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.