COLUMN: Weekend From Hell, Pt. 1

Good columnists usually have a purpose to their writing. Opinions they wish to convey, points they'd like to make, reasons for putting pen to paper. It's a good thing I'm not a good columnist.

Sometimes writing these weekly missives is little more than stress relief, a necessary means to exorcise the past week and purge those memories from my skull. This is one of those times. If you're looking to grow as a person or learn a valuable life lesson, pick a different article. Forgive me, but I just need to whine about my weekend. There are good weekends, there are bad weekends... and then there are SHANE weekends. Set phasers to "complain," Captain Kirk. 

I suppose it all started on Friday. Thanks to the pandemic, I've been getting to know the room I normally pass through on the way to more exciting rooms: my kitchen. After cooking at home far more than usual, I'm getting irked at the lack of storage space in my kitchen. Truth is, I have a ton of cabinets in there - they're just jam-packed with silly stuff I never use. The other day, I had to pull out seven items just to get to my one lonely saucepan. I recently gave up after fifteen minutes of searching for a cutting board I definitely own but couldn't find.

Not once did it dawn on me that perhaps I could reorganize and get rid of some of this junk I never use. When the thought finally crossed my mind last week, it was a revelation. For instance, I have a full tea service in my cabinet. I don't drink tea. I have a mug that says "I Still Look Sexy at 40," which is a SUPER important thing to have because (a) I often rely on tableware to validate my sexual self-confidence, and (b) I'm 50.

On a mission, I walked into the kitchen, opened all my cabinets, and set to work. And by "set to work," I looked at things for 30 seconds, realized I had no idea how to even begin, and promptly gave up. Thankfully, I have a friend who thrives on organization, so I called her to see if she might be willing to help.

"I've dreamt of this day," she said. "I'll be over in ten minutes."

I sort of expected she'd have a system to help free my kitchen of clutter and magically make everything better. And she did. Her system was to empty the contents of every cabinet into an ungodly pile on the kitchen floor. We were at it until 1 a.m. And by we, I mean her. My job was essentially to stand there and argue why I didn't want to throw away a set of cheap wine glasses embossed with the logo of a local home improvement company.

"What if I want to impress a girl one day?" I pleaded.

"No girl will be impressed by wine that offers a 20% discount on windows and siding," she explained while tossing them.

So my Friday was spent top-billed in my very own episode of "Hoarders," which was just swell. We ended up with several boxes for Goodwill and my basement. Best of all, I finally found that cutting board.

NOT best of all? I also found, high atop the refrigerator, a half-eaten cherry pie from 2016 -- or at least the plant-like creation that half-eaten cherry pies spawn into after a half-decade atop one's fridge. It was up there next to a solidified honey bear and the owner's manual from the car I sold seven years ago.

Also: I apparently own FOUR jars of garlic powder. Every time I've ever said to myself, "Ooh, I need garlic powder," I most certainly did NOT. I am now ready and armed to fend off an army of vampires, or at least ensure I will never be kissed again. Also: what is "summer savory?" Does it perchance become MORE savory over multiple summers? I'm pretty sure I purchased it in 1992, when I graduated college and decided that adulting meant owning spices, and we all know how crucial summer savory is to most recipes.   

With my kitchen back to some semblance of order, my friend (thank you, Dianna!) left somewhere around 2 a.m. and I made it to bed a while later, eager for a full night's sleep.

I settled for three hours. At 6:07 a.m., for no reason whatsoever, my smoke detector went off. Not in a you-need-to-change-the-battery kinda way. This was most definitely a YOUR-HOUSE-IS-ON-FIRE-YOU-BETTER-RUN alarm. So imagine, if you will, stumbling half-naked into your living room in an incoherent haze of confusion and adrenaline, when suddenly a voice over your shoulder says, "Mr. Brown?"

I straight up screamed.

My smoke detector is hooked up to my security system. When something goes off, it alerts someone in a monitoring center in who-knows-where, and suddenly that person was talking to me through my alarm system's speakerphone. "Mr. Brown, do I need to send fire response?"

"Ummmmm," I said, still looking for a fire. "I have no idea. I don't think so. But I don't know. I'm asleep. Kinda. Hang on."

I ran around the house, ready to stop-drop-and-roll at a moment's notice. I even ran outside through the snow to check the perimeter. There was no fire.

"I think we're good," I told the spectral voice haunting my living room.

"I will cancel the alarm," she reponded. "I just need your password."

Seriously? I have umpteen passwords for umpteen devices, and you're expecting me to play memory games on three hours sleep, 43 seconds of consciousness, and a battery-powered nightmare machine on the ceiling trying its best to shatter my eardrums? 

I just started yelling potential passwords into the open air, hoping and praying I was picking the right one.

My fifth attempt proved accurate. That's how my weekend kicked off. Me, half-naked in my living room, playing Password with a disembodied voice while my house may or may not have been burning down.

I have no clue why the smoke detector issued a false alarm. The troubleshooting manual says false alarms are most often associated with (a) cooking misadventures, (b) steam from showers, or (c) "less common: bugs in and around your sensor." My cats looked suspicious, but none were wearing chef's hats or shower caps. So hooray, my house wasn't on fire. I just, umm, have bugs? Yay.

I'd like to tell you things got better from there. Sadly, it was just the opening act of the weekend from hell. More next week.

COLUMN: Whee Doggie

If there's a silver lining to be found in this pandemic, it's that isolation and quarantine can often be educational. Every day, I'm learning something new.

For instance, this week I learned there really IS such a thing as 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Until now, I honestly wasn't sure if Saturday HAD mornings.

I've spent the last 30 years moonlighting as a DJ at dance clubs and parties. On most weekends, I'm lucky to make it to bed before sunrise and wake up at the crack of noon. But thanks to the party-pooping pandemic, I'm not jockeying too many discs these days. As a result, I've found myself keeping the same sleep schedule on the weekends as I do during the week. Can't say I'm a fan.

What do people DO at 6 a.m. on the weekends other than sleep? I'm not sure I've figured it out. But this weekend, I saw something I'd never experienced before.

By and large, I am NOT a sports enthusiast. I was always the last guy picked in gym class, I've never found bowls to be particularly super, and I'm the only person I know whose college transcript contains a P.E. credit for "Independent Study Walking." But for reasons I can't begin to explain, I love NASCAR. I've tried to hate it, I swear. I'm fully aware that NASCAR culture stands in direct opposition to, well, everything else about me. But I've long come to terms with my secret shame. I like to watch cars go around in circles. Sue me.

Last weekend was the kickoff to the 2021 NASCAR season, so when I went to bed on Friday night, my TV was still tuned to Daytona coverage. But when I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday, the sports channel wasn't showing action on the track. It was showing considerably less action -- on the water.

I had accidentally tuned into live coverage of a bass fishing tournament. And for two of the weirdest hours of my life, I watched it.

I've never understood the "sport" of fishing. I appreciate that getting out in nature can be zen and tranquil and relaxing. I sometimes enjoy nature, too. I've just never thought, "You know what would make this nature better? If I could kill some of it." (Except wasps. Nature would be lots better with more dead wasps. If ESPN aired a wasp-killing tournament every Saturday morning, I'd set my alarm to watch.)

Now, before the greater fishing community of the bi-state area gathers their pitchforks and demands my head on a fish taco, I know I'm being hypocritical. You can't take me seriously when I have a fridge full of tuna steaks and salmon patties. Fish are tasty, and if catching them is your bag, don't let me stop you. Fish away. Just don't get upset when I don't tag along.

Begrudgingly, I accept fishing as a hobby -- but waking up early on a Saturday morning to watch OTHERS fish on TV in real time? That's where I draw the line. And the rod. And the reel. 

My worry was that a televised bass-fishing tournament would be nothing but people floating around on boats in stoic silence. After watching the riveting action for two hours, I can now tell you with some authority: Yes, that's exactly what it was.

In the first hour, one guy caught one fish. They replayed it five times. They awarded it "Replay of the Day!" It was pretty much the ONLY play of the day. 

Yet despite the lack of any action whatsoever, it didn't stop the pair of tense, hush-voiced announcers from offering crucial insight. The coverage was peppered with commentary like, "He's got a talent for knowing what's on the end of his line," and "there's a hundred thousand cypress trees lining this river, and under one of 'em, there's gonna be a spawning female. And when you find her? WHEE DOGGIE."

Whee doggie, indeed. The competition was intense. At one point, a guy named Gary caught a fish that weighed 4 ounces less than the one caught by a guy named Bryan. But Gary was fishing along the edges of a cypress grove, while Bryan was center lake fishing off some reeds. This was a unique strategy because it had rained earlier followed by quick sunshine, which led Bryan to believe that spawning females would naturally migrate towards a more --

Annnd that's when I changed the channel because I realized I was thiiiis close to finding a tiny element of bass fishing interesting.

But the true excitement came during a commercial break, when I discovered that thankfully, there's still time to enter a draft for the 2021 bass fishing FANTASY LEAGUE. That's right, you can draft a fantasy team of your favorite real-life bassmasters and vicariously live the excitement of standing motionless in a boat for hours. No offense to the world of pro bass fishing, but I just assumed these tournaments were held on a Saturday so these guys could get back to their day jobs on Monday.

Here's where I got my REAL pandemic education of the day: Bryan ended up beating Gary and won the tournament. His total tourney haul of 79 lbs., 7 ounces netted him a take-home of $101,000. I can crack snide jokes about fishing all the live-long day, but no one's ever handed me $101,000 to DJ a party, even though I'm pretty sure I could rock a dancefloor better than Gary OR Bryan.

So here's to you, competitive bassmasters of the world, and any of you weirdos who wake up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday to watch them. Now if you'll excuse me, I have fish sticks to get in the oven. It's almost time for my fantasy league draft. I call dibs on Bryan. Whee doggie.

COLUMN: Live on Patrol

I've spent most of the winter stuck at home enjoying a fun menu of health issues, which has been just swell. And when you're spending most days in the same room on the same couch convinced you're dying, you start to go a little stir-crazy. I've spent months looking for an escape to take my mind off winter, the pandemic, and the fluctuating state of my colon.

I just never thought I'd be escaping vicariously to St. Paul, Minnesota every weekend.

I'm a sucker for Youtube. I usually try to avoid it, because here's what happens:

"Hmm, I'm feeling like a casserole for dinner. Maybe there's a good recipe on Youtube. I'll just log on and type: C-A-S-S... oh, whoa. A live clip of Cass Elliot? I should totally watch that..."

Three hours, the Cass Elliott clip has led to a 10-minute video about the song "Leaving on a Jet Plane," which in turn led to six videos on aviation disasters, which led to a guy documenting his flight from New Jersey to Singapore, which led to a 20-minute cycling travelogue of Singapore, which led to a video on mountain biking, which led to a video diary of a guy climbing Everest, and so on and so on.  

 Next thing you know, I've lost an entire evening with little gained except the knowledge that (a) mountain climbing is a ridiculous hobby, and (b) Bugis Street is the best place to go for authentic yu wan mee pok next time you're strutting around Singapore with a hankering for fish balls. Good to know.

But one of those endless Youtube rabbit-holes led me to this winter's saving grace: Sheriff Bob Fletcher and his buddy Pat.

Unless you're younger than six months old (and if you ARE, congrats on your reading skills,) you know there's been much controversy when it comes to our nation's police. Several high profile incidents of excessive police force have led to civil unrest, protests, and some much-needed discourse on the role of law enforcement in our country.

It also caused two of my guiltiest pleasures -- "Cops" and "Live P.D." -- to leave the airwaves. When you're having a bad day, sometimes there's nothing better than watching other people have WORSE days. Intellectually, I know the cancellations were merited - police reality shows do nothing to alleviate stereotypes, and even if some criminal's an idiot, they probably don't deserve their worst day to be nationally telecast. But darnit if those shows weren't entertaining as all get out, and I miss their presence on TV.

But then I discovered Bob and Pat. Bob Fletcher is the sheriff of Ramsey County, Minnesota -- otherwise known as St. Paul and some other towns less interesting than St. Paul. When Sheriff Bob saw cops getting a bad rap, he decided to take it upon himself to remedy the situation and educate the public about the routine lives and responsibilities of your average officer.

So every Friday night, Sheriff Bob goes "Live on Patrol" -- and takes us with. He streams his entire shift on Youtube, start to finish. Bob does the driving, and his buddy Pat (a data analyst and retired cop) rides shotgun and mans the camera. And by camera, I mean a cellphone. 

The result is pure Minnesota magic. If you're looking for a white-knuckle thrillride, keep surfing. Over the course of an entire shift, Bob and Pat seldom leave their squad car -- except for gas-station corn dogs and soda. 

Have you ever watched Brooklyn Nine-Nine? Imagine if Hitchcock & Scully had their own TV show and you'd be close. What bills itself as a police patrol turns into hours of aimless banter that runs the gamut from gossip to sports to casual discussions about serial killers and carjackings, occasionally interrupted when rolling up on people with a jovial shout of "What's goin' on?" When the duo DOES respond to an actual police call, it's mostly them sitting in their car serving as a backup unit narrating the action. Most of their nights are spent looking aimlessly for stolen vehicles -- I've yet to see them find one. 

I'm a "Live on Patrol" superfan, and I'm not the only one. People are tuning into Pat & Bob by the thousands. Viewers in St. Paul watch for the squad car heading their way, and they race outside with sodas and gifts when the much-loved duo pass by. Watching these big-hearted crime-fighters in the big city is akin to imagining Andy Griffith taking the reins of "Law & Order: SVU." Instead of ticketing jaywalkers, Bob and Pat are more prone to buying them pizza. A random person on the street will turn out to be Bob's wife's cousin's roommate's barber. I'm pretty sure Bob knows everyone in St. Paul.

At first, I thought Sheriff Bob was kind of a yokel -- until I did some research. He's been the sheriff of Ramsey County since 1996, and a quick internet search finds him passionately and professionally defending his department, the role of police, and his livestreams. When the county board voted to slash his police budget, he sued them. When he's not telling you about his favorite hockey game from 1986, he's advocating for COVID safety and giving tips to avoid car thieves. 

Oh, and just when I thought Sheriff Bob didn't do much actual police work, I tuned in the other night to see him sporting a huge shiner. Turns out the ONE night I skipped "Live on Patrol," Sheriff Bob had to break up a domestic scuffle and ended up taking an elbow to the eye.

I've now watched "Live on Patrol" so much I seriously think I could navigate around St. Paul despite having never been there. If we make it through this winter, it might just be a worthy roadtrip come spring. If you need a small-town hug from some big-city cops, search Youtube for "Live on Patrol" archives or join in every Friday night, when the weekly livestream fittingly starts at 9:11.

It might just fix your winter blues. The only problem? I never DID find that casserole recipe, and now I'm STARVING.

COLUMN: M.I.A.

Sooo... how were YOUR holidays?

If you've been paying attention, you may have noticed the recent absence of my serene face from the weekly pages of the paper.

I'd love to tell you I was on some kind of exotic vacation, welcoming in the new year from some sandy beach while vision-questing a greater understanding of the world.

No such luck.

As it turned out, I thought it'd be swell fun to spend the winter holidays having a nervous breakdown. In hindsight, I don't especially recommend it.

Maybe it wasn't actually a nervous breakdown. I didn't get a professional diagnosis. As it turns out, not getting a diagnosis has been a recurring theme of the past few months.

I'll never be a cover star for Men's Health magazine, unless they do a cover piece on what NOT to do. I avoid doctors like the plague, especially when there really IS a plague in the air. I know they say living a sedentary life on the couch is ill-advised, but I've always argued that it cuts your risk of sports-related injuries dramatically.

I've had an iffy relationship with my gastro-intestinal tract for years now, which I'd long shrugged off as some sort of undiagnosed Crohn's / IBS / Too Much Taco Bell syndrome. But just after Halloween, some scary symptoms popped up that couldn't be ignored.

Rather than immediately consult a medical professional, I instead attempted to self-diagnose on the internet, which of course informed me of the vast menu of fatal diseases I likely had. For much of the fall and early winter, I was perfectly convinced I was on my last legs. When you're already living in a world where you're isolated and quarantined, a good solid brush with mortality does little for the psyche.

I attempted everything possible to ignore my terminal self-diagnosis. I meticulously organized my music collection. I cleaned my house from top to bottom. I threw away anything embarassing that I wouldn't want someone to find when they eventually broke down my door to dispose of my body. In hindsight, it sounds utterly ridiculous. At the time, I was completely petrified, sleeping less than two hours a night and pacing around my house like a lunatic.

Finally, I gathered what steely resolve I could possibly muster and went to the doctor. He seemed a tad less fatalistic than myself, but still agreed that I needed a delightful variety pack of assorted 'oscopies to rule out the terrifying terrors the internet insisted I was dying of. So that's the main reason I've been MIA - I've spent the past few months having FAR too many people enjoying views of the inner workings of my colon.

My first colonoscopy was incomplete because, as it turns out, I've been graced with -- let me get the exact medical phrasing I received from the doctor -- "an extremely long and floppy colon." Faaaaantastic. Apparently my colon is three times the length of a normal human's. This is NOT the superpower I've dreamt of. 

That colonoscopy led to a CT scan and a "virtual" colonoscopy -- which is "virtually" as much fun as a real colonoscopy -- which led to ANOTHER colonoscopy thanks to some suspicious narrowing showing up. My diet for the past two months has consisted mostly of water, things that taste like water, and colonoscopy prep kits that I WISH tasted like water. If you've ever had what you consider to be a poopy birthday, stop exaggerating. I spent mine this year doing colonoscopy prep, and I know the true meaning of the phrase.

The end result - no pun intended - is still up for grabs. Whatever's going on with me, my colon doesn't appear to be the culprit. I was sent home with a wing, a prayer, and some probiotics that don't seem to be doing much. Oh, and the CT scan DID reveal that I'm the expectant father of a bouncing baby kidney stone the size of a small Volkswagen, so that's next on the to-do list, I reckon.

All the while this has been going on, my mom's been having scary health issues as well. So between me, my mom, and the overall contents of the nightly news, it's been fairly easy to convince myself that life's a meaningless parade of pain and death -- a stellar mindset for someone whose usual passion is writing silly columns to make people smile.

I'm hoping one day I can look back on this and laugh it off as my Howard Hughes phase. When youre working from home, not seeing any other human beings for weeks on end, and think you're dying, things can get weird on the quick. I went almost two months without leaving the house. I stopped shaving. I basically stopped moving. But it's time I listened to Taylor Swift and shake it off.

I cracked some windows and got fresh air. I stepped outside. I stopped babbling to my cats. I reached out to friends I'd ghosted. I shaved MOST of my Unabomber beard (I couldn't resist currently wandering around my house with a 70s cop moustache because it makes me laugh every time I pass a mirror.) I'm sick and tired of acting sick and tired.

So who knows what the future holds. 2020 almost beat me -- but it didn't, and I'll take that victory for now. Six months ago, I was rolling my eyes every time I saw someone on social media talk about loneliness and being unable to survive a lockdown. Trust me, I get it now. I've spent months in a SUPER dark place, and it's high time to feel the light again. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, and for right now, I'm feeling good. I hope you are, too.