COLUMN: COVID Christmas

It's still there someplace, I know it is. I just can't seem to find it.

Somewhere beyond my living room, past this block, maybe round the bend and a few miles that-a-ways, Christmas magic still exists. I'm sure of it,

As most of my friends know, I'm a sucker for the holidays. I love Christmas, always have. You can argue "Happy Holidays" vs "Merry Christmas" all the live-long day, but I'm a fan whether you're celebrating the birth of a lord or a jolly fat home intruder creeping down your chimney.

It's simply the best time of the year. It's that one month (or, realistically, two-and-a-half months) when we try our absolute best to forget that people are awful and the world is terrible. For one magical season, we hide it all with twinkly lights, yummy cookies, and a blissful few days where everyone is nice to everyone else for no real reason other than the time of year. What's not to love?

There's just one problem, and it's a grinch named 2020.

Here's a shortlist of the things I most love about the holiday season:

(1) Bundling up in snuggly clothes.

(2) Browsing stores with friends.

(3) Smelling pine and eggnog and sugar cookies and peppermint.

(4) Hearing Mariah Carey and Kelly Clarkson and Brenda Lee belt out Yuletide bangers.

(5) Seeing holiday lights on houses.

(6) Watching the excitement on little kids' faces when they're out and about with their families.

(7) Sitting down on the floor with wrapping paper and scissors and tape and trying not to make a mess.

(8) Pulling into my parents' driveway on Christmas morning.

(9) Opening presents and giving presents.

(10) Being with the people I love.

This year, I don't get any of that. Not one thing.

Instead of snuggly clothes, I'm sitting here in a ratty t-shirt and the same pair of jeans I've had on for three days. I haven't left the house in almost a week. I haven't browsed a single store unless you count websites. The only smells in my house are bleach and maybe a subtle hint of cat pee. I haven't turned on a radio in weeks. Not one house on my block has Christmas decorations out, including mine.

I haven't seen the excited look on any children's faces because I haven't seen any human faces except my own in a mirror. There's nothing to wrap because I did all my shopping online and had it direct shipped. I won't be pulling into my parent's driveway on Christmas Day, won't see anyone as they open gifts, and won't be with anyone I love except some cats that don't get nearly as excited about the holidays as I do.

In a nutshell, Christmas 2020 is the fitting sucky end to the rest of 2020, and the whole thing just makes me want to throw a giant yuletide temper tantrum.  

But it's okay. It really is. This, too, shall pass. 

If there's a word that best describes Christmas for me, it's HOPE. Christmas is the manifestation of a hope for a better tomorrow. It's simple: if we can be nice and merry and jolly for a few days every year, there's hope that our world isn't quite as terrible as I occasionally make it out to be. Christmastime is my literal hope for humanity.

There's no shortage of hope right now. I've never been happier to think about being poked in the arm with needles, but vaccinations are starting and COVID will soon be just a memory. The election insanity is over and done and no matter your take on the outcome, we're coming out of it regardless. Winter weather seems to be calming the streets and hopefully putting a chill on the pervasive violence and unrest. 2021 must be better than 2020. It nearly has to be. There's hope.

So instead of wallowing in self-pity and abandoning the holidays altogether, let's look for the silver lining. It's there. It might even be made of tinsel.

* Right now, even if you're like me and working from home and forgetting what human contact even feels like, I guarantee that if you turn your TV to the Hallmark Channel right now, someone is falling in love while learning the true meaning of Christmas in a pretend world that doesn't have pandemics or political strife or murder hornets. Take a visit there for a bit; it does the soul some good.

* Last year, I happened into procuring a stone gargoyle, which is awesome because, well, it just is. I have NO idea what to do with it, so it's just been sitting in the corner keeping a watchful eye on my living room. I just put a Santa hat on him, so you can't say that I'm not at least a teeny tiny bit festive.

* I've been waking up to the Today show, and as corny as it is, for the past week they've been focusing on holiday giving, devoting airtime to people and organizations working round the clock through truly risky times to ensure that kids have presents and families have holiday meals. It's good to be reminded that mankind IS innately good, despite all the evidence to the contrary that 2020 wants to throw at us.

* I lied earlier. I just walked past my window and noticed that my neighbor has his Christmas lights up. Maybe they've been up for days and I never noticed. Sheltering in place and working from home shouldn't mean living like your house is a bunker, and I need to remind myself of that. Be safe, but get out and look around. The world is still pretty magical.

* My house may be lonely, but everyone I love is a phone call and a Zoom meeting away. You can still be together yet apart. 

2020 has been crushing us for months. Don't let it steal the holidays, too. Sure, it's going to be different. We need to stay distant and we need to stay home. But as long as they still make calendars with December 25th, nothing can take away the joy of Christmas, the magic of the holidays, and the hope of a better tomorrow. Have a safe, warm, and lovely time. 

COLUMN: Walk the Block

I've gotta be honest. I've had a bad couple of weeks.

It's all just getting to me: the election drama, the post-election drama, the isolation of social distancing, and the sudden onset of darkness before I leave the office every day. I've been talking to myself, talking to the cats, and talking to any deities that might fancy listening. This year is just an ugly quagmire of sadness. My days are mostly spent going to the office, working in near silence, then coming home and binge-watching sitcoms in an attempt to remember what comedy feels like.

Call me maudlin if you want, but I've lost my mojo.

I figured out something that helps, though.

For the past week, whenever I've needed a break from the cubicle, rather than slinking to the breakroom or playing on my phone, I've instead been doing something rather out-of-character: I've been taking walks. Nothing exciting, mind you. Just a stroll around a block or two, but it's been nothing less than revelatory. There's nothing wrong with getting a little fresh air and a leg stretch or two, but it's more than that.

It's been over a year since we closed our East Moline office and moved to downtown Davenport, and I've barely explored the area beyond our parking lot. Getting out and seeing humanity in motion, even from a safe distance, is a reminder that the world is still here. We might not be congregating for Thanksgiving celebrations, we might not be hanging out with friends in bars and restaurants like we normally would, but we're still around.

When you take the time for a leisurely stroll, you notice things you don't catch when you drive past in a blur or have your eyes glued to a cell phone.

Things I've appreciated this week:

- The outdoor downtown murals. It's like our very own hieroglyphics. Proof positive that art and people and magic flourish. A block away, I spy a different kind of art in the form of a wall tagged with graffiti. Yes, it's defacing someone's property, and sure, it's kinda tacky. But in those lowest moments of seeing spiked pandemic numbers and wondering if we'll figure out a way to perservere, I've been reminding myself that someone figured out a way to scale a building, cross a roof, and hang upside down over the edge with a can of spray paint just to make that tacky accoutrement to an otherwise non-descript wall. We're nothing if not determined. 

- The Bix statues. Okay, so maybe this is a bit self-serving, since our company is the primary sponsor of the Bix 7, and the statues honoring the annual road race are at the edge of our parking lot. But those statues are really impressive up close. I've driven by them countless times, but never actually walked up to them. Turns out I was missing the best part: the sidewalk of engraved stones, where sponsors and donors can have custom messages paved right into the footpath.

As someone who routinely stares downwards when walking around, this was a great discovery. There's everything from birthday shout-outs to memorial tributes to what even appears to be a brick sponsored by Nike. It kinda makes me want to sponsor one, were I independently wealthy and/or skilled with a chisel and a plucky DIY attitude. But if I ever sponsored a brick somewhere, I'd want a non-sensical message to confuse future generations as much as possible. Imagine this sea of heart-warming bricks and then right in the middle is one that reads "PUT SOY SAUCE IN CHOCOLATE MILK. TRUST ME. IT'S YUMMY." Or, I dunno, "COMMEMORATING THE GREAT ARMADILLO UPRISING OF 1982." Or, simply, "MMM BOP." I mean, if you're going to leave a legacy, it might as well be one that makes people go "What the...?" or get a lousy Hanson song stuck in their head against their will.

Better yet, I should sponsor a brick that just contains a bunch of non-sensical conspiracy symbols, like a pyramid and one of those all-seeing eyes and an ankh or something. Just the perfect amount of mystery to send future generations on a wild goose chase for absolutely nothing. Or I just sponsor HALF a brick with the message "IF TREASURE YE SEEK, HEAD THREE CLI--" and then purposely leave the rest blank. Just because I want humanity to survive 2020 doesn't mean I don't want to drive them insane.  

- The new downtown YMCA. Man, it looks spiffy. If it feels like nothing is progressing in 2020, peep an eyeball at that construction. 

- The raucous ruckus that can only be a train crossing the Government Bridge. Normally, that noise would drive me around the bend. But in the middle of a pandemic, it's a symphonic reminder that things carry on. 2020 might be a weird year, but trains still run and cars still drive. Goods and services still need to get from Point A to Point B. It's a horrible, beautiful noise.

- Downtown lofts. There's a ton of them, and they're pretty cool from the outside. I like my house, don't get me wrong. But it'd be pretty cool to live in a converted loft with huge windows and a roof you can chill out on. 

- THE SKY. Have you guys looked UP this week? Every night, I leave the office to darkness, which is repellent and depressing and an annual adjustment I hate to make in ANY year, let alone one of frustration and sadness and scary times. But if the sky is clear, you can look up right now and see Jupiter and Saturn hanging out by the moon. You can see Mars red and brilliant to the east. COVID might have the world in its clutches, but not the universe. 

Tonight when I got off work, I just stood there for a bit in the parking lot, staring at the sky. For all we know, one of those dots a kajillion miles away could have another dot rotating around it full of eight-legged spider-monsters living their best spider-monster lives. Maybe they don't have to wear masks or socially distance or vote one spider-monster into office while a different spider-monster claims its rigged. Maybe they're just having fun and patting each other on the back (or whatever the spider-monster equivalent to a back is.)

We're in the home stretch on this thing. Vaccines and hope exist, even if they're hard to see right now. If 2020 hits you hard, don't worry. Well, you probably SHOULD worry a little. But then take a breath, put on a coat, walk around the block, and see the world continuing to thrive and survive. if you look hard enough, you might just be able to find something to be thankful for this year. 

COLUMN: Ceiling Bobcats

Crazy week, eh?

By the time you read this, we may know who our next President is. At the time of writing this, I still have no clue. Last I checked, the entire election now hinges on the voting preferences of Wayne Newton, the dudes from "Ghost Adventures," and one Mary F. Smith of 342 Briar Lane, Beaver Springs, Pennsylvania.

In times of turmoil and stress like this, many of you naturally turn to experts for advice, leadership, and a steady hand. And by "experts," I'm obviously referring to your local media's resident humor columnist. I humbly recognize my vital role in our nation's stewardship and your overall peace of mind. This burden weighs heavily on me. I've been hitting the Cheez-its pretty hard this week. 

I fear, however, that I don't at the moment have much to contribute to our nation's discourse. I'm sure you're all collectively disappointed. I've spent the past 24 hours staring at CNN, at times cheering and at other times considering Canadian real estate. I'm not sure what to think, feel, or say -- which is why I went to bed early last night. Optimistically, I thought perhaps my subconscious would sort it all out. Maybe I'd have a relevant dream that could provide answers and wisdom to bestow upon you all.  

Well, I had a dream, alrighty. I'm not quite sure what to make of it, but perhaps we can analyze it together and glean insight and understanding to our current plight.

(I'm not kidding. This really WAS the dream I had last night:)

Like many of you, I've struggled with accomplishing chores and duties in our "new normal" of 2020. In yesterday's dream, one of those duties was to attend a beauty pageant. Not COMPETE in said pageant, mind you. I simply had to attend and be in the audience. Somehow, for some reason, it was mandatory.

This particular pageant was in Maine, and even in my dream, that's a long way to travel. Thankfully, others in town had also been selected for the pageant audience. Specifically: my best friend, a co-worker, an advertising client at work, his wife who I went to high school with, the clerk at my neighborhood gas station, and my ex-girlfriend's little sister. This was the literal definition of "dream casting."

So the seven of us set off on a cross-country road trip to Maine in a rickety old school bus, Partridge Family-style. Admittedly, if I were ever forced to go to Maine, this would be a pretty pimp way to get there.

But to complicate matters, due to COVID, all roadways in Dreamerica had been turned into westbound one-ways. Going east was simply not an option. So the only possible way for us to get to Maine was to head west to Seattle, cross into Canada, and then drive back to Maine.

The next thing I remember, we were pulling into a small town in Montana to stay the night. Bad news, though -- all the hotels in town were booked. Well, all except ONE: the brand new hotel owned and operated by actor Tony Danza. As Tony took our bags, we marveled at our room, which was a two-story warehouse loft complete with mid-century modern furniture and dangerous gaping holes in the floor.

The seven of us were really excited... until we discovered the horror within. Tony must not have invested much in fumigation, because the room was infested -- with ravenous bobcats. But not your run-of-the-mill ravenous bobcats you often find in your standard celebrity-owned Montana hotels. No, these bobcats could walk upside-down on the ceiling and hang like bats.

Suddenly, my random roadtrip dream turned into a hellish nightmare of me and my acquaintances slowly being stalked and murdered by ceiling bobcats. Just as one of the hanging felines had me cornered, I awoke -- shaking, heart racing and covered in sweat. I was terrified -- for about three seconds. Then I just started laughing.

I didn't want to forget anything, so I grabbed a piece of scratch paper and scrawled "CEILING BOBCATS!" before falling back asleep. When I woke to the alarm clock, thankfully I remembered everything -- because the only thing scarier than that dream would be waking to an unexplained piece of paper that said "CEILING BOBCATS!" Sadly, I do NOT know the outcome of the pageant.

I have no idea what any of this means, but it MUST be full of important symbolism and hidden insights, no? Thankfully, the internet has a surplus of dream analysis websites. According to the ones I visited today, dreaming of beauty pageants means I'm feeling competitive. Dreaming of a bus symbolizes a desire to fit in. Dreaming of hotels indicates insecurity. Bobcats represent bad news and betrayal. And dreaming of the ability to walk on ceilings is supposed to mean I've reached a limit psychologically. 

So what are the takeaways here? It's obvious, duh. The election has me feeling very competitive and wanting to fit in with what is currently 50.4% of the popular vote. But I definitely have insecurity about the outcome and the potential for bad news. And I'm pretty sure we've ALL reached our psychological limit with campaign season and 2020 in general.

Sadly, there are no internet resources as to the dream symbolism of Tony Danza, but I'm pretty sure it means I should lay off the Cheez-its before bed.

Hopefully all that helps. It's the best my subconscious can offer. Whichever way Mary F. Smith votes, I hope the election or the results don't stress you out TOO much. At least we get a break from political ads and fundraising pitches for a couple years until it starts all over again. For now, I wish you all a good night. Don't let the ceiling bobcats bite. 

COLUMN: Horror Lessons

Like most of our holidays this year, Halloween 2020 seems much less Halloweeny than usual -- with one glaring exception.

Every time I turn on the TV this week, some random horror movie's been playing. This is NOT what our psyches need right now, is it? This year's been horrifying enough, thanks much. I don't need to augment all the endless fun of 2020 with a cavalcade of slasher flicks. When I turn the TV on in our "new normal," I don't want death and dismemberment. I mostly just wanna laugh and be reminded there's still good in the world.

Yesterday, I flicked on cable in search of a dumb escapist comedy to take my mind off things. Instead, I was greeted with some ill-fated teenager losing his head, quite literally and quite graphically. I changed the channel in a heartbeat, so I'm not sure if it was Jason, Freddie, Michael Myers, Leatherface, or Pinhead. I suppose I'm just grateful it wasn't CNN.

But I'm nothing if not a TV junkie, which means I've spent much of October channel flipping through countless summer campers meeting increasingly gruesome fates. I didn't think it was affecting me until the other night. I had a horrible nightmare that someone was breaking into my home. I woke up in a cold sweat shaking and sat up in bed to discover an intruder lunging at me with a knife. That's when I woke up AGAIN, this time for real. When your subconscious starts writing twist endings to your nightmares, it's high time to either shut the TV off or switch it to the Great British Baking Show, where the most terrifying thing you'll experience is dough that doesn't rise (the horror!)

Still, subjecting oneself to dumb horror movies isn't without its merits. I'm pretty sure these films can teach us all some valuable life lessons in 2020:

* Never ever split up from your friends. "Social distancing" does NOT mean "I should walk home through these dark woods alone." You have not improved your odds.

* Stay away from dolls. They're bad news. I've never seen a movie where a doll comes to life and saves the day. Even Pinocchio was a liar.

* Don't ever pick on nerds or losers. You never know who might be harboring telekinetic powers, homicidal tendencies, or both. Leave them be.

* When it comes to real estate, research before you buy. If the previous owner left because they wanted a split-level in the suburbs, you're probably fine. If the previous owner left because the walls occasionally drip blood, that might be a red flag. Also, be sure to check that your dream home wasn't built atop a former cemetery.

* Speaking of cemeteries, don't ever bury your pet in one. It might not end well.

* If you heroically kill a homicidal maniac, KEEP KILLING THEM. They're not dead. They're never dead. If you turn your back in jubilation, you're toast. If you're lucky enough to escape, KEEP RUNNING. Trust me, they're RIGHT BEHIND YOU.

* Should you find yourself in an encounter with a space alien, they are NOT there to make friends and impart upon you the wisdom of the galaxies. They're most likely there to eat you. You should run.

* And if one of those aliens gets too close, be wary. That rumble in your tummy a few days later might NOT be indigestion. You might not need a Tums. You might need an interstellar OB/GYN, stat.

* If your television starts speaking to you DIRECTLY, it's troubling. Go to the light.

* Stay out of the water, like, always. Even the shower. Actually, especially the shower.

* The job market can be tough. But if your choices are between sewer maintenance or becoming the lone caretaker of a mountain hotel during the long snowbound winter, opt for the sewers. Actually, I take that back. Opt to remain unemployed.

* If you seek advice from a kindly bartender and he encourages you to kill your family, you're probably in that mountain hotel and should leave pronto.

* When a clown offers you a balloon, just say no. Especially if you meet said clown in the sewers mentioned above. Leave sewer clowns be.

* ALL children are evil, even the cute pale ones who live in the corn. Avoid children at all costs. If you're unfortunate enough to have birthed one, it wants to kill you. If you've adopted one, they're secretly 40 years old and also want to kill you. If your child has an imaginary friend, it is NOT imaginary and it DEFINITELY wants to kill you.

* If YOU are a child, you may want to ensure that your mother is not a jackal. Trust me, that's a bad omen. Also, no matter how annoying your mom gets, avoid mummifying her and placing her in a rocking chair upstairs. It creeps out the neighbors.

* NEVER be the one who says "I'll check it out." Scary noises are scary for a reason. Stay in bed.

* But DON'T fall asleep.

* And remember, there is NEVER a good enough reason to spend the night in an abandoned mansion, no matter how much money you're being promised or how cool your TikTok videos would be. 

Follow that advice and you'll probably be safe. You'll also probably be a neurotic paranoid isolationist afraid to leave your house -- but aren't we ALL this year? As for defeating the REAL horrors of Halloween? Well, that's up to each of us on Tuesday. Happy voting and be safe. See you on the other side. 

COLUMN: The Crabbening

Nothing surprises me in 2020. 

We've spent the past umpteen months skipping from one horror show to the next, whether it's pandemics or derechos or murder hornets or fires or a presidential election that may never end. I hate to say it, but I'm beginning to get jaded by horrible news.

I literally saw a headline the other day that an asteroid is going to come hurling precariously close to Earth next week but is "highly unlikely" to hit us. In 2020, I don't put much stock in "highly unlikely." But honestly, I didn't even bother reading the article. There's not much I can do in the event of an asteroid strike except hide in my basement, count my blessings, and play video games until I run out of air, power, or patience. I'll just be super mad if we put up with all this campaigning only to have the world end on the eve of Election Day.

The other day, President Trump sent out a tweet that just said "GIANT RED WAVE COMING!" In THIS year, I honestly didn't know if he was predicting a Republican win or warning that the Gulf Coast was about to be decimated by a blood tsumani. Don't put anything past 2020.

That's why I was only moderately surprised this week to stumble across an article with a headline that, in any other year, would raise a few red flags. In 2020, it was just another Tuesday:

"EVERYTHING IS SLOWLY EVOLVING INTO CRABS, SCIENCE SAYS."

Well, of course it is. In the grand scheme of 2020, evolving into crab-monsters seems perfectly on brand.

This was a news story I couldn't resist diving into. 

According to a study published by the Biological Journal of the Linnean Society (who are undoubtedly the life of any party whenever the DJ throws on "Rock Lobster,") I quote: "Although enormous morphological disparity is observed in the internal anatomy of the crab-like taxa, reflecting the fact that the evolution of the crab-like habits was indeed convergent, various corresponding dependences are found across the different lineages between the external characters of a crab-like habitus/morphotype and inner structures."

Okay, I have no idea what that means.

But the basic gist is that they've discovered at least five different species of non-crab-like crustaceans that have evolved crab-like features in order to survive our changing world. Clearly, evolution likes the cut of a crab's jib -- and there could be a future where our children's children's children's children might one day be born with pincers, antennae, and a bad attitude. Slowly but surely, we may all be turning into crabs. Science even has a term for it: carcinization, or as I like to call it, "The Crabbening."

One of the major arguments I always hear on climate change is that we don't to destroy the world for future generations. But if those future generations will likely end up being crab monsters, should we really care? I'm not saying we should start chucking plastic willy-nilly out our car windows, but I'm not quite as motivated to recycle for the sole benefit of my future great-great-great-grandcrab.

The more I think about it, though, there could be some definitive advantages to turning into a crab monster. 

- Pincers would be great (except maybe at the urinal.) Just the other day, I wasted eight full minutes of my life trying to open a hermetically-sealed packet of parmesan cheese. Don't be fooled by the tragic story of Edward Scissorhands -- pincers would be handy. Imagine a future world where you no longer have to shush someone in a crowded theater. I think your point would be made more effectively and efficiently if you could just reach over and snip their arm off.

- And if you're the unfortunate talkative theater-goer who gets their arm snipped off? No worries, it'll grow right back. Crabs lose appendages like I lose my car keys, and they just grow new arms and legs to replace them.

- Speaking of arms and legs, you'd have four pair of them. That's a plus. First off, drum solos would be at least twice as epic. Jugglers would actually hold my attention. We would all make amazing goalies. I could go to a ballgame and do The Wave entirely by myself. I could vogue WAY better than Madonna. 

- We would not have teeth in our mouths, but we WOULD have teeth in our stomachs. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing, but I'd kinda like to experience it for a quick minute or two.

Of course, like all evolutionary advancements, there might also be some hiccups.

- You could potentially bear 100,000 children. On the plus side, though, you wouldn't have to raise them. Just drop some eggs in the water and hope for the best. That should alleviate the burden of child care expense considerably. 

- At least once a year, your skeleton would fall off. I'm not sure I like this idea, and I'm not quite sure how long you'd have to crawl around as a pile of goo waiting for your new skeleton to harden. But it would definitely offer a new and novel excuse for calling in sick to work. "Sorry, boss, can't come in. I'm molting."

- We would all taste delightful with lemon juice and some creme fraiche. That's troubling.

For now, I guess I'm content with my boring human body, my mere two arms, and my lousy interior skeleton. If we're all turning into crabs, it probably won't happen overnight. But please, everyone, knock on wood -- let's not give 2020 any ideas.     

COLUMN: Cologne

Facebook thinks I smell. The worst part? I may have just proven them right.

It's unavoidable: if you want to enjoy social media, you have to deal with ads. Facebook doesn't connect the world out of the goodness of its heart. It's a company, and companies have to make money. When you scroll through your social news feed, every third or fourth post is going to be a pitch for some must-have good and/or service. 

Most of the time, I'm perfectly fine with advertising. Look at all the ads on this page right now. Those ads pay my bills. I've never found them cumbersome or an unwanted burden. Some of them might not appeal to me, but some perk my interest. Businesses need to reach their audience, and consumers need to know about products and services. If you think people don't care about ads, I invite you to come down here and man the phones the next time there's a delay in getting grocery coupons out - those days are like Def Con 1 in our office.

But ads on social media bug me a little. Facebook doesn't just serve you sponsors, it serves you sponsors it thinks you NEED. It's called targeted advertising. Do you think it's a coincidence when you post something on social media about baseball and then ads for baseball gear start popping up in your feed? Nope. Every move you make on social media is being monitored by algorithms and tracking software. Each time you post, some little robot somewhere is looking for keywords and trying to determine if you're a match for their product. Sometimes it's awesome. Sometimes it's less awesome.

About two weeks ago, I starting seeing frequent ads on my Facebook feed for a company that makes high-end soaps. Specifically, they make manly soaps for manly men that smell of rugged outdoors and whatever manly dudes are supposed to smell like (presumably motor oil and campfires.) Their ads are always videos starring scantily-clad women advising that the key to a successful relationship is to smell like a forest.

The other day, I stopped on one of the videos to marvel at its ridiculousness. I watched as they "interviewed" a girl enamored with her boyfriend because he used soap that smelled of pine tar. This was obvious because they were being "interviewed" while nude in the shower together. The dialogue consisted of them saying perfectly normal things that perfectly normal couples always say while being interviewed in the shower, such as, "Oh man, mid-lather, this stuff is excellent!" And, of course, "Time for a sniff test, gimme your beard!" 

Then it happened. As I chuckled at the screen, my hand slipped just a little bit, and before I could do a good slo-mo "noooooooo," I accidentally clicked the mouse.

Suddenly, I was on the soap company's website. Worse yet, Facebook saw me do it, and their algorithms did, too. Sure enough, its one week later, and I now can't scroll anywhere on Facebook without someone trying to sell me random forms of musky man-soap -- and worse. As I type this, I'm presently staring at an ad for a product specifically designed to -- hmm, how to say this politely -- freshen one's nether-regions with "an enduring scent of mint and mandarin." 

Many of life's questions have kept me up late at night over the years. None of those questions have ever been (1) "How do I get my naughty bits to smell like minty oranges?" Or (2) "How do I get that scent to ENDURE?" 

Because I clicked on that one fateful link, Facebook now presumes I roam the land reeking like a hot dumpster fire in need of professional scent assistance. The truth is, though, they might be right.

It was Sunday and I was home and bored and in dangerous possession of both high-speed internet and a little bit of fun money. That's when I remembered I was completely out of cologne. I am not a big cologne guy, but I like to keep a bottle or two around for rare occasions when I care more about my personal appearance than the usual level of "well, I can't go to work naked." Over the years, I've owned dozens of stink bottles, from old spicy drugstore fare to highfalutin stuff that costs more than a paycheck. My go-to is usually Drakkar, a scent that's probably uncool these days but harkens back to a younger, goth-ier Shane of yore.

But I was bored and felt like mixing it up, so I decided to do some online shopping. But how to buy cologne online? You can't exactly scratch-n-sniff a computer screen, and I'm not gonna be the guy who catches COVID because he took his mask off to inhale test strips at the perfume counter. Surely there had to be well-written descriptions of colognes somewhere, right? Sure enough, I found helpful summaries right away, such as "this is an alluring scent for a night out, with subtle hints of sandalwood and bergamot." Sounds nice, especially if I knew what sandalwood or bergamot smelled like. I don't even know what bergamot is. I don't even know how to pronounce it.

I ended up relying on a couple reviews and picked a cologne with high ratings and one enthusiastic recommendation that "if you like Drakkar, you'll LOVE this."

Yesterday, it arrived in the mail. I happened to be home for lunch, so I opened the bottle and spritzed precisely TWICE, once on the neck, once on the wrists, and headed back to work feeling like a cool guy.

I may have felt like a cool guy, but I smelled more like an industrial accident at a lavender factory. Those two spritzes were about 1.5 too many. I sat at my desk and realized Parfum du Shane was quickly permeating the entire office. It was making my eyes water. I ran to the bathroom and tried to wash it off, but no dice. The scent and I had merged into an unbreakable lavender monstrosity. I've never been more grateful that my co-workers were wearing masks and keeping social distance. I don't think it had much to do with COVID that day.

Much like the famed Sex Panther in "Anchorman," I'm putting my new cologne under lock and key until I feel the need to ever commit mass lavender-icide. Until then, I might just remain scent-free. Except for south of the border, of course, which will be minty orange fresh. You'll just have to take my word for it. No sniff test required.  

COLUMN: Debate

I wish I remembered more from college. The older I get, the more I feel like I'm forgetting knowledge I once paid a good deal of money to acquire.

When I was younger, I was convinced that I was destined to be the next Casey Kasem, spinning Top 40 hits on-air for years to come. Yet here it is, decades later, and I've yet to make even ONE long-distance dedication. But collegiate Shane was convinced his future was in radio. At Augustana, that meant becoming a Speech Communications major. That's right, I am officially trained to speak.

In all honesty, I probably attended (well, at least sometimes attended) college at the absolute worst time. When I was at Augie, the internet was in its infancy. If I remember correctly, we had one shared computer in a common room of our dorm that was hooked up this new-fangled thing called the World Wide Web. When I bought my first PC out of college, I went overboard and loaded it up with ONE gigabyte of memory. "That's crazy," my friends said to me at the time. "No one could EVER fill an entire gigabyte!" 

I learned a great deal about radio at Augustana -- all of which was made irrelevant five years later with new tech. I'll let you guys in on a secret: radio stations today are pretty much run entirely on autopilot. Disc jockeys aren't jockeying any discs. Many just sit in front of a microphone waiting for a computer screen to display "TALK NOW" and giving them a timer until the next song starts. Sometimes when you hear a DJ on the air, they recorded their voice days earlier. I was once driving to the mall listening to a DJ friend of mine on the radio and then bumped into him at JCPenney's five minutes later.

I, on the other hand, went to school to learn such valuable skills as how to splice a reel-to-reel tape together -- so if see one of those in an antique store somewhere, I'm your guy.

But there was a whole lot more to a speech major than playing around on the radio. I had to take classes on small group communication, interpersonal communication, political communication, communications ethics, etc. I had to read seriously heavy textbooks full of complicated theory and endless discussions on the science of communication and how the way we communicate impacts society, understanding, and even human thought. It was pretty interesting stuff -- most of which I've forgotten completely. 

Every once in a while, though, bits of Comm Theory class come creeping back into my brain -- and nothing draws them out faster than watching debates.

Why we're even having debates at this point is beyond me. If there exists such a thing as an undecided voter by this point, I'd like to meet them. This election has polarized our nation. I don't know anyone who's not either reeeeeeally onboard the Trump train or reeeeeeeeeeally hoping it derails. No one I know is sitting around going, "Well, let's see what they have to say before I make up my mind." Instead, the debates have turned into popcorn viewing, a spectacle for the sake of spectacle.

Marshall McLuhan was a philosopher and media analyst popular in the 1950s-1960s who some thought a crackpot. In actuality, he ended up being a little ahead of his time, having invented the term "global village" and predicting the internet way before it was even a glimmer in Al Gore's eye. He's the guy who pops up in "Annie Hall" with his catchphrase diss, "you know NOTHING of my work." I can't begin to simplify all of McLuhan's theories (mostly because I've forgotten them, never understood them in the first place, and "I know NOTHING of his work,") but he's most famous for his assertion that "the medium is the message" - that WHAT we say isn't half as important as HOW we say it.

A good example of this was the first televised presidential debate: Nixon/Kennedy, 1960. Polls taken after the debate show that folks who listened on the radio overwhelmingly thought Nixon won it. Folks who watched on TV thought Kennedy was the clear victor. Why the disparity? Because Kennedy came to the stage a young man oozing with confidence and plastered with stage makeup. Nixon refused to wear makeup and ended up looking like a sweaty ghoul on camera. For folks watching on TV, it didn't matter what either candidate said. It mattered more how they looked and acted.

That's why the first Trump/Biden debate last week was so infuriating. As polarizing as that performance was, I doubt it changed many minds. In fact, it probably just made us double-down on our candidate of choice. Biden supporters thought Trump's constant interruptions were reprehensible. Trump's fans probably thought it was great fun. No one watching went, "Hey, that plan makes sense, I'll vote for THAT guy." I never heard any plans. I just heard insults and frustration and name-calling for an hour. If you watched it on TV, I'm sure it was entertaining. But try reading a transcript of that debate without losing your mind, I dare you. There was no substance. The medium was the ONLY message.

This column will run long after tonight's debate has ended and been talked to death by analysts, but mark my words. I bet the stories in the news today won't focus on the content of the debate. I'll guarantee the star of the discussion will be a flimsy plexiglass divider [Update: And maybe a fly. And maybe pinkeye.]

I might have a diploma saying it's my specialty, but I'm sick of the talking -- and the arguing and the tweeting and the eleventy-kajillion e-mails I get every day from candidates begging for money. I just want it all to be over. Do I have an outcome I'm rooting for? You bet I do. But mostly I just want it to be over. You know, when you're playing Scrabble and your rack is full of crummy letters, you're allowed to lose a turn, re-draw, and hope for something better. I think we've all lost a turn in 2020. Maybe it's time for some new letters. 

COLUMN: Search & Rescue

Nature and I have a long and well-documented understanding: It stays outside, I stay inside, and we get along great that way. Nature is fine and pretty and I admire it every day when it comes up as the screensaver on my computer. That's as close as I usually like to get to the great outdoors. Getting lost in nature's beauty can be relaxing and life-affirming, provided I'm in a car with air conditioning, a kicking stereo, and the windows rolled up so none of that pesky nature can accidentally get in.

But last week, I broke my peace accord with nature for a few harrowing minutes.

I had just walked in the door from a long workday when the phone rang. The voice on the other end was 95% static, but I was able to make out a few key words:

"Thunder... LOST!... not kidding... sunset... HELP!" And then the phone went dead.

Everyone needs a best friend. I've known mine since we were randomly assigned adjacent dorm rooms in college. I can't even really remember how we started talking, but talk we did. After a hard day of (skipping) classes, I knew I could return to the dorms for hours of laughs and time-wasting. When you're away from home and experiencing real life for the first time, it can be intimidating. To find a kindred soul to share those experiences is fortunate and irreplacable. For more than two decades, he's been my BFF, closest confidant, and the only human being I know tall enough to change the light in my garage without a stepladder.

That phone call was a sea of static, but we've been friends long enough for me to recognize the chopped-up voice on the other end -- and to know when he was legitimately in trouble.

I'm no nature boy, but my best friend is. My idea of relaxing is bad TV and Cheezits. His is a hiking trail, often in the pitch middle of nowhere. On many weekends, my text messages of "I'm bored, wanna grab lunch?" are frequently replied with, "I would but I'm on a hill somewhere in Wisconsin." In all those years, though, none of his hikes have EVER resulted in a phone call like this.

I was flummoxed. What does one do with this information? You can't exactly call 911 and go, "Help, I think my friend is lost... somewhere. I presume the Midwest. Find him please." 

Still, I thought back to all the times I've relied on him for the most ridiculous of assistance. The time he came over at midnight just to help me change the battery in a chirping smoke detector. The time he stayed up all night talking me off the ledge when I got dumped. He's changed more tires on my car than I have. He's made me laugh harder than anyone else on the planet. He's my best friend, and we're always gonna be there for each other.

But at that precise moment, I had no idea where "there" was. Then it hit me. I definitely heard the word "thunder," but there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I knew exactly where he was: Loud Thunder Forest Preserve. My friend was legitimately lost in the woods. Before I knew what I was doing, I was in my car heading towards parts unknown.

But what exactly was I going to do when I got there? I wasn't even sure what was happening. All I had were six words to piece together, and the best I could reckon was, "(Hi, I'm out at Loud) ..Thunder.. (and I'm) ..LOST!.. (and I'm) ..not kidding.. (that monsters come out after) ..sunset.. (and I'm presently being eaten by a Sasquatch, so) ..HELP!"

If there's one human being who knows a thing or two about nature, it's my dad. I fumbled for the phone and called the parental team from the car. This was probably a mistake. Dad wasn't the loudest voice in the conversation.

"DON'T YOU GO OUT THERE," lectured my mother sternly as if she didn't know me, "YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS IN THE WOODS AT NIGHT! LET THE PROFESSIONALS HANDLE THIS!" But who, pray tell, are the professionals in this matter? I wasn't exactly passing any 24-hour Acme Professional Friend Rescue establishments. The only plan I had was to go out there, find his car, and start honking my horn until he wandered out of the woods or a "professional" came by to arrest me for disturbing the peace.

Thankfully, that was when the phone rang again with slightly better reception. Sure enough, he had headed down a trail, somehow lost it, and had no idea where he was. But at least he was able to tell me a couple of landmarks before the phone went dead again. 

So naturally, I arrived at the forest preserve, immediately spotted a recently snapped twig, and tracked the trail over several ravines until locating the victim. I then banged two rocks together and made a campfire before foraging for mushrooms and carving an arrowhead to procure much-needed protein before using the stars to navigate our way to safety and the arduous reintegration with a society that's long forgotten the simple ways of nature folk like us.

Or maybe not. I DID, however, call 911 and talk to a bemused operator who promised to send a deputy. Meanwhile, I was such an expert tracker that I couldn't even find his CAR in the labyrinthian parking lots of Loud Thunder. I did, however, find a park office, who quickly summoned a ranger. It turns out my friend's landmarks were invaluable to someone who WAS capable of surviving in nature longer than fifteen minutes.

"I know exactly where he is," the ranger said. "I'll have him back here in a few."

But just as he turned for his truck, a sheriff's cruiser pulled in with a familiar and relieved face in the back seat. And how, you ask, was a deputy able to rescue my misplaced associate in no time at all? He sat in a parking lot and honked his horn until my friend wandered out. Perhaps I'm better at this search-and-rescue stuff than I thought.

For what it's worth, everyone couldn't have been nicer. "The last time a fella got lost out there," the ranger said to my friend, "we couldn't find him until 2 a.m., and it was a hot night. He was a dehydrated mess. And he wasn't built like you. He was more like -- your friend here."

Thanks, man. I get it. Captain Fatpants to the rescue. 

As we thanked the night's REAL heroes and turned to walk away, someone turned to me and asked, "Oh man, does this mean I'm gonna be in the paper tomorrow?"

"No, absolutely not," I reassured. We were past deadline. I knew it'd be at least 2-3 days.

COLUMN: Owls

When my garage was broken into a couple weeks ago, I wondered if I'd become one of those jumpy people constantly paranoid about safety and security.

The answer? A resounding yes. Whole-heartedly.

As much as I don't want to, I'm now reaching for my security camera feed every time I hear a bump in the night. And while I love my neighborhood, let's also be frank: I live in Rock Island, and there's no shortage of bumps in the night in these parts. Most of them, in fact, are caused by the three cats who graciously allow me to live in their home.

One such bump in the night occurred last week. I was sitting on my couch when a sudden "BA-DUMP" from outside made me instinctively grab my phone and pull up the feeds from the front of my house. I'd like to say it was all quiet on the eastern front. It was, in fact, anything but quiet.

The ba-dump itself turned out to be nothing alarming, unless you were the guy driving the rusty pickup that had just nailed the pothole on my block. It's been steadily growing this summer from a minor inconvenience to what can now only be described as a gaping hell-mouth to Middle Earth.

But I instantly found myself less concerned about the ba-dump of days gone by and more with the sounds my camera was picking up live. As God is my witness, I sat there frozen for thirty seconds listening to what sounded like a tribe of angry monkeys on the roof of my house.

I'm familiar with the assorted night noises of Rock Island. People talking and laughing as they walk to the nearby gas station. Car doors closing. Trains whistling, semis honking, police sirens blaring. It's the lullabye of urban life. But these were NOT urban noises. These were prehistoric noises.

This is one of those times I'm stymied as a writer. I wish I could just play you the recording. The best I can describe, it was something akin to "SKREE! SKREE! WHAA WHAA WHAA OWOOOOOO! WOOOOOOO! AH AH AH OOOOOO!" And whatever it was, it was CLOSE. And it wasn't alone. At least two of these giant killer roof monkeys were chatting with one another. 

Obviously when that pickup hit the pothole, it riled up whatever ancient monstrosity lives down there in the Land of the Lost, and the hellbeast had awakened. Normally, this would be an insane proposition. But in 2020, killer subterranean monsters wouldn't surprise me one bit.

We all know what a nature lover I am -- specifically I love that it's outside and I'm not -- but I was curious nonetheless. I found an app for my phone that promised it could "identify ANY bird call within earshot!" I cautiously opened my front door, stuck my phone outside and pressed record. Sure enough, within seconds, my phone informed me with confidence that I was listening to -- a pigeon.

I learned something that night -- specifically, I learned how easy it is to waste $3.99 on a pointless app. If that noise came from a pigeon, it's a pigeon that's evolved Pokemon-style into Pigeonizard or something. That was no pigeon. So I took the recording and threw it up on Facebook for the hivemind of my friends to analyze. Multiple theories flooded in: Owls. Crows. Owls vs. Crows. Injured turtle doves. Someone even said, "that noise CAN'T be real. Someone's messing with you."

The next day, my neighborhood was quiet. The house was still standing, and I found neither the talon marks of a prehistoric pigeon nor the droppings of a dozen angry monkeys. Defeated, I thought I'd try one last recourse: Dr. Stephen Hager, from Augustana College's Department of Biology. Dr. Hager graciously agreed to listen to the recording and it only took him seconds to make a positive ID.

"Those are definitely barred owls," he told me, "and close by."

I may not be a man of nature, but I've watched my fair share of children's cartoons and I have pulled the string on many a Fisher-Price See 'n Say. Based on this, I can tell you with some authority that owls are supposed to politely go "hoot." They are NOT supposed to go "SKREE! SKREE! WHAA WHAA WAAAAA!" Apparently no one told this to barred owls.

"What you recorded that night was at least two owls caterwauling," Dr. Hager explained, "which is usually associated with paired birds that sing together, presumably to strengthen their bonds of devotion." I'm not positive here, but that might be the professorial way of explaining that my nocturnal friends were about to get freaky-deaky in a considerably more-than-PG-13 kinda way. I may have just heard the owl equivalent of an Al Green record.

"The raucous hoots, gurgles, and shrieks probably also signal to adjacent owls about territory boundaries," said Dr. Hager before casually horrifying me. "Caterwauling can also happen when owls are trying to subdue a large prey item. Any of your neighbors lose a kitty that night?"

OH, NO. Wait -- one... two... and three. Whew. My adorable large prey items are all here and accounted for.

I have no issues with owls. What's not to love? They're majestic birds with huge eyes and the ability to spin their heads around like Linda Blair. But when an owl shows up at my door, it should be for one of three reasons:

1. I have been accepted into Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

2. I am about to learn how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.

3. I am about to get a stern lecture on littering.

The United States Forest Service could learn a thing or two from Dr. Hager. Kids might take littering WAY more seriously if Woodsy Owl showed up like, "Hey kids, give a hoot, don't pollute -- OR GOD HELP ME, I WILL EAT YOUR CAT!"

I dunno, nothing phases me in 2020. We're living with an invisible plague, murder hornets, and hurricane winds in Iowa. Adding a few aerial cat-eating predators should be just another drop in the bucket at this point. Still, I prefer my cats safely inedible within the confines of my home. Happily, Dr. Hager tells me the best time to catch barred owls caterwauling is between 3-5 a.m., when I'm tucked away in bed, happy and safe in my -- WAIT, WHAT WAS THAT NOISE??

COLUMN: Bike Thief

Just the other day I was thinking I should pick up a new hobby to while away the hours in our new virus-riddled reality. Well, it didn't take long. I appear to have found that hobby. I just never thought it would be true crime cinematography.

Maybe I don't have to tell you the story. If you were watching TV Sunday night, you might already know it. My sexy masked mug was plastered all over your nightly newscast. We're in the middle of a pandemic, civil unrest plagues our nation, and a good portion of the country is presently either on fire or underwater. But Sunday night's top story? "FAT GUY LOSES BIKE: FILM AT 11." (Or, more accurately, at 6, 10, and 10:30 after the football game.)

It all happened Friday night. I found myself enjoying a rare weekend free of plans, chilling at home watching TV. It was actually kinda nice. I was even thinking about turning in early. Well, at least until the

BANG!

What was that? It was definitely a bang. Not a super loud bang, but a bang nonetheless. I love this town, and my neighborhood has always been relatively safe, but let's be real: random ominous bangs in the distance after dark these days sadly isn't that uncommon. I was sitting on my couch with nothing better to do than investigate. 

Last spring, I upgraded my security system with some additional cameras in front and back of my house. Anytime I fancy, I can watch the happenings outside in real time. I was rewinding the feed to listen for the bang when I noticed the thumbnail pic of my back camera -- and the open garage door.

I'm an easily distracted human being. On the way home from work that night, I'd been giving a first spin to the fantastic new album by the Flaming Lips. I saw the Lips on New Years Eve Y2K, and it was a great show. SO great that, as I was walking out of my garage, I was trying to remember which song they opened that concert with. Was my brain so distracted that I forgot to close my garage door? 

Nope. My garage door wasn't just open. It was off its frame, a fact driven home when the "INTRUDER ALARM" sounded on my phone. The bang I heard wasn't a distant gunshot. It was a burglar kicking in my garage door, and I was watching him rob me in real time.

Now, I realize there are two distinct paths one can take in a situation like this. One would involve me running out the back door and confronting the dude. I chose the safer path of calling 911. I would hope most people would agree with my rationale. 

911 already knew the guy was in my garage -- my security system had already alerted them. The camera outside was flashing red and sounding an alarm. Yet none of this stopped my uninvited houseguest from commencing with Robberython 2020. If someone's desperate or stupid enough to brazenly burgle despite those deterrents, what's to stop him from doing something even MORE desperate or stupid had I marched out there? Not to steal a line from the great Robin Williams, but what would my next move have been? "Stop... or I'll say 'stop' again!"

Instead, I stood there in my kitchen providing play-by-play commentary to 911 as the guy made off with my 10-speed bike and a lawn chair I always hated. Clearly this guy didn't care -- as he runs away on tape, you can see every motion light in the neighborhood turn on as he makes his well-lit escape into the distance. I've never felt more proactively helpless in my life.

The police arrived four minutes later, and I got some great footage of them surrounding my garage with guns drawn. They were helpful and calming, and marveled with me at how ludicrous of a robbery it was -- not only do I have the entire thing on tape, but he even left a perfect muddy shoeprint on my door as a parting gift. Still, I've spent the whole week having a ton of feelings, none of them good. I'm less mad about my stolen stuff than the complete violation of the safety and sanctity of my home. Stuff can be replaced. My sense of well-being is a little tougher to fix. Plus spending the weekend installing a new (and MUCH more fortified) garage door wasn't exactly on my to-do list. 

Let's be honest, I'm not exactly a cycling enthusiast. At best, I took that thing out a handful of times a year. Still, it's the bike I've had since junior high and it's still in great shape. I honestly hope whoever has it appreciates its awesomeness as much as I always did. 

The video of the theft was captivating, so I uploaded it to Facebook for my friends to ooh and ahh over. Within a half hour, I was getting calls from TV reporters wanting to interview me. I think they just wanted cool break-in footage for the news, and I was happy to provide. It's just not quite as cool when it's YOUR garage getting burgled and YOUR bike getting jacked. All I know is I sure looked like a dork on TV.

So breathe easy, pro riders, for it sadly looks like I'll be forced to pull out of next year's Tour De France. In the meantime, if anyone sees a vintage midnight blue 1983 Schwinn Sidewinder rolling around town, give a shout -- especially if the rider's all hunched over in pain. That lawn chair's absolute hell on your back. I would've warned you, Mr. Thief -- but, well, you didn't ask.      

COLUMN: Car Wash

The older I get, the less patience I seem to have. I hate waiting for things, and that hatred's become more and more palpable as my days tick on.

Some people like to shop online. I've never understood the appeal. I suppose it's nice to compare prices and browse things from the comfort of your couch. That part I get. But where's the fun in impulse shopping if you can't get immediate gratification? If I buy something stupid, at least I HAVE that stupid something when I walk out the store. If I buy something stupid ONLINE, all I have is a week's worth of guilt while my stupidity gets boxed up and shipped from Timbuk 2. But even when I shop in person, sometimes just the delay of having to drive back home with a trunk full of stupid-somethings is enough to make my blood boil.

And its not just shopping -- I abhor waiting for ANYTHING. I hate waiting for clothes to dry. I detest going to concerts and having to stand around while a dozen scraggly dudes tune and re-tune guitars. There is no interminable solitude worse than the time between the nurse checking you in and the doctor finally walking into the exam room. Anticipation is a young man's game.

I'm waiting right now, in fact.

As I type this, I'm sitting at a car wash while my ATH (All-Terrain Hyundai) gets a good primping. In a nearby garage bay, a team of four is hard at work wiping and polishing away life's ick from my mobile command center. If all goes well, maybe for a few days I'll be able to pretend I'm not a garbage-producing heathen who routinely drives around with the decaying remains of a dozen fast food bags from lunches of yore. I've decided today is Hyundai Appreciation Day. I'm getting the car washed and detailed, and my next stop is an oil change from a business whose signage insists that customers "STAY IN YOUR CAR!" with an exclamation point that reads more like a threatening command than a consumer benefit. I love going to STAY IN YOUR CAR!

Oil changes and car detailings are necessary (especially when your car's details are as filthy as mine,) but it doesn't make for the speediest of afternoons. Every time they hook me by saying "it'll be about twenty minutes" -- which, when translated from the native Carwashian tongue, actually means "it'll be sixty minutes if you're lucky," and that's BEFORE they actually see the current state of my car, so I'm expecting about a ninety-minute stay here in the lobby.

Except I'm not IN the lobby. I'm outside because the world has cooties. I could be enjoying this, one of the last sunny days of summer, soaking in fresh air and sunny optimism. Instead, I'm already bored, so I'm laboriously typing this column on my teeny tiny iPhone keyboard for something to do, making so many typos my editor would have an aneurysm if this was the final draft I turned in. Still, it's better than patiently sitting around and (shudder) being left to my thoughts. Besides, there's a wasp flying around and I swear I can ignore it if I just keep staring at this screen.

Honestly, there's no reason why impatience should even exist in our modern age. How dare we say "I haaaate waiting!" when most of us have a device in our pockets connecting us to all of the information in all of the world? I've been here for five minutes and I'm already at the brink of terminal boredom. But just from the apps on my phone alone, I could:

* Watch a kabillion different movies and TV shows

* Send a tweet to the Kardashian of my choice

* Watch any number of random idiots lip sync to obnoxious hip-hop songs

* Read any of the 37 books on my Kindle list I haven't gotten to yet

* Crush unlimited amounts of candy

* Order a pizza and have it delivered right here

I have an app that'll tell me where the plane flying overhead is going. I have another I can point towards any bird and it'll tell me what it is. I have an app that will identify the song playing from the car wash speakers right now, which I don't need because it's Hanson's "Mmm Bop" because I am clearly in hell. The only app I DON'T have is one that will help me talk to the pretty girl who just sat down six feet away. She's wearing a shirt that says "COFFEE!" which means she's my kind of people. Sadly, though, I think she's also someone else's kind of people, based on her family-friendly SUV being detailed. And now I want coffee.

To summarize, I think I've figured out life and the answer to everyth-- OH NO, SOME GUY IS TRYING TO TALK TO ME. BACK IN A BIT --

Whew. Okay, I'm back. Also, I'm home. Burying my head in a smartphone stopped me from talking to the pretty girl, but did nothing to stop some random guy from talking to me about his motorcycle for the better part of a half hour. I have nothing against motorcycles. They look fun. But I also know the limitations of my own hand-eye coordination, enough to know I'd be kissing pavement within minutes of climbing aboard one of those two-wheeled deathtraps.

But I smiled and hopefully nodded in all the right places as I learned all about aftermarket pipes and whatever "competition fishtail baffles" are. At one point, I took a huge risk and said, "Wow, you don't see those every day!" Frankly, I had no idea. Maybe you see those daily -- whatever "those" are. He smiled and kept babbling about baffling, so I think I lucked out. I can tell you with some degree of authority that his bike was definitely shiny -- and hey, maybe if I had competiton fishtail baffles, I'd wanna tell strangers, too.

Honestly, though, it was kind of a hoot. Life in pandemic-ville is mighty lonely, and waiting around by yourself sucks. Talking to strangers about things I barely understand turned out to be an ideal way to shorten the wait. After all, talking to strangers about things I barely understand is mostly what I do in this column every week.

Ain't life grand? (Don't make me wait for an answer.)

COLUMN: Ugh.

Dear 2020, I'm out of patience. It isn't funny anymore. Stop it. Just stop it.

They say every man's got his breaking point. I may have finally hit mine.

I think we've all pretty much had it up here with this pandemic party, this unrest, and this year.

When things first started going south, I was as just as flummoxed as anyone. But if I'm being honest, being forced to quarantine and spend a few weeks at home wasn't much of a stretch for me. Growing up an only child backed with years of sedentary living was just the life experience I needed to soldier through the spring. 

"Oh no, you mean I have to sit around at home by myself with nothing to do but watch endless amounts of TV, listen to whatever music I fancy, and play video games all the live-long day? CURSE MY HORRIBLE LUCK!"

Okay, so maybe it wasn't a total picnic -- mostly because picnics involve leaving the house -- but for the most part, I was quite capable of entertaining myself.

But I was one of the lucky ones. The pandemic has hurt us, badly. Small businesses are struggling to survive without much in the way of assistance. I have many friends in the performing arts community -- actors, musicians, DJs, and club owners -- whose lives have been upended by this fiasco of a year. 200,000 more people have died in the US in 2020 than in 2019, and that's just staggeringly awful.

At the same time, troubling acts of violence and racism have led to civil unrest and a social upheaval the likes of which I've never seen in my life. People are taking to the streets to protest while others take to the streets to protest the protestors. You'd think events like this would lead to REAL dialogue and REAL change. Instead it's led to businesses being burned to the ground, suburbanites packing heat, and teenagers thinking they're action heroes.

Meanwhile, the internet has pretty much just gone insane. I bet the people who invented the world wide web (and I'm not talking about you, Al Gore) were really proud of their accomplishment. I reckon they triumphantly sat back thinking the world finally had open doors to global community, connection, and communication. I bet none of them thought those doors would open and a dude would stroll through accusing Tom Hanks and Oprah Winfrey of harvesting the blood of missing children in a Satanic plot to live forever -- or that enough people would believe him to make it newsworthy.

2020 has split our country even further in two, and turned everything -- and I mean everything -- into a political fight. Did we ever think we'd live in a world where telling someone their life matters becomes a political talking point? Or when a doctor says you should wear a mask to avoid spreading germs and you instead want to debate him about your constitutional right to be infectious? Or when any reporter says anything and is greeted by half the country calling them "fake"? 

And then there's this past weekend, when I made a rare venture into the toxic haze of public life to DJ at a club in the District -- and ended up having a front row seat to a show no one on Earth should ever have to see. An act of ignorant violence that night claimed at least one life, changed many others, and struck a blow that our nightlife community may never recover from. They say "thoughts and prayers" aren't worth much these days, but everyone affected by this senseless act has mine. Not that I've got many coherent thoughts to give -- I've barely slept since Friday.

I'm almost out of room and we haven't even touched on Iowa hurricanes, murder hornets, Kanye running for President, Chadwick Boseman dying, or the taco place tonight that gave me a DIET Coke by mistake that I didn't discover until this very moment (UGH!) Honestly, though, I'm running out of optimism. Now we can't even watch a TV show without an ad where some ominous voice tells you how so-and-so is going to ruin the country if we vote for them. No matter which way the upcoming election goes, I'm afraid angry people may take to the streets.

Once upon a time, I dismissed political strife and social conflict. "We're America," I'd reassure myself. "We're awesome and we're gonna figure it all out." I'm honestly not so sure anymore, and that's scary. We need light. We need hope. We need compassion. I used to roll my eyes at namby-pamby stuff like Hands Across America, but maybe that's what we need right now (well, except holding hands with strangers right now could theoretically kill you.)

We need to remember what truly makes America great. Hint: It's not guns. It's not having the freedom to yell at some poor restaurant manager for asking that you wear a mask. It's not a Facebook post or a 3 a.m. tweet. It's people. It's us. It's everyone working together for the common good. It's about talking, and sometimes even disagreeing, with other people without it devolving into name-calling or shade-throwing. It's about taking off hats that say "Make America Great Again" and actually doing it.

I'm no activist. I'm way better equipped to lay here on my couch and poke fun at the world. But it's tough to poke fun at a world that's rapidly becoming no fun whatsoever. So if somebody could please fix everything, that'd be swell. As for me? I'm going to enjoy my (ugh) diet soda, pet as many cats as I can, maybe watch an episode or two of Sesame Street, and try to find my optimism again. I'll have a better chance of seeing it once the sun comes out tomorrow. I have it on good authority it's only a day away.

COLUMN: Microwave Mask

I have reached an age where I am absolutely, positively, inarguably an adult. Frankly, I still don't believe it.

The facts, however, are not on my side. As much as I try to ignore them, there are hairs growing from my head that are NOT brown in color. I'm getting junk mail from the AARP. My weekends were once spent DJing to dancefloors full of my friends. These days, I'm more likely DJing to dancefloors full of the CHILDREN of my friends. Some of my classmates are (shudder) grandparents. This is scary stuff.

There's no denying my adult status. I suppose this is an impressive achievement, seeing as how I've made it this far without having ANY earthly clue what I'm doing. Let's be real: I'm almost fifty years old and still wear Velcro because I can't keep my shoes tied for longer than a half hour. I'm THAT cool.

But for a while now, I've been starting to feel downright mature. I've been adulting pretty hard lately. I've almost got my credit cards paid off. I've prepared meals consisting of more ingredients than peanut butter and/or jelly. 2020 might be terrible, but at the very least it's led me to curb my spending habits somewhat. After all, it's tough to impulse buy when you're too afraid to step into a store.

But just when I thought I had this adult stuff figured out, last week confirmed it's still a wonder I can even dress myself in the mornings. (And let's be honest, yesterday I looked down and realized I was wearing one blue sock and one black sock. My dressage skills are still iffy at best.)

Last Friday night started out okay. I'd arrived home from work, made dinner, thrown in a load of laundry, and was preparing to head out for another exciting evening of DJing to kids half my age. 

As you know if you read my column on the regular, I am very much pro-mask. 

Wait, let me take that back. I'm not pro-mask. I don't sit around going, "YAY! WE'RE SO LUCKY TO WEAR MASKS EVERYWHERE WE GO! IT'S SUPER FUN!"

Masks aren't fun. They're not enjoyable to wear. I'm not pro-mask. I am, however, pro-science. I'm not going to engage in the nation's endless argument on the efficacy of masks. Let's just say I've seen enough empirical evidence to agree with most major medical organizations that masks help people stay safe. My mind's made up just as yours likely is, whichever side of the cootie-riddled fence you're on.

There's no way I'm setting foot inside a nightclub without masking up, so with fifteen minutes to spare, Responsible Mature Adult Shane went down to the basement to grab a clean mask out of the dryer. There was just one problem. It turned out Responsible Mature Adult Shane had transferred the laundry to the dryer and then, apparently, completely checked out. Maybe I saw a squirrel. I don't know what on Earth distracted me, but somehow I had forgotten to push the start button on the dryer. Every mask I owned was in a soggy pile.

But that's no insurmountable obstacle for Adult Shane. No, sir. Adult Shane is a creative problem-solver. With all the confidence and know-how of my 49 years of wisdom, I grabbed a soggy mask, headed upstairs, looked around to make sure no one in my empty house was watching, and tossed it in the microwave.

On paper, this still seems like a solid plan. When water heats, it turns to steam and evaporates. That's all a dryer really does, right? It just blows some hot air around and evaporates the moisture in the clothes. A microwave should just speed up the process, no? I figured two minutes of nuking would be enough to get things steamy, so I left the microwave to its pleasant hum and ran into the bedroom to change for the gig. But when I stepped OUT of the bedroom, the hum coming from the microwave had turned somewhat less pleasant.

That's because the microwave was on fire. I had forgotten one important thing about my soggy little mask: it had one of those bendy whatzits to keep snug around your nose. And that little bendy whatzit was, I quickly learned, a copper wire. Copper is an especially good conductor and an especially bad thing to microwave should one NOT want to burn down one's kitchen.

I opened the microwave to put out the fire, which sent a ball of charred smoke directly into my smoke detector, setting it off. The detectors in my house are monitored by my home security system, which suddenly sprang to life and informed me via prerecorded message that it was sending the fire department to my house. So there I was, standing in my kitchen, trying to scoop up a flaming mask with a plastic spatula while the smoke detector blared, the security system was helpfully flashing a strobe light, and I was trying to explain to a 911 operator that emergency services were far less needed than a life coach at that precise moment.

Oh, and did I mention I was NAKED? Like, COMPLETELY naked? I was just starting to change when I heard the microwave go wonky, so I ran to the kitchen 100% sans clothing. As it turns out, Adult Shane might be capable of dressing himself in the morning, but at night all bets are clearly off.

I did manage to avoid both burning down the house and/or ending up on a docket for indecent exposure, so I'm taking that as a win. My microwave appears to still be functional; the mask considerably less so. Not only is half of it smoldering ash, but my little experiment also managed to fuse a rogue piece of macaroni directly into the fabric. It's now an art piece I'm tempted to never throw away.

So adulting is still a work in progress. But were it not for constant failure, I wouldn't be able to provide helpful bachelor tips, such as: If you forget to turn your clothes dryer on, do NOT microwave your masks. Trust me, results may vary. 

COLUMN: Derecho, Pt. 2

Right now, someone somewhere is likely paying good money to hang out in a quiet place. Entire business models exist around the concept. You can go relax at a tranquil spa. You can take a vacation to a completely isolated getaway. You can float in one of those sensory deprivation tanks. Experiencing pure calm and serenity is said to improve your cardiovascular health, reduce stress and tension, and even increase creativity and cognitive function.

Like many of you, I got to experience a full evening of absolute calm and serenity at the hands of our surprise derecho last week -- and I've got to say, I'm not a fan. Serenity is definitely overrated. I am now officially 100% pro-noise.

As I detailed in last week's column, I was home on my lunch hour when our derecho friend (I call him Derek) popped round for a quick visit to steal our power, trees, crops, and even a couple of wayward trampolenes. Later that night, once my alley was sufficiently cleared of debris, I ventured out assuming I could find limitless food options once I reached a neighborhood with power.

That neighborhood ended up being the I-80 truck plaza in Walcott, where I -- along with a measurable percentage of the Quad Cities -- waited in line for almost a full hour for a meal from some VERY stressed-out fast food employees doing God's work that night. Normally, when one leaves Walcott and heads east, you're greeted by the warm glow of the approaching QC metro. But THAT night, darkness was king.

After narrowly avoiding about 18.2 traffic collisions, I eventually made it back to my pitch black house and struggled to find the only two candles I own. They are NOT especially functional, but that's because their function is to smell like cinnamon rolls, NOT provide light to a powerless home. Not that it mattered, because I only kept them lit for about five minutes. It turns out the OTHER occupants of my home must have skipped cat school on the day they taught the "fire is bad" lesson. No sooner had I set the lit candles on the table than two of my furry friends attempted to run headfirst directly into the flames. 

For the safety of felines and human alike, I extinguished the candles and sat on the couch in total darkness going, "Now what?" I didn't even know where my phone was. "HEY SIRI," I yelled to the open air, "TURN ON FLASHLIGHT!" Somewhere on the table in front of me, I heard my phone croak, "I'm sorry, network not found." I wasn't just without power, cable, and internet -- I was without phone service, too. I was 100% cut off from society. You know, like the pioneers. The only thing I could think to do was document my harrowing journey through isolation for future generations to learn from. Just as Laura Ingalls Wilder once did, I picked up my iPhone, opened Notepad, and began a diary of my tribulations.

10:05 p.m. This is kinda fun. Peaceful. Relaxing.

10:15 p.m. This sucks. I'm bored.

10:20 p.m. What was that noise?

10:22 p.m. What was THAT noise?

10:25 p.m. In the back of my mind, I vaguely recall having existed from 1971 until June of 2007 without a pocket device connected to all of the world's information, but I'm not sure how I did it. I could have urgent e-mails to reply to. There could be people on Facebook this very second wanting to be MY friend. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP NOT KNOWING WHAT KYLIE JENNER ATE FOR DINNER OR WHAT SHOES SHE'S WEARING?

10:35 p.m. Okay, maybe I can live without 24/7 access to the Kardashian clan, but let's be honest: it's scary to NOT be able to keep tabs on Trump's Twitter account. Whether you love or hate the guy, we need social media to keep up with him. I reckon there's a 20% chance he's named Ted Nugent as Postmaster General by now.

10:50 p.m. When I moved into this place, I thought it was crazy quiet. Nope. THIS is crazy quiet. Even as its most silent moments, there's usually still the hum of the fridge, the a/c, the air filter, and whatever I'm watching on Netflix.

10:51 p.m. I miss Netflix.

11:14 p.m. There is a horrible monster somewhere in this house making a terrifying noise. Tell my mom I love her.

11:18 p.m. Correction. There is a snoring cat somewhere in this house making a terrifying noise. Mom still has my love.

11:24 p.m. There is nothing more horrifying in a dark and silent house than the sudden sound of laughter NOT coming from me. I figure either (a) a couple people are walking down the sidewalk outside, or (b) the Children of the Corn are here seeking retribution for their homeland getting blown over.

11:26 p.m. The laughter has subsided. Either they've walked on or taken notice of my neighbor's tiny corn patch in her garden.       

11:28 p.m. Tiny corn sounds good. I wish I had a can opener that didn't take electricity.

11:35 p.m. I wish I had anything in my life that didn't take electricity. 

11:40 p.m. Wait, where's my ukulele?

I didn't bother transcribing what followed. I only know how to strum three chords, and I couldn't make out their faces well enough to see whether or not the cats enjoyed my one-man ukulele salute to the Ramones. Somewhere around trying to remember the words to "Beat on the Brat," I fell asleep on the couch.

Thankfully, when I woke up, I had power and phone service. Cable and internet returned the next day, then went away again, and then came back for what I'm hoping is keepsies. I was one of the lucky ones. I know some people who didn't get power back until a day or two ago. Had that been me, I'm pretty sure my house would have descended into tribal feudalism, and I'm pretty sure the cats would have won.

Some people say that moments of calm and tranquility lead to a sense of self-empowerment. It turns out I don't need self-empowerment as much as I need house-empowerment. That next night, I fell asleep with the lights on, the TV blazing, and My Bloody Valentine pumping out of the stereo.

I slept like a baby.      

COLUMN: Derecho, Pt. 1

Someone asked me an interesting question the other day: If you could drop one word or phrase right now from the common vernacular, what would it be?

2020 has given us so many choices. I'm sick of "pandemic." I hate "cancel culture." I've had it up to here with "quarantine," but I'm cool keeping it just to see all the fun ways people misspell it. Until now, my least favorite phrase of 2020 was "social distancing." Just like "conscious uncoupling" is a ludicrous way to say you're getting divorced, "social distancing" is just an awkwardly polite way of saying "STAY AWAY FROM ME, PLAGUE RAT!"

But now I've got a NEW least favorite word of 2020: derecho.

Let's just call it what it was: a sideways tornado. Or a Midwest hurricane. Maybe a tornadicane? No matter what you call it, it sucked. Specifically, it sucked branches off trees, siding off homes, trampolenes off backyards, and power and cable and internet away from pretty much everyone. Thanks to our uninvited derecho drop-in Monday, this has NOT been an ideal week. I suppose it could've been worse. The way 2020's been going, we should probably be thankful it wasn't a sharkderecho.

Those winds were probably strong enough to fling a wayward shark or two. That was a mighty impressive storm. I've always yearned to see a tornado, just once, with my own eyes. After this week, I find myself slightly less excited by the prospect. This was close enough.

I knew it was coming. I was on Facebook (DOING WORK STUFF, I SWEAR) when friends of mine from Des Moines posted they'd just lived through the worst storm of their lives. An hour later, my friends in Iowa City were saying the same thing. Uh oh. I knew which way the wind was blowing -- literally. As the severe thunderstorm warning was issued for the Quads, it was right when I normally leave for lunch. This was a dilemma. Do I ride out the storm in the relative safety of the newspaper office? Or would I be better off racing home before it hit?

I opted for the latter, preferring my car to be in a garage instead of our parking lot. Crossing into Illinois and looking west, I could see the beast coming. Storm sirens were raging by the time I pulled into the garage. I entered my house to a chorus of concerned meows from my feline home security team -- who, despite never leaving the house in their lives, strangely know more about weather than any of us ever will. "Ha," I thought to myself, "maybe I'll get stuck at home and score an afternoon off! Win!"

Smart people would have immediately gone to the basement (where the smart cats already were.) This idiot columnist instead opted to stand in front of the back door watching it roll in. But it was okay -- after all, I'm a professional. One year ago, I spent an hour in a Henry County basement training to become a certified National Weather Service storm spotter. It was time to put my vast expertise to use.

Well, I sure spotted it, alright. My first clue was when the storm door suddenly flew open and almost shattered into a million pieces. My second clue was when about one-tenth of the tree in my backyard came crashing down, raining a barrage of walnuts onto my head. 

"GOLLY GEE!" I exclaimed. (AND THAT'S MY STORY AND I'M STICKING TO IT BECAUSE THIS IS A FAMILY NEWSPAPER AND BESIDES, I MAY HAVE A SLIGHT WALNUT CONCUSSION.) 

I locked the doors down tight and joined the cats in the basement for twenty minutes of not-unlike-the-end-of-the-world sound effects. I don't have to tell you. If you're reading this, odds are good you're from the area and probably didn't sleep through the derecho yourself. Let's just say it wasn't pleasant.

I was luckier than many. The trees in my yard looked like one of those crash diet "after" pictures, but remained mostly upright. My house appears to be intact. My car was safe in the garage. I even got my wish. Trees had crashed down across both ends of my alley, essentially trapping me at home. As it turns out, though, snow days are considerably less fun when there's no internet, no phone service, no power, and no snow. That's why if you were cruising around Rock Island in the afterstorm, you may have witnessed a rare sight in nature: yours truly performing manual labor, pushing a downed tree out of the way in order to GET to work. What have you done to me, derecho?

That night, I went out in search of food, assuming only a minority of us were in the dark. How naive I was. I drove all the way to John Deere Road before discovering the only place with juice was the Wal-mart corridor, and about 300 other people had already beat me in line. I kept driving all the way to Silvis, assuming I'd find SOMETHING open. Nope. I followed the river back to Rock Island in darkness, crossed over to Davenport and up to Locust and then Kimberly. No power anywhere and I was getting mighty hungry.

Finally, I saw it in the distance: the beautiful, unnatural glow of lights, food, commerce, and t-shirts featuring any number of wolves howling at any number of moons. If the apocalypse ever hits, I'm now quite sure the only things left will be cockroaches, zombies, and the Walcott truck plaza. After an hour wait in the drive-thru lane, I had what I'm pretty sure was the best Quarter Pounder of my life, even if most of the ketchup ended up on my shirt. Who's gonna notice in a pandemic blackout?  

Returning home MUCH later than expected, all I had to do was enjoy peace and quiet. And pitch darkness. And the longest night of my life. More on that next week.

Here's hoping you and yours have remained upright. Let's remove "derecho" from the dictionary before 2020 starts liking the way it sounds.     

COLUMN: Squirrel

Society has long been rife with conspiracy theories -- and there's nothing like a good old-fashioned global pandemic to bring them out in full force. Maybe I just have weird friends, but I can't go five minutes on Facebook without seeing someone claiming the coronavirus is a Democrat hoax to get Biden elected or that masks are just the government's way to subjugate society on the road to fascism. 

I'm pretty sure most conspiracy theories are hogwash, especially these COVID-19 ones. But I swear to you all right here and now there IS a sinister conspiracy afoot -- one that involves an evil collaboration between car washes, major grocery stores, and the most blackhearted masterminds of malice in the world: squirrels.

Once upon a time, I thought squirrels were cute and fuzzy and charming. Then I made the mistake of buying a house with a walnut tree in the backyard. Every year, a small army of squirrels farm that tree 24/7. They're efficient, organized, and their clear purpose in life is to make mine a living hell.

Last Sunday, I went to the grocery store on a food run. While there, I was happy to find a couple big jugs of hand sanitizer perfect for the office. Returning home, I pulled onto the parking slab in my backyard and unloaded the car.

The next morning, I opened my back door to leave for work and nearly screamed. In my rush to put the groceries away, I'd forgotten entirely about my car. I'd meant to park it in the garage when I was through unloading. Instead, I let it sit overnight on the parking slab -- directly underneath the agricultural operations of Squirrels, Inc. In just one night, those cute and fuzzy backyard demons had turned my white car into a walnut-stained abstract art piece. With no time to sort it out, I had to cruise to work in a ride that looked like it lost a twelve-round TKO with a flock of diarrheal pigeons. Lovely.

At least I had my new hand sanitizer and used it throughout the day. Well, at least until 3 p.m. That's when I got a breaking news blast on my phone. The FDA had just released a new list of dangerous and ineffective sanitizers, and sitting atop that list was the very jug of "Be Safe" I'd been liberally dousing my hands in all day. As if on cue, twenty minutes later my right hand broke out in a red and painful rash. Double lovely.

After work, there was nothing I wanted to do except sheepishly drive my Poopmobile to the nearest car wash. But I was on a mission. On most days, I'm a fairly timid person. Normally, I would've just cursed my luck and tossed the bottles of hand poison in the trash. But I wasn't going to let COVID or squirrels or grocery stores get the better of me. Not when my hand was burning and my car was a mobile Jackson Pollock painting. Besides, that hand sanitizer wasn't cheap.

So I got off work, held my head up high (then ducked it WAY low to give a wide berth to the sticky nightmare of my car exterior), and headed indignantly to the grocery store, receipt in my red and itchy hand. I went straight for the line to the customer service desk, which of course was the cue for every unmasked heathen in the place to line up beside me at a distance substantially less than six feet apart. Timid Shane probably would've stood there and risked the plague. Not today. Besides, I had a mask on. I was virtually anonymous. That's probably why I spun angrily on the dude behind me and said, "Hey, could you give a little distance?"

He looked at me as if I were the one openly exhaling cooties, but he backed off. Instead, he put his shopping cart between the two of us, which would have been great had it not been occupied by his maskless and coughing children. For a while, I wondered if I'd be the guy in the next grocery store fight video shared around Youtube. I would've started yelling, but I was too busy holding my breath. 

Eventually, I made it to the counter and informed the clerk about the new FDA warning while asking for my money back.

"It's not our policy to issue refunds."

I blinked.

"Is it your policy to sell hand sanitizer that doesn't work?"

He blinked.     

"It's not our policy to return opened items."

I blinked.

"Is it your policy to sell products that do THIS?" I asked, waving my blotchy hand in front of his face.

Eventually I got my refund. Well, for ONE of the jugs, at least. It turned out the cashier accidentally hadn't charged me for the second one. It's just my luck that the one time I inadvertently managed to cheat the system, it was for a jug of free poison. 

Still, I took the refund for the one jug, although the clerk's probably still wondering why I asked for it in quarters. Ten minutes later, I was furiously plugging change into the machine at the nearest car wash, eager to show those squirrels what's what. Of course, unbeknownst to me, I was shoving money into a car wash bay that was out of order and featured water pressure barely more effective than me spitting on my car, which I couldn't even do because I was still wearing a mask.

Fifteen minutes, I found another car wash and spent three full cycles of quarters getting all the muck off my car, but not before somehow managing to pinch a nerve in the hand holding the spray gun -- the same hand that was already red and blotchy.   

So here I sit, two days later. My hand still hurts and the rash is still there. My refunded treasure now sits scattered around the change collection boxes of every car wash in the greater Rock Island area. The great squirrel / car wash / grocery store conspiracy of 2020 may have won the battle, but NOT the war. And in case my boss is reading, that "sales call" I made earlier to that tree service was DEFINITELY about newspaper advertising. Any discussion of rates to chop down a walnut tree was purely coincidental, I swear.

It wasn't the first time I swore this week.