COLUMN: Best of 2021 - TV

For 364 years out of the year, I regret wasting a measurable percentage of my life in front of the TV, living life vicariously through fictional people with lives far more interesting than my own. But for ONE magical day, I can pretend that I live a life NOT wasted. You see, the ridiculous amount of time I spend on my couch isn't wasted -- no, it's the sacrifice I make in order to provide the greatest of all possible public service: sharing my favorite shows of the year so that you, too, might fall lure to their charms and be as unproductive as me.

#5 - Only Murders in the Building (Hulu) - I went into this show with low expectations and rolled eyes. Despite its buzz and acclaim, I've always had a limited tolerance for Martin Short. For as lovely a person as he seems to be, his over-the-top schtick can be a bit much. But the charm of this show easily outweighs the hammy tendencies of Short, who manages to rein it this time around. "Murders in the Building" stars Short, Steve Martin, and Selena Gomez as a trio of true crime podcast devotees who launch their own project when a resident of their apartment building suffers an untimely end. It's a loving send-up to the kind of magical New York City living that may now only exist in fiction. The apartment building and its cast of residents/suspects becomes the real star of the show, along with an entertaining array of plot twists, red herrings, and smarter-than-average writing. 

#4 - The Beatles: Get Back (Disney+) - In 1969, the Beatles allowed camera crews to follow them through the creative process that eventually became their last-released album, "Let It Be." While the resulting rooftop performance became the legendary "Let It Be" concert film, hours and hours of filmed rehearsals and behind-the-scenes footage had never seen the light of day until now, when Lord of the Rings director Peter Jackson painstakingly went through it all and edited the highlights into this new multi-part documentary. For mega-fans, it's a treasure trove of insight and wonder. But even passing fans of the Beatles will marvel as songs like "Get Back" and "Something" arise from spontaneous rehearsal noodling. This honest and unfiltered gem of a documentary shows that the Fab Four were, at their heart, just four guys trying to make some solid tunes. And to see their humanity, arguments, and laughter only makes their feats all the more magical.    

#3 - The Great British Baking Show (Channel 4 UK/Netflix) - When the fad of reality TV started up with shows like "Survivor" and "Big Brother," it seemed like an interesting diversion from the norm. But as networks quickly realized the popularity and financial payoffs of low-cost reality programmatic, the market became flooded with hundreds of shows promising looks at supposed "real life." But here's the thing about real life: it's often really, really boring. That's why the landscape of so-called "reality TV" quickly became the breeding ground for cutthroat competition, "real" housewives, and a laundry list of horrible people being as horrible as possible for laughs and ratings. But if nobody wants to see actual real people getting along, don't tell that to "The Great British Baking Show," a cooking competition that's actually fun and inspiring. Nobody gets in fisticuffs or shouting matches, the contestants all help one another out, and the positivity that springs forth is contagious. There's no grand prize (other than a fancy engraved plate) other than pride and the joy of cooking. It's the TV equivalent of a hug from your grandma, and it's the kind of medicine we all needed this year.

#2 - Ted Lasso (Apple TV) - My favorite line in Ted Lasso comes in the very first episode, when the owner of the struggling AFC Richmond soccer club asks, "Do you believe in ghosts, Ted?" This causes the crimally optimistic coach to reply, "I do -- but more importantly, I think they need to believe in themselves." Season 2 might not be as optimistic as those epic debut episodes, as we begin to learn that Coach Lasso's inhumanly sunny disposition is likely a defense mechanism against the fears and insecurities that plague him. Still, the show's central mission statement that good trumps evil and that hostility should be faced with compassion and humility continues to make "Ted Lasso" essential viewing in this age of division and fear. It's the vaccine we should all agree to take this year.

#1 - Mare of Easttown (HBO). I didn't want to love this show. It's dour, bleak, and unforgiving in its painting of life in small-town impoverished Pennsylvania. But its also captivating beyond words. I initially expected it to be little more than Emmy-bait for star Kate Winslet (and she deserves ALL of the awards, trust me.) But beyond Winslet's flawless performance of a deeply flawed character is a multi-layered and unapologetically real look at how grief can affect both an individual and a community. And beyond THAT is a murder mystery stunning in depth and detail, with stand-out supporting performances from Evan Peters, Jean Smart, and newcomer Angourie Rice. It doesn't leave you with a good taste in your mouth, but its a gourmet meal nonetheless. It's the best show on TV this year by a WIDE margin.

With that, we enter a new year of doubt, uncertainty, and the continued divisions that plague our world (not to mention an ACTUAL plague thrown in for good measure.) But if 2021 was any indication, nothing will stop great art. Have a wonderful new year. I'll probably spend mine in front of the TV.   

COLUMN: Best of 2021 - Music

As a life-long card-carrying music nerd, there's a few things you can always be sure of. If you're in my car, I will definitely play bands you've never heard of and tell you WAY more about them than you ever cared to know. I will always be up for a debate with fellow audiophiles on the internet and within the magical confines of the nearest record shop. And every December, like the swallows returning to Capistrano, I will tell you my picks for the best albums of the year.

Long ago, I predicted the only silver lining of the pandemic would be the beautiful art that springs forth from creators in lockdown. 2021 didn't let me down. There were lots of stellar releases this year, but here's five that stood out.

#5 - FRED AGAIN - Actual Life I & II

Fred Gibson has spent the past few years as one of England's most in-demand record producers, working with artists like Shawn Mendes, BTS, and Ed Sheeran. But at the urging of his friend and mentor, the legendary Brian Eno, Gibson used the pandemic downtime to take a stab at his own material. What started as a time-killing project morphed into a two-volume collection of dance anthems, introspective ambience, and an audio diary that encapsulates the highs and lows of a year in isolation. If you think it's incapable for electronic music to have heart and soul, try this record on for size and heed and its closing words, "I know there's been a lot of reasons to stop / I pray you haven't done that." 

#4 - WET LEG - Assorted Singles

All you need to know about Wet Leg is the first comment that comes up under their Youtube page: "This song is so effortlessly cool I'd be scared to talk to it at a party." In fact, Wet Leg are SO effortlessly cool that I'm including them even though their actual debut album isn't scheduled to drop until April 2022. But the four singles they released this year stand so strong, they merit mention in any end-of-year wrap up. Seemingly from out of nowhere (the Isle of Wight, actually,) Wet Leg lit up hipster dancefloors with quirky angular guitar licks and non-sensical playful innuendo. Musically, it's as if French art students tried to become the B-52s by way of the Pixies. And they dress like Amish milkmaids with lobster hands because of course they do. Even in a lousy year, it's good to see the kids still know how to have fun.

#3 - BLEACHERS - Take the Sadness Out Of Saturday Night

Jack Antonoff is arguably the most sought-after producer in the world right now. But the man responsible for shaping the sound of Taylor Swift, Lorde, and Lana Del Ray shines brightest on his own material -- or at least he sure tries. Every Bleachers song tries to be a grandiose DIY anthem of low-budget studio wizardry. It works more often than you'd expect. On this, his third Bleachers release, Antonoff's entered what can only be described as his "Springsteen phase." The record is born to run from start to finish, including a guest appearance from the Boss himself, which must be every Jersey musician's dream. Like every Antonoff album, it's the sound of pure ambition and purposeful over-reaching.

#2 - SUSTO - Time in the Sun

Susto's Justin Osborne is known for being a straight-shooter, a master of simple and honest songwriting that leaves little to the imagination. With this record being crafted in a pandemic while dealing with the death of his father and birth of his child, it's no surprise that Osborne cuts to the quick, with titles like "Life is Suffering" and "God of Death." But, like all Susto records, the frank lyrics are still cloaked in an overriding optimism and hope for the future. Susto's always wonderful melange of Laurel Canyon by way of Cuba and the Carolina coast is in full effect here, providing an eclectic and electric mix of folk Americana to lift the spirits and soak your soul.

#1 - AVENUE BEAT - The Debut Farewell Album

It's not every day that a pop album turns into an honest tearjerker. The Nashville-by-way-of-Quincy-IL Avenue Beat had already caught my attention with their unique hybrid of smooth R&B and country harmonies. Struggling for attention, they capitalized on the pandemic by releasing the cathartically snarky "F2020" that quickly went viral (you can probably guess what the F stands for.) With attention finally turned their way, the trio set about recording their debut album. But halfway through, one of the members quit and the group suddenly disbanded. Rather than abandon their record entirely, the two remaining members stayed together long enough to record a heartfelt three-song coda detailing the painful end of their run. The result is a bittersweet triumph of gorgeous harmonies, whip-smart lyrics, and an ending that will break your heart clean in two. I first played this album on a solo roadtrip because I thought "F2020" was kinda cute. I wasn't expecting to spend the drive laughing, dancing, and then rolling tears. It's the sound of dreams soaring and then falling, and it's my favorite record of the year by a pop-country mile.

Honorable Mentions: There's so many other great records out there this year. Don't miss Lana Del Ray's "Chemtrails Over the Country Club"; the life-affirming beats of Sault's "Nine"; the shoegaze attack of You, Nothing's "Lonely//Lovely"; the sonic bliss of Tape Waves' "Bright"; or even the cheeky pop-metal heroism of Weezer's "Van Weezer." Here's to a musical new year, all.  

COLUMN: The Now

You know when you're coming home from a DJ gig at 3 a.m. and you're just completely wiped out and you... Sorry, what? No? You DON'T know what that's like? Ahh. Just me, then? Fair enough.

Well, last weekend, I indeed returned from a gig at 3 a.m. and was most definitely wiped. There's nothing worse than feeling exhausted but too amped up and full of tinnitus to sleep. I usually need unwinding with some mindless TV and a snack before I call it a night. So I flipped on Youtube and tuned to a channel that shows trailers to upcoming shows. That's right, when I'm not watching TV, I watch ads for things coming to TV. That's how I roll.

I was a bit surprised, though, when I saw a trailer for a mini-series called "The Now" starring Dave Franco and the legendary Bill Murray. I hadn't heard a thing about this show, so I checked it out.

It seems interesting. It's a comedy series about a guy who decides to turn his life around when he discovers he's the third member of his immediate family to have suicidal thoughts. It's directed by the Farrelly Brothers, the guys who brought us "There's Something About Mary" and "Dumb and Dumber" among others.

Then I got to the middle bit of the trailer, which showed a snippet of a police chase. It took me about thirty seconds before I grabbed the remote and re-wound it. Yep, I wasn't dreaming. The side of that car definitely said "MOLINE POLICE." And watching it again, I'm pretty sure that scene was filmed in downtown Port Byron.

Wait, is this TV show set HERE? Sure enough, "The Now" takes place in the Quad Cities.

Don't worry, you didn't miss an opportunity to hobnob with famous actors. They were never in town. The show was filmed in Vancouver -- but in order to accurately depict the Quad Cities, the Farrelly Brothers sent a secondary crew to shoot exterior footage of our area back in 2019.

Upon closer inspection, that wasn't just ANY aerial establishing shot of a quaint river town. That was an aerial establishing shot of OUR quaint river town. And what's that in the dead center frame of that shot? Yep. That's the sycamore tree in my front yard.

That's right -- my tree is a TV star.

I have but one motivation in life: to become super, deeply, mind-bogglingly famous. My time, clearly, is now. Yesterday, I was a nobody. Today, I am The Guy Who Owns That One Tree That Was On TV That One Time. I'd go outside to admire my tree, but I'm sure it's being swarmed by paparazzi as we speak.

There's so much to do.

* I clearly need to shoot a demo reel of my tree in all its glory and submit it for consideration to the Academy. In the 3.5 seconds of screen time it appeared in the trailer, it showed phenomenal depth of character. I'm pretty sure a nomination for Best Supporting Foliage might be in the cards.

* Does my tree need an agent? Do I need to get it a SAG card? The stable of working trees in Hollywood is small at best, and I will NOT let it lose any roles to Groot.

* Revenue streams need to be set up immediately. I'll see if I can get it on Cameo - for $250, my tree could wish you a happy birthday or congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials. Meanwhile, once the merch store goes live, you'll definitely be able to order a "My Family Went To See That One Tree That You Can See For 3 Seconds In That One TV Show And All I Got Was This Stinkin' T-Shirt" t-shirt.

* And what kind of manager would I be if I didn't get my new superstar involved in a lurid scandal to plaster its foliage all over the gossip pages? I already know what it's going to be. You see, there's one other actor on The Now that I didn't mention. I'm not going to outright CONFIRM that my tree is dating Pete Davidson, but I'm suspiciously not going to deny it, either. You'll have to ask Pete.

I don't know if Andy Warhol was right. Maybe not everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes. But someone's tree can definitely be famous for three seconds. Go check out my tree and the rest of the Quad Cities on "The Now" streaming on Roku -- and if you do, let me know if it's any good because I do NOT have a subscription. 

COLUMN: Water Clog

The official list of Things I Am Good At Doing is fairly small. I can make a mean mixtape. I can talk your ear off about pop culture endlessly, whether you want me to or not. My editor can attest that I'm highly skilled at submitting a column longer than it should be every week. I'm gifted at stammering, not making eye contact, and running late to most occasions. That's my principal skill sets right there.

As for Things I'm Bad At Doing? Well, that list comprises pretty much everything else in life. But there's little on Earth I am worse at doing than home repairs. I am, perhaps, the least handy man on Earth. So when I woke up last Sunday to discover no hot water in my house, all I could do was scratch my head.

I'm fully aware there's a machine in my basement that takes cold water and makes it hot. I couldn't tell you how it works, but I know it's down there. But on Sunday, it wasn't as if cold water was coming out instead. No, when I switched the faucet to hot, NO water came out whatsoever anywhere in the house. The hot water heater was warm to the touch. It was doing its job. The water, however, was clearly on holiday.

Another Thing I'm Bad At Doing is taking cold showers. I steadfastly believe that showers should have a water temperature juuuust shy of skin-melting. I once dated a girl who took cold showers by choice. I'm still not entirely certain that she isn't a sociopath. Of course, I discovered this nifty quirk during an ill-fated attempt at spontaneous sexiness, when I thought I'd try to sneak in the shower with her all romantic-like. Instead, I ended up shrieking like a little girl and fleeing to the nearest towel yelling, "COLD! COLD! COLD!" Let's just add "spontaneous sexiness" to the Things I'm Bad At list. 

I had no idea what to do. Generally, when something's not working, my first instinct is to look for something broken. My second gut instinct is to poke it with a stick. Nothing seemed broken and I was fresh out of sticks. If the hot water wasn't coming out of the faucets, WHERE WAS IT GOING? I carefully perused the whole house and thankfully found none of it to be underwater. Beyond that, I was stumped. 

I needed an expert. Good thing I have one on retainer. His name is Dad.

My father built the home I grew up in from the ground up. When I bought this house, he finished my basement "for fun." He's a home improvement superstar and doesn't seem to mind that he raised a son who gets nauseous on the bottom rung of a ladder. I immediately called him for advice. "My advice," he replied, "is to sit tight. I'm on my way."

An hour later, Dad was up to save the day. If anyone could fix the situation, it was him. I watched as he confidently checked out the bathroom, the basement, the bathroom again, and the basement a second time. Eventually he came upstairs, looked me square in the eye, and said -- well, I can't tell you what he said, but I reckon you can guess how many letters it was. Not good.

After several phone calls, we landed on a plumber willing to give up his Sunday to stop by. For what it's worth, the guy was really nice and professional, and I know this because he stopped to put on little booties before walking across my carpet as if it were something far nicer than a destination for cat vomit. 

Plumber Guy wasn't as stumped as we were. He shut off the water, cut into the intake pipe, and ran a long pliable pipe cleaner down the line. In other words, he took a look at the problem -- and then proceeded to poke it with a stick. Perhaps my home improvement instincts aren't as terrible as I previously thought. It only took seconds before the pipe cleaner hit something that fell to the bottom of the water heater tank with a noticable "clank." Immediately, water started flowing again. A little soldering with a pocket blowtorch and I was back in business.

How LONG I'll be enjoying warm water remains up in the air. The hunk of ick that was clogging my line (which I am now simply referring to as "a piece of Rock Island goodness") is now enjoying a warm soak at the bottom of my hot water heater, and there's always a chance it'll get swept up in the outflow and get stuck someplace else. The only recourse other than hope is a new water heater, which, after hearing the cost of purchase and installation, I can only presume is made of solid gold with a lovely diamond inlay. I'll take my chances for now.

But I DID learn one fun thing this weekend: I can now add "EMPTYING ONE'S BANK ACCOUNT WITH AN EMERGENCY WEEKEND PLUMBER CALL" to the list of Things I'm Good At. It turns out I'm fairly skilled at handing all my money to strangers. In the meantime, if anyone needs me, I'm off to the showers.  

COLUMN: Swiftie

If you close your eyes and listen closely, you can probably STILL hear the internet talking about Taylor Swift this week.   

As you likely know, in an attempt to regain control of her master recordings, the world's most popular songstress has been painstakingly re-recording and reissuing her entire back catalog, album by album. These recreations have come with an arsenal of unreleased and bonus material that's proving to be a treasure trove for Swifties worldwide. 

This week, Taylor released the re-recorded version of her mega-selling album "Red," and the centerpiece is a new version of "All Too Well," perhaps the most biting of her famous break-up songs. Some call it the "You're So Vain" of the millennial generation. The original was already an emotional powerhouse, but this new version is a next-level gut-punch of seething vitriol that's been sending fans to their Kleenex boxes faster than anyone could possibly shake it off. Last weekend, she performed the entire ten-minute opus on Saturday Night Live.

Me? I'm just sad. Not for Taylor Swift. Not even for actor Jake Gyllenhall, long purported to be the villain of the song. No, I'm sad because that song could have been about ME. You see, Taylor and I once had a moment.

I've told this story before, but I don't care. I'll trod it out until my last day. It just gets better with time. I have but few great stories in my arsenal, and none shine so bright as The Time Taylor Swift And I Almost Became An Item. At least, that's the way I tell the story. Taylor might tell it differently.

Once upon a time, Taylor Swift played a concert in the Quad Cities, and yours truly was assigned by this very paper to review the gig. When I got to the arena and grabbed my review tickets, I was astonished to see a second ticket attached -- for a post-show meet-&-greet. From that point on, nothing else mattered. I don't remember a word I wrote about the show. It might not have even been in English. All I cared about was both meeting and greeting Taylor Swift.

Record company meet-and-greets aren't exactly the ideal settings to make a great first impression. They're less cozy and personal, and more akin to a cattle processional. You're lined up and paraded by the artist in quick succession. At best, you've usually got just enough time for a photo, an autograph, and about twenty seconds of small talk before you're shoved out the door. If I wanted Taylor Swift to fall in love with me, these were the most important twenty seconds of my life.

Now, I know what you're thinking. She's a celebrity music icon. I'm a fat, unkempt newspaper columnist twice her age. Don't worry, I was thinking the same thing. But after long analysis, I decided that maybe just this ONCE, I would be willing to lower my standards enough to date an international pop superstar half my age. These are the sacrifices I make in life.

We may seem like opposites, but I reckon Taylor Swift and I have plenty in common. She likes music. I like music. She likes performing concerts. I like attending concerts. Two-for-two so far. Let's see... she likes cats. I like SOME of my cats. She appears to breathe air. I, too, require air to function. Clearly, we are soulmates.

I had just had to convince her of this in twenty seconds. No problem. When it was finally my turn in line, I approached, looked up (she is TALL), said hi, and she said hi back. Got a quick pic and an autograph and I opened my mouth to commence the suave and charming small talk that would make her mine forever.

That was the precise moment when the little kid in line behind me passed out cold to the ground, in what could only be described as the most fortuitous loss of consciousness I've ever witnessed. Before I could even say, "I...," she pushed me aside and raced to his aid. The last thing I saw as I was being shoved out the door was Taylor Swift cradling this kid's head in her lap. I hate that kid.

If it hadn't been for him, I'm sure she would have been fallen for my eloquent charm and we would be together today, her wowing millions of fans and me DJing the afterparties. Or maybe we would break up and never ever get back together, in which case she'd be on Saturday Night Live singing ten-minute hate songs about ME and I could at least be the dude walking around going, "Why yes, the song 'Get Away From Me, Creepy Fat Newspaper Guy' IS about me, care for an autograph?"  

But alas, we will never know -- unless Taylor comes BACK to town for another concert and I am somehow able to score another meet-and-greet pass. Don't worry, if that happens, I've learned my lesson: I will DEFINITELY make sure that I'm first one to pass out.

 

COLUMN: Astroworld

As a lifelong music nerd and frequent concert-goer, I feel like we need to talk about Astroworld a little.

The tragedy that happened this weekend in Houston was horrific, appalling, and worst of all, entirely avoidable. A crowd surge during headliner Travis Scott's set left at least 8 dead and scores injured. It's an absolute nightmare. As such, people are eager to point blame. We naturally want someone to hate and accuse and focus our outrage towards. The answers might not be so simple.

I wasn't at the Astroworld festival. Neither were you, most likely. All we can do is watch the video footage and speculate from our armchairs. Investigators are trying to piece together how such a tragedy could've occurred. We may never have the complete answers. But let's look at how things unfolded from a few different perspectives.

Many folks are laying the blame squarely on Travis Scott himself. They're saying he ignored the obvious signs of trouble in the crowd. That he should have stopped the show early. A respected news site seriously ran a headline the other day that said, "THE DEVIL MADE HIM DO IT? BLOOD SACRIFICE."

Gimme a break. I'm not saying Travis Scott is completely without fault here. After all, this was HIS festival. He shares culpability for sure. But I don't think he was ignoring the pleas of the dying or hosting a Satanic ritual at an suburban theme park.

Travis Scott has all the subtlety of an MMA fighter. His shows and his crowds can get rough. He encourages his audience to "rage out" and he's gotten in trouble before for egging crowds to get unruly. He's not beyond being an occasional moron.

That said, from the clips I've seen, I don't think he knew how bad things were getting. There's an awful video someone shot of Scott on a riser, kicking off another song while EMTs below him are performing CPR on hapless victims and the crowd chants "stop the show." It's horrible to watch, and definitely makes it look like Scott couldn't care less about the crowd.

But if you watch that video closely (and you shouldn't, it's stomach-wrenching,) you can see Scott wearing noise-cancelling ear monitors - it's doubtful he could hear those chants at all. He also had a stage spotlight in his face, so he probably couldn't see much, either. That crowd was 50,000 deep - it'd be tough to make out events in there even without a blinding light in your eyes.

On three occasions that night, he DID stop the show and signalled for security when he saw someone in distress. And what if he HAD stopped the show altogether? Would that have fixed things? Just because an artist walks offstage doesn't mean 50,000 idiots will peacefully disperse. When Guns n' Roses famously cut a show short in St. Louis, it ended up causing a riot and millions in property damage. Idiots sardined together are still going to be idiots, music or no.

Was the staff to blame? After all, there's a video of a girl pleading with a cameraman to stop the show while he seemingly ignores her. But that cameraman isn't a concert organizer. He probably works for Apple Music, who were there filming the event. At best, the only person he reports to is a TV producer in a van somewhere with no control over the concert flow. Being mad that he didn't stop the show would be like blaming a hot dog vendor. 

That leaves the organizers, and you'd better believe they're going to be held responsible. Despite having over 500 police and 700 security guards onsite, there was an utter lack of crowd control at Astroworld. Fences were breached and hundreds of people snuck in. It was over-capacity, over-crowded, and there was nothing to stop the crowd from surging. 

But if you're truly looking for someone to blame, it's the crowd themselves. People are, by and large, idiots. In this case, many were DRUNKEN idiots desperately and pointessly trying to shove their way to the front when there was simply no room. When EMTs and ambulances tried to respond, people started dancing on top of them. Sometimes people just suck.

Maybe festival concerts with general admission need to go the way of the dodo. They can get really scary. I've never been in an incident like Astroworld, but I've been in a couple crowd surges and they're terrifying. At the very first Lollapalooza, I got into a surge when Jane's Addiction took the stage and I travelled about forty yards without my feet touching the ground. I've been front row at shows where I've worn criss-cross bruising on my chest for the next week from the fence I was shoved against.

Open festivals like Astroworld need to be quadranted into different sections where crowd control and capacity can be better policed. You can't trust people to NOT be stupid. Sure, Travis Scott's aggression didn't help matters, but he's far from the only artist who incites their crowds to freak out. Aggressive bands play live all the time without incident.

I love concerts. There's nothing like the excitement and passion of live music. But you shouldn't be putting your life in jeopardy just by attending. Instead of throwing around blame before the investigation concludes, maybe we should instead mourn the victims and focus on ways to improve safety to ensure live concerts are the magical and transformative experiences I've known them to be.

We owe it to ourselves. Life can occasionally be terrible, but it always needs a good soundtrack. 

COLUMN: Ewarto

Some of you probably think I applied to be a columnist out of a lifelong passion for writing and/or a desire to uplift our community.

Nope.

There's obviously two reasons why I wanted to be a columnist: (1) To score a hot babe, and (2) make gobs and gobs of money. I think I just did both.

If, that is, a certain message I just received on Facebook is true. And who can we trust if not a complete stranger on the internet? I've read it five times now, and it seems super legitimate:

"HI SEXY!"

(Already we're off to a rollicking and completely accurate start.)

"My name is Ewarto Sawadogo."

(Umm. Okay, I'll never fault anyone for the name they were given. That said, this is NOT the sexiest array of vowels and consonants I have ever come across.)

"And I believes you is my SOULMATE. I am 26 years old woman --"

(Folks, Ewarto is HOT. Based on her profile photo, she's a dead ringer for pop songstress Ariana Grande. In fact, I'm pretty sure the photo she provided IS Ariana Grande, especially given the fact that's she's standing on the red carpet at the Grammy Awards. Or perhaps this simply proves Ewarto is a fan of music like myself. Who am I to question my soulmate?) 

"-- from Moldova."

(Wait, is that a real place? Or is that the fake country from Dynasty where they shot up the royal wedding in that big cliffhanger finale? Hang on, I need to check... Okay, Moldova IS a real place. Moldavia is the one from Dynasty. Whew.)

"I have searched the internets for my one true love, and I have finally founded you."

(Took you long enough.)

"I can see from your recent posts that you are good handsome man of high virtue worthy of my affections."

(My last three Facebook posts: 1. a picture of my cat. 2. a review of the movie "Dune." 3. a post that says, and I quote, "I'm sooo bored. Anyone wanna hang out?")

"My father runs powerful candy company."

(Wait, IS YOUR DAD WILLY WONKA? Or Willy, umm, Sawadogo?)

"But he has been accused of crime he did not commit"

(Umm, just what kind of saga am I stepping into here? I'm down for the soulmate stuff, but I'm not looking to reenact "The Fugitive" here. Just my luck that I find my soulmate and she's, like, a member of the A-Team.)

"I am coming to America to escape jurisdiction of the World Police"

(Oh dear! Not the dreaded "World Police!" So wait, you're being chased by GLOBAL authorities? My soulmate is an international fugitive? And you want to come HERE? What about Candy Dad? Is he coming, too? There's only so much room in my house. I want to chew gum in peace without a dozen Oompa-Loompas popping out to sing me a lecture. We need to discuss logistics.)

"Please if you has love for me like I has love for you, help me. I need to protect father's 3.4 US MILLION DOLLARS in United States bank account where World Police cannot steal."

(I think I see where this is going. You look exactly like Ariana Grande, you're inexplicably in love with me despite having never met me, AND you're vastly wealthy with unlimited access to European candy? I'M THE LUCKIEST MAN ALIVE.)

"Do you has a bank account where we can put money and begin new life together?"

(Sure. In full disclosure, last week someone hacked my debit card and used it to rack up $124 in Amazon charges, but I'm pretty sure it's safe. We can probably fit an extra 3.4 US MILLION DOLLARS in there. No problem.)

"I am devoted to you and cannot wait to hold you in my arm."

(Note: Singular. "Arm.")

So, if you don't hear from me for awhile, please assume that I'm securing my future with my one-armed soulmate who may or may not be pop sensation Ariana Grande and possibly her fugitive candy baron father. So far, this is turning out to be a decent week. 

I tried writing her back, but her profile had strangely been deactivated (curse you, World Police!) But I trust that my sweet Ewarto and our 3.4 US MILLION DOLLARS are en route. You're all invited to the wedding. There will be candy.    

COLUMN: Morrissey

I've been amusing myself this week with "Locke and Key," a good Halloween popcorn show on Netflix. In the series, a widower moves her family into a creepy house where they discover magical keys. One key opens doors to anywhere. You just think of a place, put the key in a lock, open the door, and you're there.

This got me daydreaming: If I had a magic key that could teleport me anywhere, where would I go? Would I explore far-off lands? Pay Katie Holmes a visit? Or would I just use it as a faster way to get to Walgreens? 

I think my first stop might be a concert venue in England, in order to see what might be the best cover band of all time, fronted by the unlikeliest of heroes. None of knew we'd need him in 2021, but he might just be our saving grace. At the very least, he'll never give us up, let us down, or desert us.

When you were a kid, was there a musician you idolized? Someone whose lyrics spoke to you, whose music moved you in a way you barely understood? Maybe you liked the cut of Elvis' hips. Maybe you grew up with a Jimi Hendrix poster on your wall. Maybe you were a Deadhead or a Fanilow. Heck, maybe you're a Belieber or a member of the BTS Army right now.

For me, there was one singer who sat on a pedestal above most others.

If you were a smart, awkward loner growing up in the 1980s, there was one voice you could always turn to. His name was Steven Patrick Morrissey, and he fronted one of the most important bands in the world: The Smiths. If you're unfamiliar, don't worry. Casey Kasem never once uttered their name. The Smiths didn't live on the radio or in dance clubs. Most people had no clue they existed. They even named one of their albums "The World Won't Listen." But to their fans, The Smiths were everything.

If you were an indoor kid who preferred books to sports, suddenly there was a pop idol you could identify with. Your parents might not have understood you, but Morrissey did. With a sardonic wit and a catchy hook, he could sing your life. His lyrics were depressing, charming, achingly funny, and self-deprecating -- often all in the same verse.

Morrissey wasn't afraid to tell you that life sucked, people were stupid, and most things were hopeless -- not exactly your stereotypical pop anthems. But Morrissey fans weren't stereotypes. For a weird and awkward kid like me, he was a hero.

But a few years back, things went sideways. As the years have passed, Morrissey's become less of a truthsayer and more of a... terrible human being. In a misguided attempt to call out animal cruelty, Morrissey thought wise in a recent interview to declare, "You can't help but feel the Chinese are a subspecies." His anti-immigration rhetoric is troubling at best, downright racist at worst. He even voiced his support for Kevin Spacey and Harvey Weinstein, saying, "if you go through history, almost everyone is guilty of sleeping with minors. Why not throw everyone in jail right away?"

His fans are leaving by the droves. Even the Simpsons mocked him in a recent episode when Lisa meets a pretentious British singer named Quilloughby who sings a song called "Everyone is Horrid Except Me (And Possibly You.)" Any fleeting hopes of a Smiths reunion have forever been dashed -- the rest of the band want nothing to do with him.

I've stopped idolizing the guy, but I still love the music of The Smiths and those songs that helped me through adolescence -- songs that may have just been saved... by Rick Astley.

Yep, THAT Rick Astley. The corny radio-pop hero whose inescapable "Never Gonna Give You Up" has been Rick-rolling us on the interwebs for over a decade. As it turns out, Rick's actually a pretty cool guy. He's also one of those indoor kids who spent the 80s idolizing Morrissey. And he's got the pipes to match. 

So when Rick posted a short clip of himself belting out a Morrissey tune with the band Blossoms, Smiths fans around the world lost their collective minds. Now, he and Blossoms are actually playing a few select pop-up gigs as a proper Smiths tribute band. But instead of Morrissey's pomp and pretention, you get Rick Astley in a Hawaiian shirt pogoing around like your drunk uncle at a karaoke bar having a blast. The kind of blast I'd waste a magic key to witness.

I spent years hoping to see Morrissey. Now, I think I'd rather see Rick Astley onstage doing these brilliant songs justice in the least pretentious way possible. Or, as a rock critic at Vulture said last month, "It's settled. He's Morrissey now."

Anyone have a key I could borrow?

   

COLUMN: Battery

Last week, I wrote about heading down to the Spoon River Valley Scenic Drive. As it turns out, I narrowly avoided spending a whole lot of quality time with that scenery.

Over on TikTok, there's a 13-year-old pug named Noodle with over 2 million followers. Every morning, Noodle's owner Jonathan wakes the sleepy dog on camera and stands him upright. Sometimes Noodle stays aloft -- but more often than not, he collapses back into bed like he's made of Jell-O, leading Jonathan to declare it's a "no-bones day," where laziness and comfort win out over productivity and stress.

The other night, I left work after an exhausting day of professional newspaper-ing. I was dragging hard. My brain was mush, the yawns were plentiful, and I was utterly wiped. As I walked out the door, I thought to myself, "I should have listened to Noodle. Today is DEFINITELY a no-bones day."

I was right. I just didn't know my car thought the same thing.

I almost just typed "as I turned my key in the ignition," but that'd be a lie. I'm a modern, on-the-go guy with no time for the burden of inserting a key into an ignition and expending precious calories with all that cumbersome hand-turning. I now own a car with a button that says "START" on it. It turns out that button's occasionally a lie, too. 

I pressed START and my car just sort of... wheezed. CHUG... A... CHUG... A.  Uh oh. 

I suppose I should be grateful. Just days prior, I was in Fulton County, scenic-driving down roads less traveled on gravel paths a hundred miles from home. I should have been thankful my battery died in the office parking lot and not along the banks of the Spoon River. After all, roadside assistance can only assist when one knows WHICH roadside one is stranded upon. 

Yep, I was grateful that day. So grateful, in fact, that I decided to scream grateful profanities into the open air and slam my grateful head into the steering wheel for dramatically grateful effect. 

Strangely, it worked. Suddenly, my car started. It certainly didn't sound happy about it, but it started. While a rather loud voice in my head told me to go home and pretend it didn't happen, a louder voice in my head told me to go to a parts store right away and have them check my battery. That voice was my dad's, because I had him on hands-free speakerphone within seconds of getting the car started. I'm not sure why I called him for advice. I already knew what his advice would be, and I knew it wouldn't be to go home, eat a hot dog, and watch bad TV (which was MY plan.)

Instead, I wheeled into an auto parts store and had them check my battery.

"Oof," said the kid testing my battery. "It's not holding a charge at ALL. Game over."

He then recommended an expensive replacement battery they had in stock, but then told me I'd have to go to a mechanic to get it changed out. Apparently, my car puts the battery underneath some kind of hard-to-remove housing doohicky that's more than just an amateur swap-out. Great news.

Suddenly I worried that instead of needing a tow or a jumpstart from the parking lot at work, I might need one from the parking lot of an auto parts store. Thankfully, it started up again (barely,) and in desperation, I tried a different auto parts store down the street. Heard the same story from them - my battery was toast, but due to the housing, it would require a professional install. Noooo.

"Good thing I'm a professional," the guy said with perfect comic timing.

Huzzah! And that place just won ALL my future automotive business. A few minutes later, I left with a dented pocketbook but a shiny new battery and a fully-powered car that was no longer wheezing to life.

I wanted to go home and eat that hot dog. Instead, I sat in my driveway for 20 minutes on hold with the satellite radio people, trying to order a signal refresh. When my battery died, so too did all my radio presets. When it came back to life, the radio kicked on to Celine Dion -- and let's be honest, I'd rather walk home. But I eventually got sorted and was soon back to my usual playlist of Music To Irritate My Friends With.  

Still, the whole escapade has made me a little jealous of cars. Wouldn't it be nice if the next time it felt like a no-bones day, we could just walk into a store, change out our battery, and suddenly have a recharged lease on life? Unless, of course, we all started singing "My Heart Will Go On," in which I think I'll stick with no bones, thanks.

    

COLUMN: Scenic Drive

You'll never believe what happened to me the other day. Hard to believe, but I actually got to have a little bit of a weekend with my weekend.

More often than not, my weekends are just slightly discolored weekdays -- 48 hours when I get to take off my newspaper hat and instead put on my DJ hat. Any way you look at it, I'm still working. What little free time I have is often spent cleaning the house, doing laundry, buying groceries, and generally performing all those mundane responsible-adult tasks that may as well be considered work, just without that cumbersome burden of getting paid for any of it.

Sometimes, I don't want to wear the newspaper hat, the DJ hat, or the responsible adult hat. Sometimes I just wanna hang my hats up for a bit.

That's what I did last weekend. I went for a scenic drive. Specifically, a Spoon River Valley Scenic Drive.

Every year, Knox and Fulton Counties in Illinois hold a fall festival of beautiful vistas, scenic overlooks, harvest bounties, and a colorful spectacle of autumnal wonder and merriment. Or at least I bet that's what the brochures say.

In reality, it's pretty much just a yard sale. A really, really big yard sale. 

I grew up in Knox County, and Scenic Drive weekends were always a tradition in my family. In fact, outside of Christmas, the day we went Scenic Driving was usually my favorite day of the year. I'd stake my claim to the back seat of the mini-van, crank some roadtrip tunes on the headphones, and let the pavement -- or at least my dad -- guide us to wonder.

The main wonder, of course, being: "Who would buy any of this junk?"

I adore the Knox County and Spoon River Valley Scenic Drives, but let's be honest. There's not a whole lot of scenery along the main route, unless your idea of scenery is plastic tables and piles of rusty antiques. Basically, it's an excuse for everyone in Knox and Fulton Counties to go through their homes, find all the rusty garbage in their basements, and see if anyone's weird enough to pay money for it.

And I love it. I can waste an entire day wandering around amateur junk vendors, and if I can do so with an elephant ear and a lemon shake-up in my hands, all the better.

There's all kinds of different stuff to see, do, and buy along the Scenic Drive. There's crafters who must spend the rest of their year making stuff to sell just for this 4-day annual festival. There's a limitless supply of homemade jams, jellies, honey, and assorted things floating in vinegar and brine. There's antique dealers galore. There's people selling junk and people selling deep-fried junk. It's every Midwestern stereotype served up on a platter, often with powdered sugar sprinkled over the top. It's great.

I had limited time and limited objectives this year. I wanted apple cider, a hot donut, and a homemade pie to take home. All three of those were found in the tiny town of London Mills, a stop so popular on the Scenic Drive that it can back up traffic on the highway for over a mile. The vendors were on their A-game. There was a guy selling homemade root beer out of a barrel. There was a woman yelling "TAMALES! IF YOU DON'T LIKE THEM, YOU DON'T PAY!" In perhaps a sign of the changing times, there was more than one tent selling CBD oil and, umm, "decorative" glass pipes.

And there was junk. Oh, how there was junk. I fully appreciate the lure of food vendors and homemade jams, but I'll never wrap my head around table after after of rusty antiques in shoddy condition. I realize to some people it's a treasure trove, and I won't begin to argue the appeal of rusty antiques in the homeland of American Pickers, but I don't get it.

Case in point: At one stall this weekend, they were selling the beat-up remnants of a 1970's KerPlunk game for $8. Remember KerPlunk? Once upon a time, in the days before X-Box and Playstation, the height of gaming was pulling plastic straws from a transparent tube in hopes of not disloging the pile of marbles atop them. If you pulled the wrong straw, marbles would drop to the bottom of the tube, making a noise that sounded NOTHING like "ker-plunk."

It was, and still is, great fun. But THIS particular eight-dollar vintage Kerplunk game only had ONE remaining straw. Spoiler alert, but that's not going to stop too many marbles. That's okay, though, because the marbles were missing, too. Basically this guy was selling a plastic tube and a single piece of straw for eight bucks. Here's another spoiler alert: They still make KerPlunk. You can buy a brand new model at Wal-Mart for $14.95. I bet it has all the marbles, all the straws, and doesn't smell like it's been in someone's attic since 1963.

But again, I won't knock antique sellers. Maybe there's someone out there getting ready to open a board-game-themed microbrewery in need of a kitschy KerPlunk wall sconce (and if you're out there, hit me up -- I can cut you a deal on Broken Broken Hungry Hungry Hippo that's somewhere in my closet.) 

All told, the day made for a great escape. Pro tip: the main routes of the Spoon River Valley Scenic Drive might not be especially scenic, but the side roads ARE. We detoured off the main drag and got a fair share of fall foliage and fresh air. I even made a long-overdue detour to the rural cemetery where I could say hi to my grandparents and a good portion of my mom's family tree. It's a really nice place, except for the incessant barking dog in the distance that I reckon my grandpa routinely cusses out from the great beyond.

The world may change, but as long as the Spoon River continues to flow, so will the smell of fried food wafting up from Fulton County every fall. Here's hoping our children's children's children will enjoy the Knox County and Spoon River Valley Scenic Drives. They might even have a chance to buy that same KerPlunk tube. 

Enough talking. I have pie to eat. 

COLUMN: Outage

Congratulations, everybody. We made it.

There are times in life that try our souls. Events beyond our control can push us to the brink of oblivion. It's then and there we see our true selves and realize the fragility of mankind. But somehow, with persistance and fortitude, we manage to survive. Somehow, humanity musters the strength to soldier through suffering and adversity, and we live to fight another day. Proudly, we persevere.

That's right - we made it a whole five hours without Facebook.

On Monday, technical issues took down Facebook, Instagram, and Whatsapp for most of the afternoon. According to a headline in Tuesday's New York Times, "lives were disrupted." The world descended into madness. Chaos reigned supreme. Anarchy spilled into the streets. Pandemonium was everywhere.

Well, except MY office, apparently. I had no clue about the outage until I went to check a scheduled post on our newspaper's social media feed. Instead, I found myself staring at a white screen and an infinite hourglass icon. "Bummer," I said to myself. "Facebook must be down." By the time I got off work and checked again, everything was hunky-dory again. Clearly, my life had been irreparably and irreversibly disrupted.

Based on the news coverage of the outage, you'd think we were minutes away from the full collapse of Western civilization. Yes, life would forever be altered because for one brief afternoon, none of us could share pictures of our cats with people who Facebook calls our "friends" but in reality are more like "people we don't actively hate, whose existence we are somewhat aware of."

Once upon a time, we all got on fine without Facebook. You know, back in the olden days when you had to walk a mile through the snow if you wanted to show someone a photo of your cat.

I love aimless roadtrips, whether it's a vacation or a spontaneous escape where you end up in Beloit at 4 a.m. for no good reason. For decades, I would do this not just without Facebook, but without a cell phone altogether. I couldn't IMAGINE such a thing today. It seems completely insane and unsafe to travel even yards from your house without your phone. 

The other day, I went to work and forgot my phone on the kitchen counter. I could barely focus. Even though my phone seldom leaves my pocket when I'm at work, I couldn't stop thinking about it. On my first break, I had to run home and get it. Without it, I felt like a contestant on a reality survivalist show. 

I used to happily go about my business without a portable Facebook machine in my pocket. No one ever saw photos of my cats. I never felt the need to take glamour shots of my dinner. Twenty years later, we now live in a reality where Facebook and Instagram go down for an single afternoon and it makes national news. It was touch-and-go for a bit, but I somehow made it through the afternoon without a single status update from Kim Kardashian.

If I thought I had it bad, imagine my poor uncle down in Alabama. Somehow, he had to go five whole hours without sharing 72 different ways that Joe Biden's destroying the country. He spent an entire afternoon unable to call me a mask-wearing Communist snowflake even once. That poor guy.  

Don't get me wrong, I'm not anti-Facebook. I spend a ton of time on social media. I like silly memes, hearing from friends, and seeing the cool kids from my high school slowly turning old, fat, and bald. Sure, there's bad facets to social media, but blaming Facebook for its content would be like blaming the postal service whenever an annoying offer to extend my car's warranty shows up in the mail. 

I like Facebook just fine, but I don't think a five hour outage should "disrupt your life" in any meaningful way unless your last name's Zuckerberg. We're now 1.5 years into a pandemic that made us hide in our homes. We should be old hats at life disruptions by now.

If Facebook crashes again, I think I'll be okay. You see, I learned something Monday. You know that portable Facebook machine in your pocket? It turns out you can use that same machine to punch in some numbers and CALL those same friends and talk to them with that eating-hole thingamajig below your nose. I call it Facemouth.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to ring up 172 people and describe my cats to them in great detail. 

   

COLUMN: Graphology

Whenever a new colleague starts up in the office, I can usually expect to hear two general comments within the first week:

(1) "Can you turn your music down a little?" 

and

(2) "Your handwriting is freakishly neat."

I've always been strangely proud of my handwriting. It might be the only aspect of my life in which the word "neat" could ever be applied. But it didn't happen by accident. I was bullied into it by my own brain.

When I was a kid, I used to beg to go to the library. Just being in that building made me feel smarter. I'd hit up the new sci-fi arrivals, grab any humor book I could find, and spend a ridiculous amount of time in the paranormal/pseudoscience stacks, convincing myself that ghosts were real, houses in Amityville were oozing blood, and two sticks in your hand could magically point you towards gold. Life was fun in those days.

It was during one of those trips to the nonsense corridor of the Dewey Decimal System that I first became entranced by graphology -- the science of handwriting analysis. I suppose "science" here needs to be in quotes, because graphology's scientific attributes are sketchy at best. Still, I'm a firm believer. I poured myself that particular glass of Kool-Aid in junior high, and I still drink from it today. 

Graphology asserts that your handwriting is a window to your personality. Something as simple as a signature can paint your entire psychologicial profile. 

Most of us learn to write from identical tutorials. But somewhere along the way, each of us develops a slightly different writing style. You can probably recognize the handwriting of your family, friends, and co-workers -- everyone's is unique. Graphology claims the uniqueness of our handwriting is a direct reflection of our unique personalities.

Some of it seems like common sense. If a person writes with harsh and bold pen strokes, it's a likely indicator that they're angry or aggressive. Conversely, shy and timid people tend to write smaller, tighter, and lighter. If you're hurried or a fast thinker, you might forget to dot your i's. If you're an extrovert, you might tend to sign your John Hancock like, well, John Hancock.

But graphology dives WAY deeper than that. If you buy into it, naturally funny people use more wavy horizontal lines in their writing. Imaginative people have more disconnected letters in their cursive flow. The more your handwriting slants to the right, the more emotional you are. There's supposedly a million different tells in a person's handwriting, from the way you cross your t's to the way you balance your pen strokes.

I consumed everything our library had on graphology and fancied myself a young expert. At school, I loved when we had to grade each other's papers -- I was more concerned with studying the penmanship of my fellow students. My handwriting analysis was often spot-on. The bully in our class had every tell-tale indicator of brutality in his writing style, the teacher's pet used large capital letters indicative of wild ambition, and the artsy kid used long flourishing loops. 

Then there was that one kid who shall remain nameless. He was an unassuming guy who kept to himself. But I'll never forget the first time I saw his handwriting. Deformed letters, tall vertical loops, differential spacing between words, and a radical left-leaning slant to his script. Graphology left no doubt: he was psychotic. I sat next to that kid for years, convinced he was a lunatic, just waiting for him to snap. I have no idea what became of him. He might be a well-adjusted middle-aged man now. Or he might be the Zodiac Killer.

As for me? That was the biggest disappointment of all. I didn't hesitate to analyze my OWN handwriting, and discovered I was, by graphology standards, wholly unremarkable. My handwriting was average and boring. Yuck. So instead of trying to figure out what kind of person I was from my handwriting, I instead tried to change my handwriting to match the person I wanted to be: an artistic, creative free-thinker. Overnight, I started adding huge loops and swirls to my writing in hopes of spinning myself into a superstar.

Instead, it just looked silly. Out of frustration, I vowed then and there to stop writing in cursive altogether. My cursive may have been average and sloppy, but to my surprise, when I printed the words, they were super neat and tidy. Without me trying, I suddenly became The Guy With Freakishly Neat Handwriting, all because I was pouting over a book that told me I wasn't creative.

In today's digital age, we're losing the art of handwriting entirely. Some schools have even stopped teaching cursive altogether. Maybe one day, cursive will be a thing of the past, which also means we'll lose the art of studying that cursive to see if you're a homicidal maniac. Bad news for graphology fans, but I suppose good news for any aspiring psychopaths out there.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work. Yes, I'll turn my music down.     

COLUMN: Van Meter Visitor

2021 has been a year of challenges: life in a pandemic, trouble in the Middle East, political divides, racial strife, you name it.

I just wasn't expecting to add NINE-FOOT TALL BAT MONSTER to the list. But honestly, given the year we're having, it kinda tracks.

I'm a sucker for any good paranormal show on TV. Heck, I'm a sucker for the bad ones, too. I can waste hours contentedly watching people chase ghosts, UFOs, Bigfeet, and any number of things that go bump in the night. Life can get a little boring without some magic now and again. When it comes to chasing the unexplained, I'm all in.

There's endless paranormal shows out there, and they all tend to follow the same formula. Someone reports seeing something scary. A crack team of investigators descends upon the scene with a van full of high-tech gadgets, which they will carefully employ in order to find... nothing. But they'll find that nothing in the scariest and most needlessly dangerous of ways.

"What's that? You saw a UFO hovering above these very woods just eight months ago? Well, we'd better rappel into this cave at 3 a.m. on a foggy moonless night and check it out. You know, for aliens and stuff."

At the end of the show, one investigator will usually conclude the legend is false, while another will offer some grainy video footage or a bone that supposedly proves the location is most definitely haunted by alien goat creatures or whatever. It's ridiculous, but if one of these shows pops on my screen, I watch with bated breath thinking it might just be the episode where they finally film an alien turning a cow inside out (as aliens are wont to do.)

This explains why I found myself last weekend watching the latest episode of "Expedition X," which is a spin-off of "Expedition Unknown," which is itself a reworking of "Destination Truth," and I know all of this because I've sat through every episode of these ridiculously wonderful shows. I'm jealous I don't live anywhere where there's legendary bogeymen. 

Or so I thought.

This episode started off like always. The team has been called to investigate the legend of the Van Meter Visitor, a giant bat-like creature reported to have terrorized a small town in 1903. "And now," the show said, "new sightings have been reported. Has the Van Meter Visitor returned?"

"Sweet," I said to myself as I dunked a chip in some salsa -- a chip I would choke on roughly two seconds later as the announcer returned.

"We begin with a recent sighting in the nearby town... of IOWA CITY."

WAIT, WHAT?  Van Meter is in IOWA? The bat monster is in our backyard? SHUT THE FRONT DOOR.

As it turns out, Van Meter IS in Iowa, but it's far from what I'd call "nearby" to Iowa City. It's actually southwest of Des Moines. Van Meter is known for two things: it's the home of baseball Hall of Famer Bob Feller, and it's also the home of a 9' winged bat-monster that terrified townsfolk in the fall of 1903. The creature was sighted by several reputable citizens of Van Meter, who did what any reputable citizen would naturally do: they shot it. Repeatedly. Turns out our winged bat buddy is bulletproof. As the old newspaper clippings tell, the creature smelled foul and stalked the citizens of Van Meter for four days, until a posse of townsfolk cornered it in an abandoned coal mine, which they sealed off forever... OR DID THEY?

According to "Expedition X," an Iowa City college student and his girlfriend recently came face to face with a similar monster at a local park -- and he MUST be telling the truth, because he got the monster tattooed on his arm as a permanent reminder of his ghastly encounter. Awesome.

Other than the dude's arm, I've now seen two illustrations of the Van Meter Visitor, and I'm sold. In the first, which I think dates back to the original 1903 news story, it's depicted as a total Game-of-Thrones-style dragon, flying off into the distance WITH A FULLY GROWN HORSE IN ITS MOUTH. In the second, it's depicted as looking kinda like Charizard from Pokemon, but with lasers shooting out of its forehead.

Oh, I'm sorry, did I forget to mention that part? It's a flying bulletproof horse-eating bat monster THAT SHOOTS LASERS FROM ITS SKULL. Not only do we have a cryptid in our 'hood, we might have the best one of all time. Bigfoot can't fly. The Loch Ness Monster isn't bulletproof. Not even Godzilla can shoot laser beams from its skull. Score one for the locals!

"This thing looks like a Pokemon," I texted my friend Jason.

"Maybe Pokemon just exists to desensitize children to the horrors of the world," he replied.

"If so, they did a great job of it," I texted back. "Maybe every time we drive to Iowa City, we're just ignoring the laser dragons flying off with horses."

Driving around rural Iowa for no good reason is, like, my third favorite pasttime. There's barely a back road I haven't been on at some point. I've seen a lot of weird stuff, but you'd think I'd remember a nine foot horse-eating bulletproof laser bat-dragon. Maybe not. Maybe there was a good song on the radio at the time or something.

If you want to hunt the monster yourself, I'd recommend the Van Meter Visitor Festival -- which just happens to be this weekend, and features walking tours, vendors, and cryptid experts from all over the country. Maybe they can figure out a way to trap it in another coal mine. We might not be able to shoot it, but never underestimate Iowan ingenuity - if we put our heads together, I guarantee we can figure out a way to deep fry that sucker and sell it on a stick with a lemon shake-up.

COLUMN: Gen X Crossroads

I need to talk to my fellow Gen-X'ers for a minute.

Never did I think I'd say those words. I've never bought into the stereotypes of the generation gap. The differences are there, I suppose. But I've never considered myself part of the Gen-X club.

I think I stopped maturing in college. I don't care what the calendar, my grey hairs, or my waistline have to say about it. I'm pretty sure my brain still thinks it's 1990, just with WAY worse music and more bills. I still have nightmares that I've overslept for my final exams and haven't studied. There's a good portion of my noggin that steadfastly refuses to believe I'm an adult.

But this week, my age may have caught up to me a little bit. I fear I've entered a Gen-X technological crossroads.

As you may know, for the better part of the past year, our local cable company has been in the world's lamest game of chicken with one of our local TV stations. Contract renewal talks didn't go so well, and as a result, our local ABC affiliate has been "temporarily" dropped from our cable lineup. 

Stand-offs like this aren't uncommon. It's a frequent tactic in contract negotiations between cable companies and affiliate owners. If the two parties hit a brick wall and can't reach an agreement before deadline, the station gets blacked out on the cable line-up. This usually causes immediate public outcry and in short time brings both parties back to the bargaining table until they can hammer out a new deal.

This time, however, I think somebody got lost on the way to the bargaining table. This particular staredown started back in December. I haven't seen a single ABC show yet in 2021, and that's a bummer.

Don't ask me to pick sides, because I won't. Back in January, the owners of our local ABC affiliate claimed the cable company "refused to reach a fair, market-based agreement." Meanwhile, when you call the cable company to complain, you're greeted with a looped recording saying they're "OUTRAGED" by the station "pressuring us to raise the amount of money we collect from hard-working customers like you."

Who's to blame? I have no clue, and I honestly don't care. I just want 'em to put on their big boy pants and hash it out. It's bad enough I willingly hand over a disturbing percentage of my annual income just to watch people play-act on a picture box in my living room. But if I'm going to pay a king's ransom every month, I'd at least like to be able to watch shows like... like... okay, I'm not even sure what's even ON ABC any more, but I bet I could waste some quality time in front of it regardless.

So I decided to take matters into my own hands. We as a society existed for decades without needing cable television. I even have vague memories of what that was like. I needed to go old school. I needed -- rabbit ears.

Here's where I hit the Gen-X crossroads. I feel like our generation may have reached an era where we're too old for new technology, but too young for old technology.

A couple years ago, I got suckered into buying one of those curved flatscreen TVs with 3D capability that was amazing for the two days after I bought it and I'm pretty sure I've never used the 3D mode since. Still, it's a decent TV and has everything I need -- except any kind of obvious plug-in for a set of vintage rabbit ears. And it would be really stupid looking to have this futuristic TV on my wall with a rinky-dink antenna jutting out of it.

Still, I'd put up with a rinky-dink if it meant sticking it to The Man, so the other day, I got up, got dressed, and set off to Radio Shack to buy some rabbit-ears. Until, that is, I realized there are no Radio Shacks left in town. This is sad. Future generations will never know the joy of that stupid yapping robot dog they always had on display, or spending 20 minutes trying to find the right adapters to hook six hi-fi's together in an ill-fated attempt to make a MEGA-STEREO in your friend Mark's basement.

I'm too old for the new school, but too modern for the old school. I don't even know where one buys rabbit ears in a Shack-less society. I ordered a pair online -- and yep, the package got stolen right off the porch. I ordered a second set and had them sent to work, but the doohicky on the end definitely doesn't match the doohicky on the back of my TV. I give up.

So before I get old and feeble and start complaining about the weather making my bones ache: I beg of you, Tegna and Mediacom, sit down and work this out. It's getting old. Until then, I guess I'll have to make do with my other 246 channels and 9 different streaming services. Somehow, some way, I'll figure out a way to perservere. After all, I'm Gen-X -- it's what we do.

COLUMN: The Vast of Night

In a year when you can barely read the headlines without openly grimacing, I've decided it's best to stop wasting blood pressure spikes on hot-button topics our society will never agree on. Instead, I'm trying to direct my ire needlessly onto mundane pet peeves that drive me into silent fury.

I've got a new favorite gripe.

Is there nothing worse than watching a REALLY great movie and wanting to talk to everyone you know about said movie, except none of those people have SEEN said movie? I saw a flick this week that was super cool, but the only other viewers I know who've seen it are my cats, and they didn't seem quite as impressed.

Well, there's one other person who's seen it -- my best friend. He's the one who recommended I watch it. He enjoys weird esoteric indie films that no one's ever heard of. He's into highbrow black-and-white dramatic think-pieces. That's usually not my kind of movie. Watching a two-hour flick where someone slowly succumbs to alcoholism or discusses philosophy over dinner isn't exactly my idea of entertainment. 

I have what you might call "questionable" taste when it comes to movies. I own "From Justin to Kelly" and "Spice World" on DVD. I've sat through every Adam Sandler flick. I can recite full lines of dialogue from "Mega Python vs. Gatoroid." When it comes to cinema, I have little depth.

But my friend told me I would love "The Vast of Night," and he was not wrong.

If you haven't seen it, it's on Amazon Prime and definitely worth a stream. It might be a small-budget indie film, but it's a remarkable directorial debut for filmmaker Andrew Patterson and shoves you head-first into a world you don't want to leave.

That world, specifically, is a small town in 1950's New Mexico. No spoilers, but the whole film happens in real time and involves a late-night radio DJ, a telephone switchboard operator, some amazing cinematography, acting triumphs by a virtually unknown cast -- and maybe a UFO or two.

"The Vast of Night" doesn't just make me yearn to discuss the movie with friends. It makes me want to be in New Mexico -- or at least the New Mexico of the 1950s. And it definitely makes me want to see a UFO, like, right now.

Okay, maybe not RIGHT now. Right now I'm alone in my house. If a UFO came down this very second to say hi, I'd probably pee my pants and have a heart attack. Seeing a UFO by yourself is sheer terror. But if there's one thing movies have taught us, it's that seeing UFOs with friends, especially if you're in a small town, is usually an exciting adventure. That's what I want: a weird light in the sky, maybe a spirited car chase, and a chance to ponder the nature of human existence while staring at the stars with some close friends.

I don't think it's too much to ask for. It's not a stretch to imagine life existing on other planets. The universe is REALLY big. It seems pretty conceited to think we're the only dot in the sky with a tadpole plucky enough to grow legs and step out of the mire. BUT the odds of another planet developing INTELLIGENT life is a tougher pill to swallow, let alone life intelligent enough to develop interstellar space travel. 

If there IS life out there, it's probably going to end up being a planet full of angry space cicadas or something. And even if there's intelligent life out there, they're probably only capable of seeing our sun as a dot in the sky like we see theirs. Maybe somewhere out there, there's a cicada monster lying on his back right now (do cicadas have backs?) staring at the night sky wondering if there's life outside Planet Cicadus and fearful the aliens will be fleshy monsters with only 2 arms, 2 legs, and 2 eyes. 

I don't think I have the steely constitution it would take to actually meet a sentient alien, and I don't know if I'd ever want to. They're probably not friendly. Remember: there's a big difference between an alien inviting you TO dinner and inviting you FOR dinner. I prefer my aliens to be the weird-light-in-the-sky variety, NOT the sharp-fanged, lay-eggs-in-your-belly variety. 

All I know is that it's unfair. I've been on countless moonlit drives in the country on countless gravel roads that would make a SPECTACULAR setting for a close encounter, and the best I've seen are some meteors, a comet or two, and a few lucky glimpes of the International Space Station whizzing overhead at umpteen thousand miles an hour.

So, my alien friends, if you're out there reading this, feel free to do a flyover anytime you fancy. And if you're nice and a vegetarian NOT hungry for my flesh, feel free to stop by. I've got a movie you should TOTALLY check out.   

COLUMN: Silent Disco

I recently had an unsettling high school flashback.

Last weekend was Davenport's Alternating Currents, a marathon of music and art and theatre and one of the best festivals I've experienced in the Quad Cities. The organizers should be commended, and I swear I'm not just saying that because I was a part of it.

One of the features this year was a silent disco on the downtown Skybridge. It's a trendy new fad: a dance night soundtracked to absolute silence. Instead of being greeted by thumping bass beats, attendees are given a pair of headphones. Three DJs blare jams simultaneously through a wireless transmitter, and you tune your headphones to the DJ of your choice.

It's a novel way to enjoy dancing with your friends without having to scream over the music, plus it's kinda fun to see dozens of people dancing in a silent room. Gratefully, I was asked to be one of the tunesmiths this past weekend.

Each DJ could pick a different genre. They already had one guy mixing uptempo house music, and Planet 93.9 was there to provide alternative rock. I decided to throw caution to the wind and come armed with a set of 80's pop and new wave nostalgia. It's the music I grew up with, so why not? We had NO idea who was going to show up. We had no idea if ANYONE was going to show up.

It ended up being fairly packed, which was fantastic. EXCEPT it was packed with younger folks who mostly gravitated to the other DJs and looked at me with disdain like I was DJ Grandpa from Planet Yesteryear. Honestly, though, who could blame them? It's been FORTY YEARS since new wave was even a thing. When I was in high school, if I'd have gone to a dance and the DJ was bumping Glenn Miller, I'd have looked at him with disdain, too. There's just as much time difference between me and Glenn Miller as there is between today's kids and Cyndi Lauper. Time is a weird thing.

Thankfully, though, I had a small but magnificent crowd of 80s fans rocking out with me to New Kids on the Block and Duran Duran, and it ended up the most fun gig I've had in a long time. But the whole thing definitely made me laugh. Every time some kid walked by sneering at me, I felt like I was right back in high school (and the fact that it was being soundtracked to The Safety Dance and Electric Avenue probably didn't help matters.)

It made me think about those awkward days -- being SO desperate to fit in, SO careful to listen to the right music, SO concerned with wearing the right clothes. If I had to re-live those days, I'd either lose my mind or become the weirdo loner in the corner, doing my own thing and not caring one iota about what anyone else thought. If it were The Breakfast Club, I'd totally be Ally Sheedy.

Do kids today have the same sort of cliques we used to have? I'm inclined to think it MUST be different.

When I was in high school, cliques were everything. Even something as simple as your taste in music could define an entire caste system in our cafeteria. There was a table full of metalheads, a table of wannabe rappers, a table full of goth and punk kids. There was a jock table, a cheerleader table, a table full of nerds and a table full of theater kids. Navigating the social hierarchy practically required a map.

Then there was me. I was desperate to fit in with ALL of them, which thusly meant I fit in with NONE of them. I loved theatre, but I wasn't a great actor. I was a huge nerd, but I was terrible at video games. I loved goth music, but I also loved The Beatles and Run-DMC. And let's be honest, my mom pretty much dictated all my fashion choices, which was probably a good thing considering some of the choices in my present-day wardrobe. 

In the least creepy way possible, I'd love to be a fly on the wall at a high school cafeteria today just to see what it's like. While I'm sure there are still cliques, I don't think they're as defined as they were back in my day. I spend an unhealthy amount of my free time in record stores, and I see what kids bring to the counter. Just today, I saw a school-aged kid buy 3 albums: Judas Priest, Billie Eilish, and ABBA. Where were these people when I was in high school? 

My guess is it's all thanks to the internet. With the advent of the information superhighway, you don't need to carefully choose what album to spend your allowance on. For a monthly fee, you can now have access to nearly every song, movie, and TV show ever made. You don't have to drive to Chicago to experience goth culture. You can just say, "Hey Siri, play Bauhaus." Kids today have it easy.

I'm the last person to give advice to today's youth. For the most part, I sucked at it. But if I had a do-over, I wouldn't change a thing. There's nothing better than finding like-minded people who dig the same stuff as you -- but you shouldn't ever like something just because you want to fit in. Listen and watch whatever you want. Trust me, when you get older, NONE of it will matter. 

In the meantime, there's already rumors we haven't seen the last silent Skybridge dance party. Hopefully they invite me back. Maybe next time I'll dust off some disco records and get even weirder looks. 

COLUMN: Backwater Gamblers

Quad Cities, I am finally one of you.

Okay, so I've been one of you for a long time since moving here for college in 1988. But even if you've lived here for decades, there's a few things you need to check off your bucket list before you can officially declare yourself a true Quad Citian.

You need to have a Magic Mountain at midnight at Ross' Restaurant. You need to ride the Channel Cat. You need to cheer on the Bandits at Modern Woodmen Park. You should probably have filled at least one sandbag in your life. You need to hear Taps waft out from the Arsenal at dark. You need to experience the rush of adrenaline that can only come from having spotted Paula Sands in the wild. 

And until last week, there was one important rite of passage I'd yet to cross off my QC bucket list. It's finally done.

I went to a Backwater Gamblers show.

I shouldn't have to tell ANYONE here about the Backwater Gamblers. If you're from the Quad Cities, you should already know that we have one of the best nationally-recognized water ski teams around. In fact, we have the FIFTH-BEST team in the whole country, according to the 2021 Show Ski National Championships, which is a thing that apparently exists. And every Wednesday and Sunday from Memorial Day to Labor Day, they're out there on the Rock River, putting on a free show for anyone who turns up.

Last week, I turned up.

Why had I never done this before? The most I'd ever seen of the Gamblers were pictures and a few lucky glimpses of practice sessions. When you drive over the Rock and look downriver, you might expect to see a boat or some pelicans. But every once in a while, you spot a human pyramid on water skis and go, "Hmm, don't see THAT every day."

Why have I never gone to one of their shows before now? I'm kicking myself. It was a solid hoot.

As far as I'm concerned, what they do is next to impossible. I can't even swim. A full year of lessons and my proudest accomplishment in the pool was kicking to the deep end while openly sobbing and clutching one of those floaty paddleboard thingys for dear life. I am not cut out for aquatics, unless they one day start handing out medals for speed sinking.

I barely comprehend how people can even swim, let alone strap a piece of wood on their feet and go river-surfing. I have no earthly idea how one stays upright on water skis. But to then take said skis up a ramp, do a backflip, and somehow land without ripping your legs clean off your body? It's just magic to me.

But the skiing feats weren't half as great as the corny scripted comedy. You can't just send people on skis over ramps for an hour straight. Even superheroes need a quick breather. So while the team sets up for their next sequence of tricks, the rest of the Gamblers act out a kitschy Old West storyline full of cheeseball chuckles that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and wonderful at the same time. My kudos to the writers.

It kinda makes me wanna be one.

Now that I think about it, I'm hard-pressed to think of a story that WOULDN'T be bettered by water skiers forming a human pyramid in the middle of the plot. I vote we merge the worlds of local theatre and local competitive water ski performance teams into a dramatic juggernaut of epic proportions.

We could have slapstick comedy on the weekends and cutting edge ski-dramas during the week. We could create "As The Water Churns," the world's only aquatic soap opera with new plot twists daily. We could re-enact historical dramas -- imagine how much more kids would dig history if Thomas Jefferson signed the Declaration of Independence while doing a backwards barefoot flip turn.

I attended the show with a few of my closest friends. Halfway through, I turned and said, "Oh man, what I wouldn't give to write the scripts for these shows. We could have a --"

"Why?" interrupted my friend Reid. "It's absolutely perfect the way it is."

He's right. There's a reason the Backwater Gamblers are a cherished institution in town. It's like the water-skiing equivalent of a bear hug. If you haven't been in a while, I highly recommend crossing the Gamblers off your bucket list before the season's up. Have a Kona Ice, laugh and groan, and watch people strap sticks to their feet and defy gravity.

It's the best way I've spent a Wednesday in quite a while. Finally, I feel like a Quad Citian.