It's a rough time to be the guy who normally writes silly columns. There's not a whole lot of silly in the world right now.
Like many of you, I'm hunkered down at home for the foreseeable future. For the time being, it's just me and my cats trying to stave off an army of microscopic invaders. For all I know, they've already crashed the party. As fast as this pandemic's moving, by the time this column runs, it wouldn't surprise me if the virus had sprouted teeth and a hunger for human kneecaps. Anything's possible at this point.
But inside the fear and the worry and the stress, there are lessons to be learned. For instance, I've learned two important things over the past week: 1) I am an old fuddy-duddy; and 2) People, at least many of us, are quite stupid.
I'm well aware that I'm a giant nerdy man-boy who can't make eye contact for more than a second. But the Shane I've created in my brain is a hip, somewhat happening, occasionally counter-culture voice bringing together the generations with wit, insight, and a radiating coolness respected by one and all. At least that's what I tell myself.
But last weekend, I wasn't cool. I wasn't happening. Saturday night, the only hip bone in my body was the one I was using to quickly pivot 6 feet away from you.
I moonlight on the weekends, working as a DJ at dance clubs. It's not just a hobby; it's a life choice. It is the air that I breathe. But last weekend, it was also the air that HUNDREDS of other people breathed, and that's where the fear kicked in.
There's nothing I love more than spinning records, but I have to be honest — I didn't want to work on Saturday night. Important people with lab coats had been on my television for days telling everyone to stay home. But I also didn't want to lose my job, so I had to be there.
No worries, I told myself. Experts and governors were telling people to stay in. Surely crowds would be thin, and common sense would prevail, no? No, indeed. Saturday night, our club was at government-sanctioned capacity from the moment I walked in to the moment I left. The dance floor was awash with people less than 6 inches apart, let alone 6 feet. Absolutely no one seemed to care about the looming crisis.
I, on the other hand, was a wreck. I'm the guy in the DJ booth who's supposed to be making the party happen. Just like Alicia Bridges, I love the nightlife and I like to boogie on the disco raHAAAAAOHHHYAY. I am all in when it comes to DJ-ing. But that night, I was mixing more hand sanitizer than records. At one point, I pulled out my phone, took a picture of the epic dance floor carnage I had single-handedly created with my blazing beats, and then immediately sent that photo to my mother with a text that said, "What are today's kids THINKING?" I hate to say it, but I may be becoming (gasp!) mature.
I'm sure some of you probably blame the bars and clubs for staying open on St. Pat's weekend despite the warnings on TV. I don't. I've worked in clubs for decades. The people who own those joints, and especially the people who work tirelessly in them, depend on that income. I don't blame them for staying open. But the people who packed those clubs? That was just foolish.
But part of me understands. I was a twentysomething once, and twentysomethings think they're invincible. I spent a good chunk of my 20s as a rave promoter. I was the guy responsible for your kids wearing baggy pants and staying out till sunup dancing to house music. One unlucky cop once drew the short straw of having to break up one of our parties at 4 a.m., only to be met by a snotty know-it-all Shane, who pulled out a copy of the Rock Island code book and demanded to know which ordinances we were breaking. Sometimes you really DO have to fight for your right to party.
But it was just the beginning of the cavalcade of lunacy we've seen over the past week. On Sunday, I went to a store and saw a dad dragging his open-mouthed, coughing child by the hand and scolding, "Don't touch anything! You're SO sick!" On Monday, people were jostling to grab a roll in the toilet paper aisles. By Tuesday, some shelves were bare.
And now we've come to this — biological house arrest. Much of our country has now been put in time-out because we don't know how not to breathe on one another. People are finally starting to get it. Or so I thought until I went on Facebook.
I only made it through the first 20 or so posts on my feed. Four of those 20 were people saying, "I'm soOoOoO bored! Who wants to come hang out?" THAT'S NOT THE POINT OF SOCIAL DISTANCING. IT ISN'T SOCIAL DISTANCING WHEN YOU'RE INVITING PEOPLE OVER. If you're incapable of spending a single day in your home alone, then you have way bigger problems than a virus, friends. People were excited when an app came out that lets you watch Netflix at the same time your friends are watching Netflix, and a little window pops up on your computer so you can chat about the Netflix you're watching simultaneously.
Maybe it's the only child in me speaking, but come on, people. You call it social distancing, I call it a typical weeknight. Work on a project. Read a book. Watch a movie. Play a video game. Pet a cat. Or, if you're like me, reorganize your mp3 directories so when you can resume DJ-ing again, you will tear up the dance floor with the grace, poise, and finesse of the twentysomething you still yearn to be.
I don't have the answers. I'm just like you, housebound and full of worry. But if we all do our part, we'll see the other side of this. In the meantime, I have a wicked DJ set planned for my cats tonight.
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