

That's not to say that I have a lack of motivation. On the contrary, I'm usually highly motivated -- to do as little as possible. Nothing makes me work harder than knowing the sooner I get done, the sooner I can bellyflop onto my couch and watch alarming amounts of bad TV without interruption.

Some people claim that leading a sedentary lifestyle is bad for you. I believe these people are called "doctors." They're probably right, but there DOES exist evidence to the contrary. Three weekends ago, I got off my butt, went to a trivia night like a normal active human being, and ended up tumbling off a step and bruising my foot to kingdom come. Had I remained safely on my couch, no harm would have come to me except eye strain and moderate brain damage from watching seven episodes of Ghost Adventures back to back to back. Say what you will about couches, but it's tough to fall down stairs while you're sitting on them.

"You can't stay in shape unless you get off the couch, Shane." Untrue. You DO stay in shape. It's just a round and squishy shape.

Okay, so I'm probably not the ideal role model for how to live your life. One day soon, I'll be motivated enough to change that, promise. For now, though, I've got a foot to elevate, which gives me the perfect excuse for a few more days of guilt-free laziness. In fact, it's a good time to sit back and take stock in everything around me that makes life easier.

Has there ever been a greater advancement in modern laziness than the invention of the dishwasher? Think about it. Once upon a time, a team of scientists and engineers could have spent their precious time on Earth curing disease, eradicating famine, or answering any of life's mysteries. Instead, they came together and focused on the most pressing problem in all of society: those ten annoying minutes after every meal when we have to stand there and rinse off our kitchenware. God bless those legends of science.

We take so much for granted. I have a robot that does my dishes. I have two more that wash and dry my clothes. Magical machines heat and cool our food. But the machine sometimes takes too long to heat my food (waaah!), so I went out and bought a machine that heats food really, really fast (and sometimes blows it up when you forget to poke holes in it.)

I can roll over right now, yell a command at an always-attentive robot named Alexa, and instantly watch any TV show or listen to any music I fancy. Remember those days when you had to walk all the way to the DVD player to play a movie? HOW DID WE SURVIVE?

When it comes to new and exciting ways to do less with your life, consumerism can be our friend. But sometimes, it can take things too far. I'm talking to you, Heinz Corporation.

As Americans, and especially Americans who live in the Midwest, we all love a good burger, right? Even the vegetarians I know always cheer when someone figures out a new way to turn non-meat into meat-like patties you can throw on a grill. But our love for burgers comes with a unique hardship that we all must suffer through. I speak, of course, about the precious time and energy it takes to apply separate layers of ketchup, mustard, and mayo. Yes, the burden of condiment application is a Herculean task that has plagued our fragile Earth for far too long. There has to be a better way.

Thanks to the good folks at Heinz, our worries are over. Earlier this year, they released a series of new products onto supermarket shelves that take all our condiments and mixes them together into squeeze bottles of unimaginable horror: Mayochup, Mayocue, and best of all, Mayomust. Look, I'm the laziest person I know, and even I'll say it: if you need to buy pre-blended mayonnaise and mustard, you should be ashamed of yourself.

Is there a less appealing name for any product anywhere than "Mayomust"? It sounds like something you should be treated for, not eat. I suppose their hands were a bit tied. "Mustaise" sounds like something you apply to your basement after a flood and "Mayotard" just sounds like a hate crime. But perhaps the failure of the names to merge in any appetizing form should have been a clue that mayonnaise and mustard should never be stirred together.

If you're looking for creamy mustard, I'm pretty sure it already exists and it's called dijon -- and you don't procure that in a supermarket. As we all know, you simply pull your Rolls-Royce up to another Rolls-Royce and politely ask the elderly gent for some Grey Poupon. I don't personally know any of the folks who make Rock Island's legendary and delicious Boetje's Mustard, but I'm going to guess the threat of competition from Mayomust didn't leave them quaking in their boots.

I'm all for making life easier -- but not at the expense of a good burger. If Mayomust is your thing, more power to you. But please know that you ARE weird -- and your support of this product will inevitably lead to a future world where instead of grilling out, we're just going to have a squeeze bottle that goops out a mushy mix of beef, onion, and pickles onto a bun. It will probably be pumpkin spice flavored. You've been warned.

Now, if you'll excuse me, all of this typing has really worn me out. Alexa, close Windows and play Ghost Adventures.

COLUMN: Foot

"How far that little candle throws his beams!" Shakespeare once wrote. "So shines a good deed in a weary world."

Shakespeare's an idiot.

Once upon a time, I was an optimist. I was pretty sure life was grand. I thought good deeds were supposed to pay you back, fill you with warm fuzzies, and make the world a better place. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Let's flashback to two weekends ago. Having just gotten off work on a Friday night, your intrepid columnist thought it a wise idea to compete at a charity trivia event. I've always found trivia nights great fun. Not only do you get to contribute to a good cause, but it's pretty much the only occasion where the pointless amount of pop culture knowledge in my brain can actually be useful.

At the event, I was happy to discover that I knew the emcee and his reputation for very good trivia questions. As I sat there waiting for the event to begin, I noticed him having some difficulties getting the microphone PA set up. Having DJed parties and events since puberty, I know my way around a PA. Hence, I thought I should probably be a do-gooder and offer assistance.

That's when I sprang into action. Specifically, the action of breaking my foot.

Okay, I don't actually think it's broken -- but I definitely jacked it up pretty good. I'm still not quite sure how it happened. I went onstage and helped bring out a speaker. Then I turned to hop down and instead slipped off the step and landed on my foot sideways. I can now cross stage-diving off my bucket list. I gamely walked back to my table, but I knew I'd just done a bad thing. Minutes later, it felt like my rapidly swelling foot was about to split my tennis shoe in two. By the end of the round, I knew I had to get home to elevation and ice pronto.

So, yeah, if you were at a trivia night and your between-round entertainment was a grimacing fat guy in the throes of hysterical embarassment getting carried out by two poor trivia judges, that was ME and you're super welcome. I'm never doing a good deed again. My hero days are through. If I'd have just minded my own business, I might not have been able to hear the emcee but I also could've walked out of the place on my own power.

Don't worry, it's much better now and I'm already back on both feet, but only after having spent the past two weeks dwelling on my couch, using up every cube of ice in Rock Island and every ounce of charitable goodwill I could wring out of my friends. I've also been learning just how horrible summer TV is. When I broke my ankle several years ago, I at least had the common decency to do in the middle of winter, which got me out of snow shoveling AND allowed me to catch up on some great shows. In summer, though, the TV landscape is pretty bleak.

They say we're living in a renaissance of fantastic television programming. You wouldn't know it in August. About the only thing I've learned over the past two weeks is that America's got both Talent and Ninja Warriors, and I couldn't care less about either. Every channel is filled with Love Islands and Big Brothers and vapid people being vapid and it about did my head in. Until, that is, I found a show that single-handedly reinstilled my faith in humanity and the power of good.

How have I slept this long on "The Great British Baking Show"? I always assumed it was just another boring cooking show -- and it kind of is. I don't even like baking. But in a moment of boredom, I tuned in -- and was instantly wooed by its charm. I'm used to reality shows full of big personalities, back-stabbing and cutthroat competition. TGBBS, though, might be the nicest reality show of all time.

It's a competition, but you'd barely know it. Aspiring amateur chefs show off their best bakes, from cookies to cakes to truly weird pies (haggis and lamb? No thanks.) But they're all so unbelievably kind that it's endearing. They take tea breaks. They compliment each other. When one competitor finishes early, they help the others. And I'm pretty sure the winner gets nothing more than a plaque and a handshake. The closest they ever had to scandal was when one baker accidentally removed another's cake from the freezer forty seconds early. I've binged two seasons now and it's already rekindled my hope for humanity.

So even if you end up with bruised feet, good deeds and common decency are worth it. And right now, you've got a chance to prove it. Do you guys know what Codfish Hollow is? It's a barn up in Maquoketa that plays host to the most amazing concerts in our area. It's a magical place I visit as often as possible. Attendees park in a cow pasture and take a hayrack ride to the venue.

But last weekend, there was an accident. The tractor that pulls the hayrack toppled over. Codfish's friendliest face, 74-year-old driver Marv Franzen, was briefly pinned underneath. He's now in Iowa City facing a lengthy hospital stay with broken arms and a broken pelvis. Marv's a legend and needs our help. Friends and family have set up a fundraising website to assist with his medical expenses. If you have any spare coin, please consider a donation at gofundme.com/f/fundraiser-for-marvin-franzen.

I'd do just about any good deed for my buddy Marv and Codfish Hollow. Just don't ask me to fix their PA. Stage diving is NOT all it's cracked up to be.

COLUMN: Sky Potty

The Quad Cities is a uniquely diverse place -- one populace spread across two states, four cities, multiple villages, dozens of neighborhoods, and a countless number of cultures. Yet despite the many people, places, backgrounds, and life stories that make up our Quad Cities, there's some things we can all agree on.

Iowa is north of Illinois. Whitey's really IS the greatest ice cream on the planet. Paula Sands is a national treasure. The only acceptable color of tractor is green.

And the #1 thing we all surely agree on? We just can't get enough of the I-74 bridge construction project.

Can you believe there was once a time when we had to suffer through uneventful direct commutes to work without a single exciting detour? Imagine the stress of having to drive from Point A to Point B without the respite of a refreshing ten minute traffic jam. Just think how boring life would be without the thrill of zipper merging.

Okay, so maybe the construction sucks and there's no good way to spin it. Maybe my optimism is waning. Maybe I'm still frosty over having to sit there today while a flatbed hauling some impossibly long piece of bridgework had to pull an 18-point turn to get on the downtown ramp. I don't want to say the bridge project is cursed. I can, however, personally attest that it's been cursed AT -- and I'll wash my mouth out with soap in due time, promise.

But the end will come, and it's going to be amazing. As annoying as the detours and traffic backups are, it'll all be worth it. One day in the not too distant future, we'll be able to drive from Iowa to Illinois without fearing for our lives. We'll have bridge lanes wide enough that we won't have to white-knuckle clench our steering wheels every time we pass a semi. And we'll have enough lanes that we won't be guaranteed half-hour delays every time a fender bends.

Until that day, my daily riverside commute from Rock Island to East Moline might sometimes be arduous. But it also affords me a daily view of the construction progress, which is nothing less than amazing. What began as floating platforms have rapidly become epic towers erupting out of the water to hold the framework arch of what will soon be our new bridge. How it was done I haven't a clue. Magic? A genie? A well-trained army of catfish?

Those towers now rise some 225' above river level, jutting into the sky and adorned with a bright red topper that surely holds important construction gear and fancy technological bridge-making wonders. At least I assumed it did. Then my friend Cindy Anderson came along and shattered all my understanding.

Nearly every day, Cindy goes down to the river, takes a picture of whatever strikes her fancy, and posts it to Facebook as her photo of the day. Recently, she took her zoom lens to the red box atop the temporary tower. Sure enough, it's a vital part of the bridge construction process.

It is, in fact, a portable toilet.

Yes, precariously perched atop a 225' testament to mankind's ingenuity and triumph over adversity sits -- a sky potty. Normally I'm above toilet humor. But this time, the toilet humor is above me.

So bad news, anyone who hoped to be the first to, umm, christen the new bridge. Someone's already beat you to it. I had to learn more about this heavenly latrine, so I got ahold of Danielle Alvarez. She's the I-74 Project Manager for the Iowa DOT and knows more about the science of aerial toiletry than anyone really should. So what on Earth is a porta-potty doing waaaay up there? It's simple, really.

"We have men and women constantly working atop that temporary tower," Alvarez explained. "When you gotta go, you gotta go!"

Makes sense. I thought MY commute was bad. Imagine if your commute involved a 225' climb -- only to get to the top and go "uh oh." That's the definition of a bad day. That's why a crane routinely takes the lofty loo to its dizzying heights, where workers move it into place in case they have to make a movement of their own.

How's it stay up there? "Besides being tied down?" responded Alvarez with a smile. "Gravity. It gets heavier throughout the day." Wow.

So what's it like to answer nature's call some 19 stories above the mighty Mississippi?

"It's only scary when you look down," said Alvarez.

Working on that bridge must be a high-pressure job reserved for our most heroic. But does anyone feel the pressure more than the poor crane operator tasked with gingerly bringing THAT bad boy down without, umm, spillage? According to one crew worker, we needn't worry.

"Our crane operator takes crap very seriously. He considers things like wind velocity rocking the porta-potty and making sure no one's in it before it's moved. He's got it down to a science."

I wish I knew anything about construction. I have no idea how a project this massive gets accomplished. Maybe it's a team of highly skilled, death-defying workers. Maybe it IS magic. And maybe sometimes, it's literally just a big load of [expletive]. All I know is I'll be happy when it's done, and I think that's something we can all agree on.