COLUMN: Wasp

I'm terrible at multi-tasking.

When my "to-do" list piles up, I prefer to check things off in order, focusing on one task at a time. That's not happening this week, and it's driving me bonkers. Multi-tasking isn't in my nature -- and nature is what put a stop to it today.

I was hoping to check a few things off that list over my lunch hour. I left the office with my mind in twelve different places. I was so focused on multi-tasking that I barely noticed it was chilly out. "Brr," I thought absent-mindedly as I rolled my window up. It was the best decision I'd made all week.

At the next stoplight, it happened. I looked to my left in just enough time to hear a tiny "thwap" as a wasp the size of Mothra smacked into the window I had JUST rolled up.

There are many things I hate in life, but few so much as wasps, bees, or any stinging insect. I'm allergic, they all CLEARLY know this, and thus they live to torment me. I am a fully grown adult male who acts like a complete ninny whenever a bee comes near me. Scratch that, ninnies surely act more rationally than me. Bees are horrible, vile creatures that need to be wiped off the map. I realize this would disrupt the food chain and likely end the human race, but it's well worth the dying knowledge that the bees were finally defeated.

But today was a rare situation. There I was, inches from the most irrational fear in my life, yet safely behind glass. Perhaps I could use this surprise opportunity to carefully study the wasp, marvel at its complex biology, and attempt to better understand and appreciate such a majestic creature. 

Or perhaps I could made a noise like "ahhhhhhtplf!" while recoiling in horror and almost rear-ending the car in front of me. Who's to say for certain?

"You ARE the weakest link, goodbye!" I yelled as the light turned green and I drove off. But my new friend didn't leave. He clung to that window, staring me down with his beady little wasp eyes. I thought he'd fly off at the next light. Instead, he started banging his blood-thirsty head against the glass Jackie Chan-style like he wanted in. 

I crossed the Centennial Bridge. The winds were brisk. The river had whitecaps. And yet, despite his wings flapping around in the breeze, my new friend clung to the window relentlessly. This was the Tom Cruise of wasps, and his impossible mission was clearly to sting my face off. 

I pulled up at my house and this little minion of the damned was still attached to the window staring me down. I tried pounding the glass, yelling at it, and even opening and closing the car door real quick in hopes of getting it to fly off. No dice. Clearly, the only one having a worse day than me at this point was the wasp. He was probably just looking for food. Instead, he got a face full of window and an all-expense trip across state lines. "Just fly off, dude," I begged. Instead, the wasp casually walked to the base of the window and started to squeeze through the seal at the bottom.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. In reality, the poor wasp was probably trying to get somewhere dark and quiet to regroup. In MY mind, he was descending INTO the car door so he could more easily climb round the other side, squeeze in the car, and obviously sting my face off. There was no more multi-tasking in my future today. My to-do list now had but one singular, homicidal vision. I quickly assessed the situation and decided there was only one mature and well-thought-out option.

Eight minutes later, I was on the interstate, laughing like a madman while pushing the boundaries of the posted speed limit AND my car's acceleration. If I got pulled over, I would simply explain to the nice officer that NO, I couldn't roll down my window, and by then the wasp would've stung HIS face off and it'd be a non-issue. In the hurricane-force winds I was now creating, the wasp crawled out of view and I could only hope been eventually whisked away to the hellish plane from whence he came. I was now a good seven miles from work, but it was worth it.

I returned to the office feeling strangely accomplished for someone who'd precisely done NOTHING on his to-do list. Hopefully none of my co-workers witnessed me leaping like a fat ninja from my car, still half-expecting the wasp to be clutching the side of my car, holding an axe and yelling, "Heeeere's Johnny!" Its out there somewhere now, likely hellbent on vengeance, and now it knows where I live AND work. Buying a can of Raid just became top priority on my to-do list.

COLUMN: Anniversary

I don't often use this platform for personal favors, but I need everyone to chip in on this one.

Right now, I need you all to turn to the south, give a hearty wave, and send well wishes in the direction of my parents. This week, they're celebrating fifty years of wedded bliss. This is no easy task, considering much of that time was spent with yours truly as the pesky third wheel in their romantic fairy tale. I'm told gold is the traditional 50th anniversary present, and that makes sense -- anyone who's had to be MY on-call support team for fifty years deserves gold medals at the very least.

My parents are difficult to shop for. But I've recently discovered that the only thing more challenging than shopping for mom or dad is shopping for mom AND my dad at the same time. They're tough enough to shop for on their own -- but to find an anniversary present that would tickle BOTH of them is straight-up impossible. I eventually gave up and went with the ultimate cop-out: his & hers gift cards. Lame, I know. But now they can both get what they want, and I can stop scrolling through retail websites going, "Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope."

Based on the "Great 50th Anniversary Gifts" I found online, it appears that once you've been married for a half century, all sense of good taste must just fly out the window. Most of the offerings fell into the realm of what I'd classify as "cutesy" -- and if there's one adjective my dad has no patience for, it's cutesy. A gold-covered rose? He'd roll his eyes and possibly give me a lecture on money management. A golden plate that looks like something Hulk Hogan would strap on after winning Wrestlemania? Hard pass. Waterford crystal etched with their anniversary date? We all learned long ago that the Brown household is not a place for fragile breakables.  

Every site seems to think the ideal gift for my folks would be a gold picture frame that plays their favorite song anytime someone walks past -- sort of an upscale version of that singing fish that was all the rage for 2.7 seconds a decade ago. THIS is supposed to be the ideal gift for the people that raised me? Sounds like instant torture to me. Whatever song that gets loaded into that frame would quickly be NOBODY'S favorite song after the eleventieth time you hear it in a day. I'm pretty sure you don't see those Billy Bass fish anymore because they've all been angrily tossed into dumpsters by their exasperated owners who now spend their days neurotically rocking back and forth while muttering "taaake me to the riiiiver" through clenched teeth.

Besides, I'm not sure if there's even a sweet spot where my parents' music tastes mesh. Dad likes Santana and Chicago. Mom likes Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond. I kid you not, they once picked me up in the car while jamming out to a CD of John Philip Sousa military marches. I suppose maybe that's what I could load that picture frame up with? Every time they get up to use the bathroom, it could blare "The Stars and Stripes Forever." After all, there's no better way to celebrate a golden anniversary than by taking a patriotic potty break.

Gift sites also recommended I buy them a golden wine decanter (they don't drink.) One site suggested I get them a gift certificate to their favorite restaurant (they don't eat out.) Another said I should buy tickets to their favorite getaway (which I'm pretty sure is their living room.) My dad likes military weapons and war movies. My mom likes to tape the Today show and watch it back during the day. Unless one of these sites sells a cannon that inexplicably shoots out Hoda Kotb and Al Roker, I don't know if there IS a gift that both of them will enjoy.

I struck out in the gift department, but I struck it rich in the parent department. I wouldn't be the weirdo I am today without their love, support, guidance, and gas money all these years. Whenever anybody has ever asked me what I want to be in life, I've never known what to say. But the honest truth? All I've ever aspired to be is as happy as they are. They're the gold standard of human beings.   

I don't know what it's like to be married for one year, let alone fifty. There are days I can barely stand co-habitating with a cat, let alone another human being. But they've somehow made it work, which in turn has made ME work. They taught me how to behave, how to learn, how to laugh, and how to love. There's no golden plate or decanter that can equal how grateful and lucky I am to have such awesome parents.

You'll probably never meet them. They like their quiet little life (well, as quiet as it can be when I'm their son.) I tend to live a little louder, which is why I wanna shout my gratitude from the rooftops. So raise a glass and toast my parents: impossible to shop for, impossible not to love. Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad! 

COLUMN: Cruise

Working at the intersection of two of Davenport's busiest streets, I often get to see interesting things on my way in and out of the office. The one thing I did NOT expect to see, though, was a European cruise liner.

Yep, the QC is officially a tourist destination -- a Swiss company is now offering scenic cruises up and down the Mississippi, with frequent stops at ports along the way -- including the one directly across the street from our office. If you haven't caught the boat in action yet, it is definitely worth gawking at.

I suppose this would be the part where a REAL journalist would tell you interesting facts about the vessel. All I know is that it's honkin' BIG and can fit 386 passengers in its 193 staterooms. Based on the interior photos I've seen and the water-cooler gossip I've overheard from my real journalist pals who got a tour, it's super fancy and luxurious, seemlessly blending Norweigan decor with Mississippi River heritage. From what I've been able to glimpse from our parking lot, it looks to be one seriously pimped-out ride.

This is a wonderful development for our area. It's always fun to show off our neck of the woods to visitors, and every time it docks, buses pull up to take those tourism dollars straight to our best shops and attractions. This is a huge win for the Quad Cities.

I'll be honest, though. When I first learned we were becoming a stop for the Mississippi River's own Love Boat, my first instinct was to laugh and ask, "WHY??"

Don't get me wrong -- I love the Quad Cities. I love our people, our charm, our quirks, and our occasional Skybridges that connect nothing to nothing. But I've never really thought of the Quad Cities as a vacation hotspot. The Quad Cities is HOME. It's where we live and work and raise families and cats. It's what we leave to GO on vacation, not where people COME for vacation, right?

When I daydream about my ideal getaway, I'm driving through the European countryside, soaking up culture and majestic sights (obviously BEFORE I get in a head-on collison because I'd never get the hang of driving on the left side.) But could it be possible there's some European sitting around in the Alps daydreaming about the Quad Cities? "Oh, how I yearn for a breathtaking corn field! Woe is me, for my views of the horizon are constantly blocked by all these ugly mountains and hideous castles! Curses, fresh pasta and fine wine for dinner AGAIN? What I wouldn't give for a loose-meat sandwich and a taco pizza!"

Those people MUST exist, because they pay good money for the Mississippi River cruise experience. Even the smallest stateroom costs a measurable percentage of my annual income, and that's just to cruise from St. Paul to St. Louis -- a trip I could probably drive in a day for under $100. But if there's folks out there with disposable income, there's certainly no better place to dispose of it than here in our local communities. Welcome to the QC, friends.

They're already filling up bookings for next fall. This gives us a full year to make trinkets and souvenirs, people. If I start practicing now, I'm pretty sure I could be whittling some decent miniature butter cows by this time next year. My best friend went on a Carribean cruise a few years back. At every single port of call, he said there was always at least one guy with a trained monkey selling pictures. I'm fresh out of monkeys, but I have a couple cats that are marginally friendly at least 20% of the time. Ooh, wait, how hard is it to leash squirrels?

I kid -- mostly because I'm jealous. That boat looks amazing, and I'd love to waste a week just chilling on the river. It sounds like it's way more than just eating and shopping (even though eating and shopping would suit me just fine.) During the cruise, they give lectures and presentations on the river's history, and there are multiple field trips to farms and businesses to gain some appreciation and learn a thing or two about life along her mighty banks.

That goes for ME, too. I learned we shouldn't ever take the Quad Cities for granted. To you and I, it might be just be home. But watch our hometowns through the eyes of a tourist, oohing and aahing at things we ignore every day. I think nothing of the fact that I commute to work daily across one of the few 360-degree swing-span bridges in existence over one of the most storied rivers in the world. I once got ANNOYED because I had to shoo a bald eagle off the roof of my car. 

Take a lesson from our new cruising friends, step back, and appreciate the wonder of life in the Quad Cities. Who can blame tourists for wanting to come here? It IS, after all, the home of award-winning columnist Shane Brown. And if you ask him nice enough, he might even take a picture with you -- for the right price.

COLUMN: Obe Ata Dindin

I should really stop watching cooking shows on TV. They put bad thoughts in my head -- specifically, the thought that I can cook.

When the pandemic was in full swing, I reached a phase where if I didn't find a new hobby, I was gonna lose it. Somehow I settled on teaching myself how to cook. This was partially born out of boredom and partially out of necessity -- let's be honest, there's only so many times you can ask Instacart to bring you Lunchables and frozen pizza before they start judging you. Perhaps that stove thingamajig in the kitchen served more than an ornamental, decorative purpose?

I broke out some cookbooks. I bought an air fryer and an InstantPot. I've watched so many Youtube videos that my "Recommended" feed thinks I'm a master chef. It's been a couple years now, and while I'm far from a culinary genius, I CAN make a handful of meals that aren't entirely terrible. I've even made a couple things I'm not ashamed to share with friends.

That brings us to last week. Have you seen the series on HBO Max where celebrity chefs teach recipes to pop icon Selena Gomez? She and I appear to be roughly at the same skill level in the kitchen, so I've been strangely entertained by the show. One recipe in particular looked like something I might be able to pull off. The guest that week was Kwame Onwuachi, who I'd rooted for on Top Chef. True to form, he spent much of the episode unashamedly trying (and succeeding!) at getting Selena's digits. But somewhere in-between the flirting, the meal they made looked fabolous. Onwuachi called it "Sunday supper" -- chicken and rice stewed with obe ata dindin, Nigeria's red mother sauce that you simmer all day long. 

I can cook chicken. I can cook rice. I think I'm capable of simmering. This should be no problem, right? Labor Day was the first opportunity I had to spend a whole afternoon in the kitchen, so I thought I'd give it a shot.

The hardest part was procuring the ingredients. My neighborhood grocery doesn't stock Scotch bonnet peppers, Jamaican curry powder, or whatever "Maggi cubes" are. Thankfully, the World Food Market in East Moline had everything I needed, except for perhaps Pepto-Bismol once my Midwestern gastrointestinal tract got a load of this stuff. Ingredients in hand, I headed to the kitchen.

1:30 p.m. I have diced tomatoes, onions, and peppers. With steady gloved hands, I carefully added the Scotch bonnet pepper and curry powder as if handling uranium. Then, in an attempt to ward myself of both vampires AND any girl who might ever want to kiss me ever again, FOURTEEN cloves of garlic. Blend until smooth.

2:00 p.m. I'm pretty sure "Maggi cubes" are just bouillon, but I don't read Arabic and there isn't a bit of English on this packaging. I'm supposed to add EIGHT of them -- but I'd also like to make it to dessert without having a stroke, and I reckon that's a LOT of salt. Weirder yet, I just found ANOTHER video where Chef Kwame makes the SAME dish but only uses TWO of those cubes, so what do I do? Even WEIRDER, in his videos, the Maggi cubes are square. When I opened MINE, they were rectangular. Does this mean they're more potent? I had no idea how to tell, so I randomly chucked three of them in and hoped for the best. 

2:30 p.m. The sauce has been simmering an hour, so let's taste. Wow, it's surprisingly delicious and not too spicy.

4:00 p.m. Another taste test. Mmmm, it's... THE SPICIEST THING I'VE EVER PUT INTO MY MOUTH. Like, we're talking face-flushed, run-for-the-milk, Scotch-bonnets-should-be-outlawed kinda heat. Uh oh. I'm worried Kwame lied when he said, "It's just the right amount of heat." The right amount to put you in a coma, maybe.

4:30 p.m. I am now searing chicken in a Dutch oven. Searing is the technical term for when you attempt to brown the chicken but instead burn all your arm hairs off with oil splatters. Note to self: when this is over, find a less painful hobby.

5:00 p.m. Friends have arrived. The verdict is that "it smells good." I worry they're smelling cinged arm hair. Cooking oil is EVERYWHERE. My friend suggests I buy a splatter guard, which reminds me that I own one. Duh.

5:15 p.m. My friend tries to help clean up the oil splatter on the kitchen floor with a paper towel. Instead, it turns my kitchen into a well-polished skating rink that even my cats can't get a good footing on.   

5:30 p.m. I have added the sauce to both the chicken and the rice and we're in the stewing phase. My friends say they're hungry. I promise nothing and remind them I have the number to Pizza Hut on speed dial.

5:45 p.m. Chef Kwame suggests deep-fried plantains as a side dish. I'm fresh out of arm hair, so I opt to throw them into the air fryer.

6:00 p.m. Everything finishes cooking at the same time as if I know what I'm doing. Weirder yet, it all looks and tastes AMAZING. As promised, it's not too spicy (I must've had a pepper seed in that earlier taste-test.) My friends are duly impressed. I am a culinary master. Also, I am never doing this again.

All told, it was a pretty satisfying meal -- and all I had to sacrifice was six hours of prep, two hours of clean-up, much of my dignity, a t-shirt that will never be white again, and most of my arm hair.

Worth it. Now somebody come up with an InstantPot version so I don't have to work so hard next time.  

COLUMN: Cannon

When it comes to useful life skills, my wheelhouse is pretty much empty.

I mean, I guess I can drive a car (poorly, according to some.) I can cook a few things (kinda.) I know how to dump my clothes in the washer and press the "make them clean" button. By and large, though, I'm proudly inept at most basic abilities that humans need to survive. Let's just say that if the apocalypse hits and we can only save 100 people in a bunker somewhere for the future of humanity, I doubt anyone's gonna speak up and go, "Ooh, what about that fat guy with the cats who makes awesome mixtapes? The human race needs THAT dude for sure."

I'm okay with it. I play to my strengths, and I'm fine with myself, ineptitude and all. But if I ever need a reminder that there are people far better equipped to handle life than myself, I need only visit my parents.

You know everything I just said? Take the exact OPPOSITE of that, and you have my dad. You know that TV series that drops people in the middle of the Alaska wilderness and the goal is to simply be the last one who doesn't tap out? I'm pretty my dad could win that, even at age 77. At the very least, he'd teach everyone how to build a house before he left. When my dad faces problems, he looks for solutions. When I face problems, I look for the nearest phone to call him.  

My dad has one hobby that consumes much of his free time: CANNONS. Weird, right?  If you were to drive my dad past a vintage cannon in a park, he could tell you with one glance its complete history. Except you CAN'T drive him past a vintage cannon without stopping to marvel at its innate cannon-ness or whatever. I collect music, dad collects cannons. He's a cannon guy, I guess. To each their own.

For as long as I can remember, my dad's dream has always been to MAKE a cannon. Not some cutesy miniature toy for a mantlepiece, either. We're talking a proper full-size, umpteen-kajillion-pound cannon. I guess if Iowa ever decides to invade, my dad wants defensive tactical fortification.

There's just been one thing stopping him from his dream: everything else. I don't want to insinuate that I'm especially needy or anything, but occasionally I've asked my dad for a favor here or there. You know, simple stuff like, "Hey, dad, if you're not super busy or anything, I was wondering if you might want to spend the next six months remodeling my basement." You know, easy requests like that. 

But somehow -- sandwiched into quick moments between life, love, and an idiot son -- he's been making cannon progress. If you're thinking "make a cannon" meant buying a barrel and some wheels and snapping them together, you don't know my dad. He's spent years building a massive in-ground furnace (I almost called it a "forge" the other day. He corrected me.) He designed casting forms (that's probably the wrong term, too.) He procured bronze ingots. And this past weekend, it was time for the first attempt at pouring the barrel. This was a moment years in the making, and I wasn't about to miss it.

My best friend and I arrived on the scene Saturday morning, and it was NOT what I'd expected. Around the furnace stood my dad and his friends in shiny silver heat suits like they were late for an Among Us cosplay convention or something. There was a videographer. Neighbors and fellow cannon enthusiasts turned up in lawn chairs. There was even a masked dude standing half a football field away -- I later found out he'd tested positive for COVID but couldn't miss this grand event. 

It was really cool -- except it was anything BUT cool. It was already hot and humid and that was BEFORE the molten metal and the ominous roar of the furnace. I was more concerned with trying not to act like a ninny every time a wasp flew near, which was often. I ran drinks for the thirsty, mostly so I could bask in the air conditioning of the house. My friend asked how I could've possibly come from a family like this. My mom told him that even as a baby, I was terrified of grass and would pull my arms and legs up and start crying if she dared allow my bare skin to come in contact with nature.

They got the metal poured just before rain moved in. Apart from dad nearly collapsing from the heat, it went well. As of press time, he hasn't opened to see the results yet. The working theory is that it'll be a test run and much was learned and could be improved upon for the next attempt. I'm happy he's fulfilling his insanely difficult, incomprehsibly hot dream. No one seemed keen on my idea of earning extra retirement money by opening a discount crematorium.

The minute the rain hit, I opted to help my mom back in the house. "We should probably face the facts," she said to me as we got away from the big show. "You and I are indoor people." I couldn't agree more. But if my dad ever needs a bangin' mixtape, he knows who to call.