COLUMN: Council

There's a teeny tiny power-hungry part of me that's always wanted to go into politics.

The only problem is that I'm not especially politically-minded. Or motivated, passionate, or knowledgeable. Granted, none of those challenges seemed to stop our current commander-in-chief from ascending to power, but I'd like to think an effective politician should know a thing or two about, well, politics.

It's probably not for me. I'm busy enough as is. Of course, were I to actually run for office, I'd end up with loads of free time, because I'm pretty sure it's frowned upon to be a candidate while working for the very media that would be reporting on your campaign. Next week's column? "Why I'm Awesome." The week after? "BREAKING NEWS: Shane Continues To Be Awesome!" Yeah, that probably wouldn't fly.

So I'll leave politics to the politicians -- but maybe I can poke my head in every once in a while. Earlier this week, I got a taste of our local political machine -- and it was kinda fun, except when it was kinda terrifying.

For someone with a college degree in Speech Communications, I'm pretty lousy at public speaking. I usually stammer, break into a flopsweat, and make eye contact only with the ground. But last Monday, I somehow found myself behind a podium, microphone pointed at my face, addressing the Rock Island City Council while trying super hard not to have a stroke.

Anyone can do it. You just need to show up, write your name on a sign-up sheet, and the council gives you five minutes to say whatever's on your mind (within reason.) I had six minutes worth of things on my mind, which explains why I talked really fast. 

What was so important as to have risked a full-on public panic attack? Well, this week the city council voted on whether or not to roll back the closing time of bars and nightclubs in the Rock Island District from 3 a.m. to 2 a.m. There's few things I'm passionate about, but that's one of them. If you're a regular reader of my column, you probably know why. 

I normally spend my weekends moonlighting behind a DJ booth in the District. When Mayor Thoms issued an emergency order last month to roll back our closing time to 2 a.m., I saw our crowds drop from 500+ to literally 18 people. I ended up (hopefully temporarily) losing my job, and that's a bummer. My cats do NOT appreciate good mixing the same way a packed crowd in the District does.

The timing could've been a LOT better. I fully realize the absurdity of arguing for clubs to stay open late when we're in the middle of a pandemic. If it were up to me, we wouldn't be open at ALL until COVID gets under control. But this council vote was to make the time change PERMANENT, and there's no need for that. God willing, one day we'll be on the other side of this virus -- and when that day comes, I want you visiting me on the dancefloor. The clubs of the District rely on that late closing time to maintain patrons and profitability. Without it, the District might not survive.

You might hold a different opinion, and that's fine. I'm not here to plead my case. I did enough of that on Monday, and it was mentally exhausting.

Having a front row seat to the inner workings of a city council, though, was enlightening. The District vote was something like the 24th item on their agenda, so I got to bear witness to a whole lotta governing, and it was every bit as action-packed as you'd think. 

I got to hear the Mayor declare July 26th as Americans With Disabilities Day, which was neat. I got to see McManus Orthodontics win the Keep Rock Island Beautiful Award for June, which was well-deserved. I got to see the Mayor issue an official proclamation encouraging adherence to COVID-19 guidelines, which was a prime example of why you should keep me out of politics, because MY official proclamation would be less "encouraging" and more like "WEAR A [EXPLETIVE] MASK OR ITS THE STOCKS FOR YOU, MORON!" Stocks were underrated.

Mostly, it was an evening of motions and seconds and ayes and nays and council members having to refer frequently to Robert's Rules of Order. I'm not sure who Robert is, and I'm too lazy of a journalist to look him up -- but I think it's safe to say he probably wasn't ever the life of any party. Robert literally wrote the book on parliamentary procedure, and he's probably the guy who wouldn't let his family play Monopoly until the entire rules were read aloud and agreed upon by a simple majority of the family quorum. Thanks to Robert and his rules, a simple discussion about abandoned real estate turned into a motion to approve a proposal to develop a program for a future vote... I think.

But all in all, I was wowed by the way our city leaders went about their business with courtesy, respect, and consideration. (By this, I mean no one pelted me with tomatoes while I was speaking.) Honestly, though, it was cool to see in person. Running a town can't be easy, especially in our COVID era where many members were joining remotely with mixed results. One councilmember chimed in with, and I quote, "I'm -- with the other -- establishment of -- is the city ordin -- I am told that." I'm glad I'm not the only one sitting at home these days cursing my iffy internet connection.

Politics might be fun, but probably not for me. I'm too thin-skinned for the political landscape. I want everyone to like me, and when you're in charge of making decisions, you'll invariably displease some people. That takes guts, and I commend our city councils for taking on that job.

As for the District vote? Well, I guess we won -- kinda. The council voted in favor of the 2 a.m. closing time, but it wasn't the supermajority needed to pass. For now, the District can remain open until 3 a.m. So next time you're out in the wee hours and there's NOT a horrible virus plaguing our fragile Earth, come see me. I'll make you dance, even if it's from six feet away. Stay safe, all.

COLUMN: Neowise

(Photo: Dana Taylor)

2020 has been woefully lacking in adventure.

Well, actually I guess every day's been an adventure. Going out in public is an adventure. Sharing an office with 20 people is an adventure. Heck, just turning on the news is an adventure.

But I'm talking about good old spontaneous adventures to new places and new experiences. Many of my best stories start with calling up a friend and saying those magical words, "I'm bored. Wanna hang out?" Over the years, those fateful words have been the start of tales that end with phrases like:

...and that's how we ended up in Beloit, Wisconsin at 4 in the morning.

...and that's how I ended up dancing in a meditation dome with Oscar-winning director David Lynch.

...and that's how we almost got arrested at the Canadian border.

...and that's how I ended up on MTV.

...and that's what turtle jerky tastes like.

All those stories began with an "I'm bored" phone call, usually to my best friend, Jason. Some of the best times in my life have been random spontaneous drives to parts unknown.

But 2020 has put an end to all that. The only "hangout" I've done with my friends this summer has been preceded by the word "Google." I've seen Jason once since February, when we met at Sunset Park to eat dinner from separate corners of a long picnic table. I'm pretty sure I've only filled my car with gas five times this entire year. 2020 is the worst.

But last weekend, I came pretty close to checking off that annual adventure box.

Friday night, I got home from work with several hours to kill before my weekend DJ gig. I ate some food and settled down to waste yet another night in the loving embrace of Netflix. But after five minutes, I shut the TV off defiantly. "NO!" I told myself and likely 1-3 cats within earshot. "2020 doesn't get to win tonight!"

I was sick of my four walls, sick of television, sick of repeating the same life day after day after day. I grabbed a mask and hopped in the car in search of socially distanced adventure.

I'd seen some friends online talking about Neowise, the newly discovered comet that's been gracing our skies just after sunset for the past month. Maybe it was discovered before, but that person was probably too busy learning how to make pottery because Neowise only pays us a visit every 6,766 years. Well, I wasn't waiting until the year 8786 for my next chance to see it.

Neowise shows up just after sunset below the Big Dipper, so I set off on the I-280 loop for a good glimpse of the northwest sky. Unfortunately, when you head off in that direction, the only thing you see to the northwest are trees, hills, and the nuclear glow of the Walcott truckopolis. Frustrated, I kept driving. More hills. More trees. More lights. No comet.

Eventually I found myself pretty far away from the Quad Cities. TOO far away considering I had a DJ gig at midnight and had no real clue where I was. I found myself on a dusty farm road driving along the banks of the Wapsi, cometless and running out of time. I decided I'd turn around at the next intersection and head back dejectedly. That's when I saw him.

There, on the side of the road, in the absolute middle of nowhere on a Friday night, I spotted a guy with a fancy camera on a tripod. Specifically, a camera pointed straight to the northwest sky.

"Are you hunting for the comet?" I rolled down my window and asked.

"Not hunting," he replied. "Found it."

"I came out hoping to catch a glimpse myself," I said.

"Pull in," he offered. "I'll show you what it looks like through a camera lens."

...and that's how I ended up spending an hour watching a comet with a total stranger in the middle of nowhere.

The stranger in question is my new friend, Dana Taylor. He's one of the founders and a former president of the Quad-Cities Astronomical Society, and it was pure luck I happened upon him. Man, I'm glad I did.

Even on a dark country road, Neowise is tough to spot with the naked eye. It mostly looks like a slight haze in the sky that I could only really see with my peripheral vision. But point a camera at it with a 15-second exposure and it's an entirely different story. Neowise is a marvel to behold, with a bright nucleus and an elegant dusty tail. Taylor would leave his camera motionless, controlling the ISO and exposure from a phone app. I stood there for minutes, not even caring that I was serving myself up as a banquet to a legion of mosquitoes. This was epic.

For a time as a kid, I was convinced my life would be devoted to astronomy. Then I found out astronomy was mostly math, and my dreams were crushed. I am not especially gifted with numbers (I had to pull out a calculator earlier just to figure out that 2020+6766=8786.) As an adult, I fear my full appreciation of astronomy consists of the phrase "space is neato." But that night, standing on the side of the road, looking at a rock 64 million miles away flying through space at 144,000 mph? In that moment, I was Carl frikking Sagan glimpsing the heavens.

The next moment, I looked at my phone and realized Carl frikking Sagan had 45 minutes to get to his DJ gig. So I bid my new friend farewell and raced home to make my gig with precisely 4 minutes to spare. By that time, Dana had already sent me some of the best pics he shot that night. As I type this, he's out there right now with an even better camera trying to get some last souvenirs.

The moral of the story? Like the books of our youth, choose your own adventure. Don't let 2020 win. You've only got a couple more days to check out Neowise before it fades from view for an awfully long time. If you think 2020's rough, who knows what 8786 has in store for us.

COLUMN: Jug

To say 2020's been a challenging year would be a bit of an understatement.

Once upon a time, our paper ran happy headlines, I'm almost sure of it. Nowadays, I cringe as I unfold the morning edition, bracing myself for whatever global disaster awaits. Turns out we missed one.

While your attention's been diverted by minor news like a pandemic, civil unrest, and the potential economic collapse of the free world, an even more sinister story has been lurking in the shadows.

I hate to break it to you, but the Quad Cities has a water thief.

Last night, I went grocery shopping. I don't think I've made one successful trip to the supermarket this year without forgetting at least one crucial item I went there to buy. I'm too preoccupied trying not to get breathed on, casting sanctimonious glances at the unmasked, and navigating the one-way arrows.

I'm a firm believer in giving people the benefit of the doubt, but all bets are off in the grocery store. Whenever I pass someone in the aisle, I can't help but wonder, "Hmm, how COVID-y does THIS person look?" It's nothing personal, I swear -- but don't take offense if you see me non-chalantly holding my breath as I give you the widest possible berth. Yesterday I found myself ducking down a side aisle just to avoid a family of unmasked heathens. No big deal, I thought, I'll just wait here pretending to comparison shop for, umm, tampons. I definitely picked the wrong aisle to duck down.

Eventually I made it to the checkout with a cart full of essentials: some TV dinners, butter, pasta sauce, a jug of distilled water, coffee, and some quarantine cookies. It wasn't until later that night, sitting at home on the couch, that it hit me: WHERE'S MY DISTILLED WATER? I definitely had it in the checkout lane, but it sure wasn't in my kitchen. Somehow, some way, it never made it home with me.

The way I see it, there's a few possible explanations:

#1: In the twenty seconds it took me to return my cart to the corral, clearly some nefarious scoundrel disabled my alarm, picked the lock, broke into my car, and absconded with my water. He's probably sitting somewhere now, toasting me with a distilled glass of his plundered booty, jubilant in his 99 cent pillage.

#2: When I got home, it was 7:02 PM. I think I left the store at 6:51. Does it take eleven minutes to get from the store to my house? Or am I missing time? Perhaps I was kidnapped by aliens and taken aboard their mothership where I was studied intently for my intellect and brute machismo -- and, clearly, my water.

#3: Perhaps technology has evolved at such an alarming pace that plastic water jugs have now become sentient. Having just been snatched and taken against his will from his friends, perhaps Juggy noticed my back turned and leapt from the cart in a desperate bid for freedom. Maybe he's made his way out of town by now, learning to live and flourish far from the thirsty mouths of those who would do him harm.

But I'm not going to waste your time with ridiculous theories of aliens or sentient water jugs or, umm, a bagger forgetting to put the water in my cart. No, I'm pretty sure I know what happened. Occam's Razor tells us the best explanation is usually the simplest. But I've been spending a lot of lockdown time on the internet, and the internet tells us the best explanation is usually the most convoluted conspiratorial thing you can dream up.

So here's what I think happened.

As I approached the checkout lane, the cashier must have recognized me as a card-carrying member of the #fakemedia. Too bad I didn't recognize HIM as Dead Body #2 in that fifth season episode of Law Order, because he was no cashier -- he was a crisis actor. As I placed the water jug on the checkout counter, I hadn't noticed the UPC code directly corresponding to the number of false positive COVID tests reported that day. Knowing how dangerous it would be to send that fateful jug home with me, he quickly set the bar code reader to 5G and irradiated the jug with toxic chemtrails. Unfortunately, he hadn't predicted the reaction it would have with the adrenochrome within.

As the jug began to glow, he realized in horror it was projecting the mystical square and compass symbol of Freemasonry onto the Hy-Vee ceiling! He had to act fast lest their Deep State jig would be up. As I was scanning my debit card, he grabbed the jug and vaulted over the checkout counter, pulling out his iPhone 12 to send an unsecured email to the only person who could help. The call came instantly.

"Hillary?" he cautiously asked.

"That's right," the confident yet strangely reptilian voice said.

"I think... he knows."

"Don't panic. Do you have the jug?"

"I do."

"Then we're good. He's already heading home."

"How do you know?"

"The microchip we implanted in his flu shot, duh."

"The fool!" 

"Nothing can stop us now. Care to meet Bill & I for dinner? Pizza's on me."

At least that's how I assume it went down. Frankly, it sounds more realistic than murder hornets, plague squirrels, or Iowa bears. I'm not putting ANYTHING past 2020 at this point.

Update: On my way to work just now, I glanced in the back seat and there sat the missing jug. This is worse than I thought. Clearly, typing this column caught the attention of Mark Zuckerberg & Bill Gates, who promptly reported the security breach to their reptilian Illuminati overlords (Oprah? AOC? Flo from Progressive?) and spared no expense breaking into my garage and putting a replacement jug in my car while I slept. It's a good thing I'm woke, people.

2020 might not be done with us, but at least I won't be thirsty.

COLUMN: Fireworks

I've always had a thing for loud stuff.

When most people get around a piece of screechy industrial machinery in action, they cover their ears. They grimace. They move away. I've always been the idiot standing there elated by the sheer stupid exhiliration of it all. I'll be the guy smiling with a thumbs up going, "ooh, impressive." I love it when a train blows its whistle as I'm driving by. I love the roar of the Blue Angels at an air show. To me, sound is excitement. Sound is power.

I spent most of my twenties as a rave promoter, renting out rickety old halls and warehouses and filling them with kids, DJs, speakers, and thumping dance beats. I've stood in front of speaker stacks taller than me. I've DJed on systems that have shaken fixtures off walls and tested the structural integrity of buildings.

I once paid more money than you need to know to bear witness to My Bloody Valentine, the UK group currently in the Guinness Book of World Records as the loudest band ever recorded. Their shows routinely feature decibels higher than a jet engine, and they hand everyone in the audience earplugs and warnings upon entry. They close their sets with a half-hour barrage of pure feedback fans lovingly refer to as the "Sonic Holocaust." 

I'm also an idiot. I'm well aware of how much damage I've likely done to my hearing over the years, so spare me the lectures and don't do as I did -- well, unless you're looking forward to the relaxing inescapable ringing of tinnitus.

But even as someone with a crazy high tolerance for loud noise, can I say one thing on behalf of myself, my cats, and a vast majority of our local populace?

ENOUGH WITH THE FIREWORKS ALREADY.

As I type this, some of you are on your 14th day of celebrating independence, and it's getting a little old. Every night for going on two weeks now, the minute the sun even thinks about setting, my neighborhood erupts into a barrage of bottle rockets, firecrackers, and show-stopping pyrotechnics -- except the show isn't stopping.

Seven days ago, I was sitting on this very couch trying to write last week's column, when

((((BOOOM!!!!))))

It felt like someone had lit an M80 directly into my spinal column. My windows shook. My elderly cats jumped into the air like kittens. And I dove to the floor like Captain Fatpants, the world's saddest superhero. I truly thought either the world had just ended or half my house had just exploded. But as I lay there in a defensive position awaiting the Four Horsemen, I was instead met with the sound of neighbor kids laughing and high-fiving.

As time marches on, so too does firework technology. Bigger, bolder, louder. But where do you draw the line between an impressive firecracker and a medicore bomb? My guess is you draw that line in chalk around the body of your terrified neighbor who's just stopped, dropped, and rolled off his couch. Thankfully I live to columnize another day.

Look, I get it. Fireworks are cool. They're fun, loud, dangerous, and illegal. That's a tempting allure. I remember one summer, we -- I MEAN, DISTANT FRIENDS OF MINE -- drove to Wisconsin and THOSE FRIENDS may have spent the entire profits of a rave on a carload of fireworks. As I recall MY FRIENDS TELLING ME, it was exciting enough to drive home with a trunk full of bootleg fireworks, let alone launching the things. But MY FRIENDS were so nervous, when the 4th of July came 'round, we -- I MEAN, THEY -- were too scared to light them off in town. THEY ended up driving out to a pasture in the middle of nowhere and were still so jittery THEY spent more time worried about getting caught and cleaning up the mess than actually enjoying their illicit show.

I remember thinking those fireworks were super cool. Trust me, they were super lame compared to the things people have been launching from my neighborhood this week. The night vision videos from my security camera on the 4th make Rock Island look more like stock footage from Desert Storm. Debris was everywhere and the whole Quad Cities looked like a foggy moor, except the fog was toxic smoke. I literally awoke on the 5th to a warning on TV to stay indoors -- the air quality was too dangerous to go outside.

Fireworks are dangerous and exciting. But this is 2020 -- just leaving the house these days is danger enough for me. If you're a thrillseeker, go grocery shopping. Hug a stranger. Walk around without a mask. No, don't do that. Please don't do that. But can't we just have a relaxing holiday weekend where everything is chill and calm, even for just a day or two? As one of my friends said on social media this week, I can't believe constant explosions and emergency vehicle sirens is the aesthetic anybody wants at this point in 2020.

I spent my holiday week engaged in my fun new hobby of making sure my house didn't catch on fire. Others weren't as lucky. I listened to the police scanner that night as fire and ambulance calls rolled in, not to mention countless noise complaints. At one point, I literally heard a cop say he was driving to his own house to complete his paperwork, because "there's too many crazies out here tonight." We should be better than this.

So I tell you what, Quad Cities. Let's make a deal. You stop lighting off mortar shells for a while, and I'll keep My Bloody Valentine to a respectable volume when I'm driving around with the windows down. Deal? Besides, when I'm by myself in a quiet room, I'm pretty sure I'm still listening to the aftereffects of that concert.

COLUMN: Bucks Fizz

I have long been an Anglophile. I love British music with a passion. I can't get enough British TV. English comedians are the funniest, UK radio is the bee's knees, and I'll take a BBC newscast over CNN anytime. If a girl with a British accent tries to speak to me, I can barely keep from squealing. I once worked with a reporter from Ireland (which isn't even part of the UK) and I still wanted to be his very best friend just because he'd at least heard of some of my favorite bands.  

On the very weekend we celebrate our independence from British rule, it's probably poor taste to write about how much British culture rules. But here's the thing -- England has launched an all-out assault on my brain this week, and this is a war they just might be winning.

It started with an innocent movie. This week, Netflix debuted a new Will Ferrell flick that I enjoyed very much. It's the kind of film that critics are bound to hate, but I was all in. Not just because it's full of heart and optimism and silly laughs, but because it's about a topic near and dear to my heart: The annual Eurovision Song Contest.

Truly, there is no greater annual trainwreck, and it's a shame more Americans don't know about it. Every year, the nations of Europe compete in a continentally-televised sing-off to determine which country has written the best song of the year. Songs are judged by representatives of each country along with the viewing public. It is the world's longest-running annual televised contest and draws up to 600 million viewers every year.

And it's terrible.

Not just a LITTLE terrible, either. It's a whole new level of terrible. Every once in a while, Eurovision can find a star. ABBA got their break representing Sweden back in 1974. Celine Dion catapaulted to superstardom when she was hired to perform Switzerland's Eurovision entry in 1988. But for the most part, Eurovision is a nightmare factory of garish costumes, over-the-top antics, and truly terrible music. It's a wonderland of bad taste and poor choices.

Since winning requires the overall consensus of 47 completely different cultures, Eurovision entries tend to be watered-down, homogenized, bubblegum pop trash written for mass appeal. Since the songs are cheeseballs, the performers try to differentiate themselves with zany stunts, cringe-worthy gimmicks, and some of the weirdest attempts at sex appeal you'll ever see. Don't believe me? Google Iceland's Silvia Night or the awesomely named Serbian singer Rambo Amadeus and strap in. 

In Ferrell's "Eurovision" movie, he and Rachel McAdams portray earnest Icelandic singer-songwriters trying to advance to the finals. You might laugh when you see Ferrell in silver makeup and a winged helmet singing an ode to volcano gods, but that's honestly not too far off from the real thing. There's a scene in the movie where Ferrell joins in a crazy medley of ABBA, Madonna, and Cher songs at an afterparty. What Americans might not realize is that the performers in that medley are all actual Eurovision winners. It's a magical mess.

Watching the movie put me in the mood to see the real deal, so I immediately went on Youtube looking for past Eurovision highlights. That's when Britain got its revenge on me for our indepedence.

In 1981, England won Eurovision with their own version of ABBA -- four vocalists assembled for the contest who went by the name Buck's Fizz. Well, technically they still GO by Buck's Fizz. Kind of. More on that later.

Buck's Fizz may have looked like ABBA, but their sound was straight Brady Bunch. They won Eurovision '81 with a song called "Making Your Mind Up" that might be the worst pop song of all poptime. If you were to combine the DNA of My Little Pony, Shirley Temple, and Hello Kitty, the resulting cuteness monstrosity STILL wouldn't be half as insipidly sugar-sweet as "Making Your Mind Up." It even comes with hand-jive choreography and a "scandalous" bit where the two guys rip off the skirts of the two girls -- only to reveal matching mini-skirts underneath.

Here's where I'd normally tell you to go listen for yourself. Trust me, don't. For the past 72 hours, "Making Your Mind Up" has been on auto-repeat in my head. It won't leave no matter what I do. Buck's Fizz is the devil's earworm. Somewhere in my brain, there's a radio station that now only plays ONE request. "Making Your Mind Up" has bored its way into my soul and now there's no other music. It's so obnoxiously catchy that I fear it'll be a part of me forever. Maybe this means it's the best song ever written. Am I the world's #1 Bucks Fizz fan now?

The BEST part? The singers HATE each other. There's a Buck's Fizz documentary on the BBC (and Youtube) that's one of the closest things to real-life Spinal Tap you'll ever see. The foursome turned their win into modest fame -- until a horrible bus crash left one member near death. Then the remaining guy convinced the singer of another terrible band to join, and this new guy tried to take over Bucks Fizz for himself! They fired him, but he formed his OWN Bucks Fizz with the original bus-crash guy! Now there's TWO warring Bucks Fizzes touring the cabaret circuits of England while they fight in court over the right to the name. The other band has to go by "The Fizz," and their career is clearly on the rise since they're booked to play October 4th at Pizza Express Live in Holburn.

Well played, England. You've destroyed my Anglophile dreams and turned me into a Fizzhead. Maybe one day the DJ in my brain will stop requesting "Making Your Mind Up." Until then, if you see me out on the street, wear a mask and stay six feet away, but SING SOMETHING TO ME. ANYTHING. GET THIS SONG OUT OF MY HEAD. Curse you, England. I'm glad we revolted.