COLUMN: McDemon

Another column, and once again I find myself working the Apocalypse beat. 

Last week, I told you about about a video from one of the odder cul-de-sacs of the information superhighway claiming the Super Bowl halftime show was an unwitting indoctrination to the occult. What we thought was ten minutes of fiesty Latin dancing was, in fact, symbolic imagery and dark magic heralding the end of days. It sure didn't do much for the 49ers offense in the second half, either.

Well, the video may have been right. New evidence of scary occulting is afoot, and we should all take heed.

The world is nothing if not messed up, and it seems to be getting messier by the day. If you're the sort of person who buys into conspiracy theory rantings on the internet, there's a lot of ammunition these days to send you straight into tinfoil-hat levels of paranoia. 

The internet is full of things to be afraid of. But if you want to be afraid of things you never knew you HAD to be afraid of, put your laptop down, grab some coffee, and turn on your radio. The best place to go for top quality left-field fearmongering is a little show called Coast to Coast AM. Founded by the legendary Art Bell and hosted these days by George Noory, Coast to Coast AM is hours of pure conspiracy theory bliss, dispensed in wonderfully foreboding fashion throughout the wee hours of the night.

Coast to Coast tells us the news that matters. The news that the news is clearly too afraid to report. We insomniacs know the truth. Why worry about coronavirus when we have more pressing threats at hand -- like Bigfoot. Who has time to bother with climate change when there are time-travelling Men in Black walking among us? Floods and volcanoes? Heck, those were prophesied by ancient Mayan architecture. What's more important: our political divide or the fact that more and more people look at the clock at precisely 11:11 every day?? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!

If you don't listen to Coast to Coast AM, treat yourself some night. It's broadcast locally on WOC and streams on SiriusXM's Road Dog Trucking channel -- which is great, because if there's anyone we want to make paranoid of alien abductions and Bigfoot attacks, it's those tuning in while driving 10,000 pound death machines at 70 miles an hour in the dead of night.     

Coast to Coast warns us of important matters, such as this week's incredible breaking news, which comes straight from their website:

Dateline: Pueblo, Colorado. Police were summoned last week to a local McDonalds after employees reported hearing a female voice making "demonic sounds." Employees were unable to identify the source of the noise but "were so unnerved... they said they wouldn't be going back outside their building until after the sun came up."

I'm not quite sure what to make of this. I've eaten a couple Big Macs in my day that were followed by some admittedly demonic sounds shortly thereafter, but I have yet to experience gastrointestinal distress to the degree that it frightens the occupants of nearby buildings. Perhaps I should try harder.

Honestly, though, I could buy into this story. Let's say you're a demon hellbent on the destruction of mankind. You've just successfully crossed over from the netherworld and successfully possessed a human. You're now super psyched and eager to unleash your evil wrath upon the innocent... but FIRST? You should probably unleash your evil wrath upon a 10-piece order of Chicken McNuggets. I wonder what kind of dipping sauce a demon prefers? My guess is Spicy Buffalo.

Exactly what criteria are we using to determine a sound to be "demonic"? Who's qualified to make THAT kind of judgment? It's not every day one encounters a demon. I'd reckon few if any people actually know what a demon sounds like. Demons could sound like "Stairway to Heaven" played backwards, but for all we know, they could also sound like Morgan Freeman reading lullabyes. Thankfully, I don't have the life (or afterlife) experience to know for certain.

But I do have my suspicions. I'm fairly well versed when it comes to sound. I've lived through a My Bloody Valentine concert. I've heard my share of dark and evil noise. And out of all the noise I've heard in all world, I'm fairly certain the most demonic sound in the world is "Baaaaaayyy-beeeee shark doot doo de doot de do, baby shark doot doo de doot de do, baby shark." If somebody were outside MY restaurant chanting that song, I'd be barricading myself behind the deep fryer in no time.  

Surely there's a rational explanation for whatever caterwauling was commencing outside that McDonalds. It better NOT be a sign of the end of days. I'd frankly be a little bummed. I hate change. I'm still getting used to being a homeowner, and I'm in no mood to be raptured off my couch any time soon. On the other hand, I've also seen "Mad Max" and I don't think I'd be a fan of surviving in a post-Apocalyptic wasteland, either. I would not fare well Beyond Thunderdome. Shoot, I wouldn't fare well IN the Thunderdome. In fact, I think I'd prefer an entirely Thunderdome-free existence. The list of things I'm skilled at is pretty short, and most involve both electricity and air conditioning. When the tribal outlanders of the Wasteland begin rebuilding a primitive feudal society, I don't think anyone's top needs will be someone to write snarky newspaper columns or man the DJ booth at Club Apocalypse.

So here's hoping the voices on our late night radio dial are wrong and the voices outside a Colorado McDonalds aren't demonic harbingers of doom. I'm leaving the apocalypse beat to you conspiracy theorists out there. The world is a messy place, but I wouldn't worry about demons in the drive-thru lane just yet. Whatever was making those noises is bound to be perfectly explainable -- I'm pretty sure it was Bigfoot.

COLUMN: Halftime

Dang it, guys. Bad news. The Illuminati got us again.

Every time we let our guard down a little bit and try to have some fun, those pesky Illuminati come along to spoil the party with their hidden messages, sinister brainwashing, and New World Order oligarchy. It's getting a little tiresome.

Good thing the ever-vigilant watchdog known as the internet is here to protect us all.

The anonymous warriors of the internet have saved us with their teachings on many an occasion. Were it not for them, we'd have never known the world was flat. We'd have no clue that NASA faked the moon landings. That the only person who DIDN'T kill JFK was Oswald and the only person who didn't kill Epstein was Epstein. But more than anything, the internet wants to remind us that the world is secretly controlled by a shadow government known as the Illuminati. Their intentions are evil, their minions are everywhere, and they may even be shape-shifting reptilians from another dimension. And they're at it again.

Like many of you, I enjoyed the Super Bowl halftime show this year. Jennifer Lopez and Shakira wowed fans with a Miami celebration of Latin flavor, energized dance moves, and if an internet video this week from the Illuminati watchdog group Hacking the Headlines is to be believed, an unwitting indoctrination into the occult. 

"As many of you know, halftime shows are nothing but giant occult rituals in plain sight," the video begins, and there's oh-so-much evidence. The stage was bathed in red, the color of the occult. The dancefloor was a circle, just like the ancient ritual circles where demonic spells were cast. When the dancers formed a pyramid? That represented "the ladder of Freemasonry illuminated by the light of Lucifer." When J-Lo showed up atop a pink spire, that was clearly a celebration of abortions. The gold and silver costumes represented the ancient rites of alchemy, Shakira's rope dancing symbolized the binding power of dark magic, and the overall theme of the performance was that "Lucifer is the lightbearer coming to awaken the world."

Wow, and I just thought it was fun booty-shaking. I guess we shouldn't be fooled by the rocks that she's got, she's still Jenny from the Block. It's just that the Block in question is the fundamental building block of mankind's downfall. I never suspected Jennifer Lopez to be an agent of the Illuminati. Bummer.

But none of this evidence really implicates J-Lo or Shakira. It's all about their costumes and dance moves. Given the evidence at hand, I think there's only one obvious conclusion to draw: CHOREOGRAPHERS ARE EVIL. The real Illuminati aren't politicians or J-Lo shaking her booty. They're the people who design these stages and teach J-Lo HOW to shake her booty. Could the world secretly be run by choreographers? It would sure explain why "Dancing with the Stars" hasn't been cancelled yet.

Obviously I have a journalistic duty to expose this evil cabal of choreography, so I immediately asked for an interview with Parris Goebel, the New Zealand dancer responsible for this year's halftime show. And I was immediately told -- wait, let me look up the exact wording here -- "no." WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU'D EXPECT A REPTILIAN SATANIST TO SAY. Clearly she has something to hide.

With Ms. Goebel unwilling to go on record, I turned to my next best source: Chicago-area Zumba instructor Jessica Spicer Banaszek, because she's clearly a key player in this Latin dance cabal conspiracy and NOT because she's an old college friend willing to play along. My interrogation was brutal.

SB: HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN TEACHING ZUMBA DANCE FITNESS? AND AS A FOLLOWUP, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN EVIL?

JB: I've been teaching for almost nine years. My sinister ways started long before that.

SB: WHY IS LAMBADA "THE FORBIDDEN DANCE"? IS FREEMASONRY INVOLVED?

JB: I could tell you, but it's forbidden.

SB: WHERE IS THE SECRET LOCATION YOU ALL MEET TO PLOT YOUR RHYTHMIC OCCULT TAKEOVER OF THE WORLD? AND DOES THAT LOCATION NEED A DJ BECAUSE I WORK CHEAP.

JB: There is a convention of all things Zumba and dance fitness in Orlando every July. 8000 of us descend on International Drive and whoop it up in bright devilish clothing. 

SB: ARE YOU NOW, OR HAVE YOU EVER BEEN, AN INTERDIMENSIONAL LIZARD PERSON?

JB: I've been told I move like a snake. Close enough. 

SB: HOW IS POSSIBLE FOR SHAKIRA TO DECEIVE THE WORLD WHEN WE ALL KNOW HER HIPS DON'T LIE?

JB: She is one of the supreme goddesses we regularly worship, that's how. My altar consists of Colombian coffee beans, finger cymbals, and henna.

SB: IS ABBY JO MILLER YOUR LEADER? ARE THE ILLUMINATI *ALL* DANCE MOMS, OR JUST SOME OF THEM?

JB: No dance moms. They are more forbidden than lambada. Our leader is Beto Perez (not Beto from Texas, but I bet he's a hell of a dancer.)

SB: SINCE THE JIG IS UP, PLEASE EXPLAIN THE OCCULT SYMBOLISM OF "JAZZ HANDS."

JB: Jazz hands are a warning to our fellow dancers that an interloper is afoot. I'm doing it right now. We're on to you.

SB: If you assign a numeric value to every letter in ZUMBA (26, 21, 13, 2, 1) and add them, you get 63. 6+3=9, which is an unlucky number in Japan because their word for "nine" sounds similar to their word for "torture," and we all know that Zumba IS torture. Moreover, if you fold a $100 bill nine specific ways, some say the wrinkles on the forehead of Ben Franklin spell "KING OF ZUMBA." Am I onto something here?

JB: I'd be happy to discuss over a mug of our special Zumba elixir. How do you feel about blindfolds and confined spaces? Just wondering.

SB: Now that I've exposed your culty occultness to the world and thwarted your plans, what's the future hold?

JB: Like Britney says, I'll be dancing til the world ends.

Stay vigiliant, dear readers, lest the rhythm is gonna get you.

COLUMN: Caucus

Dear Iowa,

On behalf of all media everywhere (because, clearly, I am their spokesperson), I'd like to apologize.

This week should have been our victory lap. Instead, thanks to a buggy phone app, we've become the butt of the world's jokes. We deserve better.

Well, except "we" don't. Because I'm not a part of "we." I'm a Rock Islander. There's 7.5 solid blocks of Illinois separating my abode from your fair state. This week, though, we are all Iowa.

When the results from the Democratic Caucus didn't show up as swiftly as expected, it took no time for social media to erupt in harsh jokes at Iowa's expense. And since I tend to share our President's predilection of tweeting-before-thinking, I was quick to jump into the fray to defend "our" caucuses. I didn't even realize my liberal usage of the words "we" and "us" on social media that night, despite having never lived in your state nor having never caucused for anyone in my life. I live in the boring Land of Lincoln, where we visit the humdrum polls with a Sharpie and an anticlimactic Scantron card. I've never experienced the excitement of loitering inside a gymnasium waiting to find out if I'm "viable."

Oh, wait, yes I did -- it was called middle school P.E. class. Spoiler alert: I was NEVER viable and was always picked last. From what I can tell, caucusing is exactly like those terrible P.E. classes, just with fewer dodgeballs aimed at your head.

But I heard them mocking you, Iowa, and I wouldn't stand for it -- mostly because standing is SO less comfortable than sitting. I have eaten of your giant tenderloins and I have seen your butter cow. I know how to properly pronounce "Maquoketa." I think I'm qualified to be an honorary Iowan.  

I tried that night to explain the magic of the Iowa caucus to the Facebook nation. It did not go well. Once upon a caucus, it was the very height of democratic efficiency -- in 1846, when Iowa first became a state. Caucuses were commonplace back then, but when all the other states upgraded to primaries, Iowa proudly held her ground. What can I say? You value tradition.

In fact, you tried switching to a system of primaries in 1916, but nobody showed up. We Midwesterners are nothing if not stubborn, and what's the fun in an election if you're not being herded into groups while people with bullhorns yell at you? After the historic low voter turnout in 1916, Iowa went back to caucuses in 1917 and never looked back -- or forwards, for that matter. 

Some people might say it's an antiquated system. I think it's charming and wonky and kinda perfect for Iowa. It DOES, however, disenfranchise a ton of people who might participate were it not for their schedules. "I need your support, Iowa," says the candidate. "Unless you work second shift." 

Heck, sometimes I feel disenfranchised just living in Illinois. Whenever you attend any kind of political rally, you're usually besieged by campaign volunteers who want to procure all your personal info in order to pummel you with propaganda from now to the election. In Iowa, there's no faster way to make those volunteers disappear than the magic words, "I'm from Illinois."

But caucus you did, and maybe by the time this column prints, we MIGHT know the results. The tallying of this year's caucus went a bit haywire. Or, as CNN enjoys calling it, "A HORRIFYING DEBACLE!"

Two weeks ago, reporters couldn't shut up about the charm of Iowa and the niceness of our people. Now we're a bunch of buffoons who don't know how to count. Many are calling for Iowa to lose its privileges as the nation's first Presidential litmus test. I sure hope that doesn't happen.

On a selfish level, it's pretty fantastic to have such lengthy and close access to people who might one day be running this country. This year alone, I got to hang with the Yang Gang. I sat next to Rosario Dawson at a Cory Booker town hall. I met Tom Steyer's team in our break room and got a wave from Pete Buttigieg in the parking lot. I even got a handshake and some small talk with Joe Biden when he stopped by our office. 

But on an unselfish level, I think it's great for everyone's campaigns to start in a single state. Watching candidates stump through small towns and interact with regular folks is a way to get to know them and perhaps catch a glimpse or two of the real people behind the politics. If we didn't have a state like Iowa to kick things off, campaigns would mostly consist of CNN soundbytes, negative TV ads, and $1000-a-plate dinners.

Politicians aren't stupid, and neither are Iowans. If we really ARE just a bunch of backward yokels, politicans wouldn't waste their time with us. Once upon a caucus, you'd see candidates in Iowa wearing overalls and pretending to be one with the farm folk. Those days are over. Heck, Bernie Sanders is leading our popular vote and he's about the least "Iowa" person out there. 

So I tell you what, CNN. Blame technology all you want. Blame the DNC. And heck, maybe it IS time we abandoned tradition and switched to a modern primary system. But don't you dare blame Iowa or typecast us as simpleton country bumpkins. Iowa might not be MY state, but I'm proud to be her neighbor -- and if you think we're not modern or progressive enough to be the welcome door to America's campaign season, think about who we just sent to the front of the field. Bernie's Jewish, Mayor Pete's openly gay, and Elizabeth's a woman.

None of that should matter a tinker's dam when it comes to who's best to lead our country, but it wasn't that long ago when anybody who wasn't a middle-aged straight white male couldn't dream of being president. Us country folk just made history. "Change has to start somewhere," the saying goes. No one ever gives credit that "somewhere" is often Iowa. It's not our fault we're bad at counting. We got hit in the head by a LOT of dodgeballs back in gym class.             

COLUMN: Instapot

When it comes to cooking, I've never been especially trendy.

This is probably because frozen pizzas and TV dinners have never been much of a trend. My culinary know-how usually ends with the words "Peel back plastic wrap. Stir contents. Continue microwaving on high for an additional 2 minutes. Sauce will thicken upon standing."

[Note to all bands out there: "Sauce Will Thicken Upon Standing" would make an excellent album title.]

But over the past few years, I've been trying to become a little more adept at cooking. So far, so good. Okay, sure, there was the time a few months ago when I attempted to glaze a ham steak and somehow ended up making rock candy with a delicious ham center, but pobody's nerfect. I'm proud of my recent kitchen accomplishments. Just last week, I went to a party and brought brownies that I made from scratch -- and no one has died that I'm aware of.

And now, I've officially joined the ranks of trendy foodies. When one doesn't give one's parents a list of things one wants for Christmas, one runs the risk of getting an out-of-left-field gift. And this year, it happened.

Thanks to the magic of Christmas, I am Shane: Instant Pot user.

No, I'm not talking about the stuff you have to wait in line for an hour at a certain dispensary in Milan to procure. I'm talking about the trendiest, fastest, most terrifying of modern kitchen appliances: the Instant Pot pressure cooker. Not since the advent of microwave ovens have I seen people THIS excited to lose kitchen counter space. 

Instant Pots offer all the magic of convenient cooking, just with the added potential thrill of searing all the skin off your body. How many times have you been in the kitchen and thought to yourself, "You know what? Cooking is fun -- but is there was a way to make it more dangerous?" Thanks, Instant Pot, for bringing excitement back to the kitchen.

Okay, I'm kidding. (Translation: Dear Instant Pot Co., please don't sue me. K thanx byee.) When used properly, Instant Pots don't explode. At least mine hasn't yet.

When they first came out, I kinda wanted one just to see what the fuss was about. Then I got on Facebook one day and was sent a meme purporting to show some poor woman whose face was half melted off, claiming it all happened when her Instant Pot covered her in white-hot vegetable soup -- finally proving my long-standing belief that vegetables are hazardous to one's health.

Was the meme a fake? Probably. Instant Pots have a really good safety rating and come with a slew of so-it-won't-explode mechanisms. While there have been a few reported accidents, most can be attributed to human error. But that's why I'm scared -- if there's anyone on Earth capable of human error, it's yours truly. I once broke my foot walking down a perfectly flat sidewalk. If there's a way to scald all my skin off with one of these bad boys, I'll probably be the one to figure out how.

All fear aside, you've got to respect anything that can cook a whole chicken in eight minutes flat. Just don't ask me how it works, because I haven't the slightest idea. My guess is its the science of pressurized heat, or it might just be voodoo magic. Basically, you just throw your food in there, add the appropriate amount of liquid, and seal it tight.

I was all excited, thinking it would make some hellacious noise while it pressurizes your food to oblivion. Nope. Other than the pleasant little beeps when it starts and stops, you can barely tell the thing's on. But inside that sealed pot, all heck's breaking loose. Your liquid's turning to steam that can't escape. This raises the pressure inside the pot and literally attacks your food with unrelenting steam heat energy, cooking it WAY faster than a conventional oven or crock pot. 

The terror comes at the end. Once you've cooked your food, you need to release all that pressure and steam. One option is a natural release, where you basically just stand around hungry for twenty minutes while the pot slowly depressurizes. But that's a good way to turn rice and pasta into mush. That's when you need to do a quick release. It's easy. Just pace around the kitchen for a minute, let the fear wash over you, find the absolute longest spoon you have, cower as far away as you can possibly reach, say a quick prayer, and bump the vent switch with the spoon as steam flies into the heavens and hopefully not into your face.

Honestly, it's been great. My freezer now has enough beef stew to feed an army. My tuscan chicken turned out a little goopy, but still super tasty. The other day, I made chicken adobo and it might just be my greatest culinary triumph yet. Truth be told, I have no idea what chicken adobo is. I found it on a website. It looked brown, and brown's often tasty. Plus it looked easy, and it was. A little vinegar, a little soy, a little sugar, onion, garlic, bay leaves, and FOUR minutes later dinner was ready. It was adoboriffic.

So my kitchen adventures carry on, until I suffer a human error or discover the maximum toxicity level of beef stew intake. Maybe one day I'll get bored with it all, in which case I'll work on my next great invention: a refrigerator that chills your food in eighteen seconds flat, unless you open the doors in the wrong order, in which case there's a 1-in-25 chance ice wolves will jump out and bite off your nipples. 

After all, cooking should be exciting.

[Note: If I should die in an Instant Pot explosion after this column prints, please do not let Alanis Morrissette turn this column into a song about irony. K thanx byee.]