COLUMN: Best of 2023 - TV

There is not a time when I am conscious in my house that a television isn't on. When I come home from work, the remote is the first thing I grab. When I go to bed, I set a sleep timer so I don't dare nod off without the comforting light of the idiot box lulling me to dreamland. I honestly don't want to know how many hours of my life I waste staring at talking heads and fictional people with lives far more interesting than my own.

The only GOOD thing about being a television addict is that it makes me somewhat uniquely qualified to write my annual year-end recommendations for the best TV of 2023:

#10 - RIVERDALE (The CW) - Okay, so maybe I shouldn't call this a list of the BEST television. Riverdale is NOT a great show. It's not even a good show. But for seven glorious seasons of nonsense, it's been my favorite popcorn escapism. Having exhausted every conceivably ludicrous plotline from murder to cults to aliens to superheroes, the last surviving remnant of the CW's glory years transported its residents back to the 1950s for its final season, actually making the show loosely resemble the Archie comics it was loosely based on. Farewell, Riverdale. I will miss your brainless greatness.

#9 - THE GREAT BRITISH BAKING SHOW (Netflix) - I'm so bored of putting this show in my best-of every year, but it just keeps deserving it. In a world of division and turmoil, we at least have ONE show left to teach us what "reality" should be. It's always refreshing to witness a competition show where the winner gets little more than a plate and bragging rights, where contestants become friends who help and encourage one another, and the losing players get hugs and love from the judges instead of scolding and derision. It's the perfect antidote to the evening news.

#8 - SCOTT PILGRIM TAKES OFF (Netflix) - Edgar Wright's movie adaptation of the fantastic Scott Pilgram graphic novels was great, but this new animated series stays even truer to the aesthetic of the source material (while getting the entire cast from the 2010 movie to reprise their roles.) The result is infinitely watchable and a refreshing new dive into a world I've loved for years.

#7 - TED LASSO (Apple+) - The third season of Ted Lasso is admittedly a bit uneven. A show about a soccer team works best when it focuses on the team dynamic, and much of the show's presumably last season has its main characters separated from one another and leading their own storylines. Some of those storylines work and some falter. But despite its inconsistencies, Ted Lasso remains a show worthy of every ounce of its feel-good reputation and acclaim. Will there ever be a fourth season or a spin-off? Like Ted, I choose to believe.

#6 - MUPPETS MAYHEM (Disney+) - When I heard Disney was creating a show based around the Muppets' house band Doctor Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, I had my doubts. But the end result was a wonderful send-up of music documentaries and the rock lifestyle, complete with some amazing cameos, inside jokes for music nerds like me, and gut-busting laughs for kids and kids-at-heart alike.

#5 - SEX EDUCATION (Netflix) - My all-time favorite Netflix show had its swansong this year, and it didn't disappoint. I've always had a tough time describing this show, and I think that's what the show's creator Laurie Nunn was aiming for. Is it set in England or the U.S.? Is it set in the 80s or modern times? The show purposely blurs those lines to make it accessible to anyone of any generation or background. I read a review once that called it "wholesomely filthy," and that's spot on. It's a coming-of-age teen sex romp with a heart and earnestness that constantly runs the risk of overblown wokeness, yet still manages to be more fun and quirky than outright preachy.

#4 - SHRINKING (Apple+) - I didn't think Apple could make a comedy better than Ted Lasso, but it took the Lasso team to do it. Helmed by Ted Lasso creator Bill Lawrence, actor/comedian Brett Goldstein (Lasso's Roy Kent), and star Jason Segel, Shrinking stars Segel as a therapist coping with the grief of his wife's death by breaching conventional ethics with his patients and getting directly involved in their lives. It's a tour de force for Segel, and adding Harrison Ford as Segel's harrowed boss is the icing on the cake of this exceptional series with such potential.

#3 - POKER FACE (Peacock) - Critics were anticipating the premiere of this Peacock mystery series with bated breath, and the hype was every bit deserved. Poker Face is the brainchild of Knives Out director Rian Johnson, who wanted to craft a "murder-of-the-week" detective procedural in the vein of Columbo. But instead of the hero being a detective, it's Natasha Lyonne as Charlie Cale, a cocktail waitress who's on the run from the mob, keeps stumbling into murders, and has the uncanny ability to discern when people are lying. It's some of the smartest mystery writing you'll ever see, and if Lyonne doesn't win ALL the awards this season, the system's broken.

#2 - WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS (F/X) - It's very rare when a TV series based on a movie ends up better than the source material, but WWDitS somehow manages to be even funnier than the 2014 movie of the same name (which was pretty great on its own.) This stellar mockumentary about four dysfunctional vampires and their long-suffering human familiar just announced its farewell season next year, so jump on the bandwagon while there's still time and learn why it's earned 21 Emmy nominations in its short run.

#1 - EXTRAORDINARY (Hulu) - If this column serves ANY purpose, it's to beg you to jump on Hulu and check out this unheralded show that I stumbled into one fateful night and ended up binging the entire series in one sitting while laughing myself silly. The first solo project of creater Emma Moran (who wrote the script while in grad school,) Extraordinary takes place in a dystopian future where nearly everyone on Earth develops superpowers when they turn 18 -- except Jen, a 25-year-old jealous slacker underdog still waiting for her transformation. Jen lives with her roommate Carrie, a timid soul with the power to channel the dead, which they primarily use to summon and berate an indignant Hitler whenever they need a pick-me-up. It's a cynical, jaded, and hysterical look at the power of being powerless, and it's easily the best thing I've watched this year.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have, like, 273 other shows to watch. Except I'll probably just watch Extraordinary again - it's THAT good. Happy New Year, all.     

COLUMN: Best of 2023 - Music

Wait, what's that? You say our company's hired a full time entertainment writer with fairly stellar tastes who's already written a great piece about the best albums of the year? And it'd probably be a little redundant and confusing if I wrote one, too? Oh, but you also understand just how much of a crazy music nerd I am and how I'd probably go insane if I wasn't allowed to do my own year-end best-of list? Whew. Thank goodness we got that cleared up. Therefore, behold my favorite records of 2023:

#10 - Drop Nineteens - Hard Light - When I was in college, I was obsessed with the ethereal distortion and sonic maelstrom of the shoegaze music genre. Shoegaze was born in the UK, but there was ONE American band oft lumped into the original purveyors of the scene: Boston's Drop Nineteens, who blessedly reunited in 2023: a bit older, a bit more polite, but every bit as lovely. The most welcome return of the year.

#9 - Sufjan Stevens - Javelin - I don't wish ill upon Sufjan Stevens, but America's greatest singer-songwriter is oft at his best when inspired by tragedy. This year, Stevens sadly lost his long-time partner AND had to re-learn to walk after a lengthy hospitalization for Guillain-Barre Syndrome. Consequently, "Javelin" is one of the best and most emotional records he's ever made.

#8 - Post Malone - Austin - Not every record has to be a statement on the human condition that takes you on an emotional roller-coaster. Sometimes you can just sing about how sick your Lamborghini is and have it be every bit as satisfying. "Austin" is Post Malone playing by his own rules, genre-jumping with glee, and proving his chart-topping success hasn't just been a fluke. 

#7 - Carla J. Easton - Sugar Honey - Scotland's best-kept secret returns with another record of coarse bubblegum majesty, where layers of unpolished synthpop perfection hide songs of melancholy, defiance, and strength. If she lived in the Quad Cities, we'd either be friends or I'd be WAY too afraid to talk to anyone so awesome.

#6 - Sigur Ros - Atta - Iceland's leading purveyors of moody atmospherics hadn't released a proper album in a decade, and many thought the recent scandalous departure of their drummer would be the death knell for one of the world's most hauntingly beautiful bands. Instead, they soldiered on, replacing the drums with a 41-piece orchestra and a passion that doesn't need percussion. It's apparently about climate change, but all I hear is catharsis.

#5 - Emma Anderson - Pearlies - The seminal UK band Lush attempted a reunion in 2016 that fizzled after just one (brilliant) EP. But rather than chuck everything into the bin, co-leader Emma Anderson continued working on the new material she'd brought to the table, resulting in her first solo record. "Pearlies" doesn't exactly break new ground, but carries on Lush's legacy of shimmering austere dreampop, which has been much missed at my musical table.

#4 - Vagabon - Sorry I Haven't Called - Born in Cameroon but raised in New York, Laetitia Tamko has been something of a musical chameleon under his guise as Vagabon. Her first record was crunchy DIY indie rock, and its follow-up was a soupy R&B-laden mish-mash. On her new record, she's escaped the mire into a world of foggily charming electropop. When Tamko's fragile hooks rise above the clouds, it's magic.

#3 - Hotline TNT - Cartwheel - We've established that I love the fuzzy bliss of shoegaze, but too often, modern shoegaze bands focus more on the effects-laden production of their records and forget to write decent songs along the way. Not the case with New-York-by-way-of-Minneapolis noisemakers Hotline TNT, who often get lumped into the shoegaze genre but owe just as much of their sound to bands like Husker Du and early Teenage Fanclub. The result is a hybrid mix of shoegaze and powerpop that results in blissed-out sonic fury you can still sing along to in the shower. It's a triumph.

#2 - SUSTO - My Entire Life - I never thought a country-tinged South Carolina roots rock band would become one of my favorite groups of all time, but that's the power of SUSTO. An ever-changing vehicle to deliver the songwriting of frontman Justin Osborne, SUSTO won my snobbish tastes over in record time and I'm officially a fanboy. Specializing in psychedelic country rock with pop sensibilities, Osborne's refreshingly honest lyrics continue to charm and amaze. It's a pleasure listening to him grow up.   

#1 - RAYE - My 21st Century Blues - British singer RAYE (real name Rachel Keen) spent years locked in a fruitless record deal, unable to make the solo album she dreamt of while lending her vocals to multiple chart-topping dance hits from DJs like David Guetta and Joel Corry. Eventually, she put her record label on blast via Twitter, got booted from her contract, and retreated to the studio to finally craft her dream album. The result is a stunning tour-de-force of fiery rage, captivating storytelling, heartache, survival, and freedom. RAYE attended the same prestigious music school as Amy Winehouse and Adele, and it shows. Largely self-written and self-produced, its the sound of someone capturing their self-confidence and finding their own voice in real time. I hope it's everything she wanted it to be. It's certainly the best thing I've heard all year.

Next stop, 2024. Thanks for letting me nerd out a bit, gang. Go buy some records, they're good for your soul.  

COLUMN: Holiday Murder

If you were hoping your true love would give you two turtle doves on the second day of Christmas, I may have some bad news.

This morning started out like most, with my alarm going off at a criminally early hour and me groggily stumbling out of bed, powering up the Today show, and pouring myself a bowl of cereal. I was two bites into the Raisin Bran when my morning ritual was rudely interrupted.

BAM!

The noise was sudden, loud, and startling. It sounded like someone had just thrown a fastball at the side of my house. This was rapidly followed by an assortment of bumps and knocks that were most definitely coming from my front porch.

There was only one assumption to be made: Someone was trying, not especially quietly, to break into my house. In a sad testament to our modern times (and perhaps the neighborhood I call home,) my first conscious response was NOT "oh no, how shocking, appalling, and unexpected. Surely this can't be happening!" Instead, my only response was, "at 7 a.m.? Seriously?"

Immediately, I ran -- okay, let's be realistic, I briskly stumbled -- to my phone and started to dial 911. Before I hit the call button, though, I decided to pull up my outdoor security camera feed to catch a glimpse of my would-be intruder. I'm glad I did. This would've been a weird one to explain to the cops.

The loud bang I heard was NOT a gunshot or someone throwing rocks at my house. It was, in fact, a turtle dove from somewhere high above, freefalling headfirst onto my front porch. The assorted bumps that followed were from the Cooper's Hawk that had chosen my porch for an impromptu breakfast murder. What in the serious Wild Kingdom was happening?

I grew up in the country. Urban living has its assorted ups and downs, but I always assumed one of the biggest perks would be NOT having to routinely witness nature's circle of life playing out on one's front porch. But this morning, it played out in hi-definition 3D technicolor before my very eyes. What happened next was the kind of stuff they don't even dwell on in nature documentaries. The kind of stuff they blur out on true crime shows.  

I was hoping my new friend Harvey the Christmas Hawk would've at least had the decency to fly off somewhere private with his prey. Nope. Unfortunately, Harvey decided he was in the mood to dine-in instead of carry-out. I'd like to tell you I looked away, but I was transfixed. And it was REALLY unpleasant. Let's just say I now know why we deck our halls with boughs of holly instead of bloody entrails. It was markedly less than festive. It was NOT a beautiful sight. I was NOT happy tonight.

The only one even MORE transfixed than me by the unfolding real-time yuletide carnage was my cat. She, too, had heard the commotion and poked her head around the blinds to check out the scene. Her only comment was "k-k-k-k-k-k-k" in that weird creepy cat chatter they make when their instincts get the best of them. When I poked MY head around the blinds, I expected Harvey to fly off in a hurry. Instead, he stayed motionless, except his head spun around and gave me a look that CLEARLY said "you're next" before turning his attention back to the gruesome task at hand.

There was little I could do but gently put the blinds back in place and return to my own (considerably less visceral) breakfast while trying to ignore the fact that my security cameras were capturing a holiday snuff film mere feet away. 

Surely this was a sign, no? Hawks don't just show up on porches without it being some kind of omen, right? What ominous portents could a morning raptor be bringing me? My divination skills are rusty at best. If I had to venture a guess, I'd say that either (a) a pox is now destined to befall my poor family, (b) next year's harvest will be bountiful, or (c) thou wilst be cursed to eat some seriously soggy Raisin Bran this morning.

I was curious, so I looked it up later that day (and definitely NOT while at work because that would be a horrible waste of company resources.) I found a website called Mindbodygreen.com and their interview with psychic and astrologer Stina Garbis. According to Garbis, the spiritual meaning of a hawk with its prey supposedly represents abundance and "successful attainment. It means you'll always be able to care for yourself and your family."

So thanks, Harvey. Maybe this Christmas WILL be holly and jolly after all, even if someone's true love will be shy one turtle dove come this second day of Christmas. I figure it's okay, though, because if you add up all the gifts from all Twelve Days of Christmas, they're still ending up with 183 birds in all, which seems less of a gift and more like a crime by that point. If your true love shows up at your door with 184 birds in tow, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY RUN -- otherwise on the 13th day of Christmas, your true love might also give to you a visit from the police, the ASPCA, ICE, and whatever unfortunate government agency is tasked with overseeing lords a-leaping.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a murder scene on my porch that needs a holiday hosedown. Fa la la la la....  

COLUMN: RIBCO

This is a story about change. I hate change.

I must have been 22 or so, around the time I thought it would be best to put my newly-acquired college degree to use by... DJing at bars and working part time at a record store. My friend Michelle had recently opened Co-Op Records in the District of Rock Island and invited me to come work for her. It was one of my first weekends there, manning the counter during my first-ever summer District festival, when an imposing figure walked into the store.

I didn't know the guy at all, but it was clear the other employees did. He was loud, commanding, confident, and everything I wasn't. As a young and cocky music snob who clearly already had life 110% figured out, it was my duty to be unimpressed as this guy held court at the front counter, offering up his unfiltered opinions on everything from the store to the festival to Rock Island politics.

"Who was THAT know-it-all?" I sneered as he left.

"That," it was quickly explained to me, "was Terry Tilka. He owns RIBCO. And when it comes to Rock Island, he pretty much DOES know it all."

It would be a few years later when I got a surprising phone call from that same man. By then, I had left the record store and taken a job at the local newspaper -- you know, until I figured out what to do with my life (cough.) But then Terry called. A band had cancelled at RIBCO at the last minute, and he wondered if I might be available to spin a set in their absence. I hadn't DJed in years, but I was bored and broke, so I took the offer.

That night went well, and I ended up covering a couple more cancellations that summer. Eventually, it led to a permanent gig as RIBCO's resident DJ. When the bands would get done around 1 a.m., I'd jump on and spin records until closing time. One day, Terry pulled me aside, told me he'd bought the building next door and wondered if I might want to work there if he turned it into a dance club. That building became the nightspot known as 2nd Ave., and it was my home every Friday and Saturday night for the next decade.

It's been over a decade since the decade I worked there, but the news of these two legendary bars closing this month has hit me especially hard. Terry Tilka has decided to call it a career, and with it, perhaps the most storied party spots in all the Quad Cities. For Terry, a well-deserved retirement beckons, grandkids beckon, and I'm going to venture a guess that Florida beckons. A Quad Cities without RIBCO is tough to imagine, though.

Pretty much every local band I can think of owes a portion of their career to Terry and the RIBCO stage. I was fortunate enough to see HUNDREDS of great shows there over the years, from young locals taking their first steps outside the garage to storied pros coming to town for once-in-a-lifetime sets. From my catbird seat in the RIBCO balcony, I got to see blues greats like Junior Wells and Koko Taylor. I saw bands like the Wallflowers and Barenaked Ladies before they became some of the biggest bands in the world. I saw the disco fury of The Travoltas so many times that I had their setlist memorized. I once saw Mike Mills from R.E.M. play to a crowd of about two dozen people with his supergroup, The Baseball Project. Time and again, I got to witness musical magic.

There's two ways the bar business often goes. Either you do it wrong and you're closed within a year or two, or you do it right and you get to leave on your own terms. Terry did it right. He treated artists with fairness and respect. He always had the proper permits. He always paid the taxman. If you were fortunate enough to earn a free beverage from Terry Tilka, you'd also have to sit there and watch as he pulled three bucks out of his wallet to pay his own register. 

Was Terry the easiest guy to work for? Absolutely not. If you didn't pull your weight, he'd let you know. If you did something stupid, he'd let you know. Being a RIBCO staffer, you learned right away that working at a bar wasn't all fun, it was WORK -- and the work was making sure everyone had fun. If you left work NOT feeling like you just ran a marathon, you did something wrong -- even if you're just the guy making a side hustle standing in a box playing records all night.

God, I'll miss that place. The weird slanted floor. The allure of a fresh burger basket. Leaning on the side rail of the stage where true music geeks could stand inches away from their musical heroes. That peculiar smell of wood polish and stale beer that was intrinsically RIBCO. 

But what I'll take with me forever from those glory days are the memories of the people I was privileged to call my friends. Bartenders like Bailey, Paulie, Ryan, Keppy, Tommy T, and the master, Janos Horvath. The cackling laugh of Amanda Baker Wright. The late night fishing trip tales of Tommy McGivern. The best sound engineers to walk the earth: Mark Burrage, Lonny Benge, Mouse, Mike Gentry, and the late great Al Dimeo. Dozens of door guys and security staffers. All brought together under the watchful eye of one Terry Tilka: boss, ringleader, mentor, and if I'm bold enough, friend.

Me? My favorite RIBCO memory belongs to me and me only -- a ritual I don't think anyone ever noticed. Whenever the Travoltas would play an outdoor show in the District plaza, I'd arrive just early enough to wander out to the back patio at 2nd Ave., where I'd often sit by myself for a few minutes, staring up at the WHBF tower rising over the Rock Island skyline like a giant Tinkertoy, feeling the swell of adrenaline slowly build, knowing that in three or four songs, a throng of humanity would file into the club, where me and two turntables would soon commence battle to keep their business for the rest of the night. I don't know if I've ever felt more alive in my life.

Here's to you, Terry T. Thanks for taking the Quad Cities on a mad, musical voyage, and thanks for letting me tag along for part of that ride. Here's hoping someone buys those buildings and carries on the legacy you've carved out. And if that someone ever has a band cancel on them at the last minute, hopefully they know how to reach me.     

COLUMN: Genie

It only took 50-some-odd years, but I might be turning into my father.

There are some who would say that's a good thing. My dad is, after all, a superhero. He built the house I grew up in. I can barely build a sandwich. When I bought my house, Dad single-handedly finished my basement for me. About the only thing I'm capable of finishing is a box of donuts, and now I have a team of doctors preventing me from even doing that.

I lucked out in the dad lottery. I'm sure everybody thinks their dad is the best dad of all time. You're all wrong. If you don't believe me, feel free to challenge my dad to a no-holds-barred cage match. Unfortunately, my father won't be able to attend because he'll be too busy pointing out the structural deficiencies in the cage and volunteering to design a new one. And yes, it will likely be hand-carved and made of wood.

But there's one thing my dad can't do. For as long as I can remember, my dad can't sit through a comedy on TV. Dad's favorite entertainment is usually any movie involving guns, wars, spies, tanks, and/or explosions. This contrasts greatly with my mom, who brought me up on a steady diet of romantic comedies and sitcom silliness. When dad had the helm, he would want to watch an entire movie about some Bridge over the River Kwai. When mom controlled the TV, the Love Boat soon would be making another run. And since the only OTHER thing my dad can't seem to do is operate a remote control, mom usually won those battles.

When a silly comedy comes on TV, you can actually witness my dad getting flustered in real time. If a hapless character gets embarassed on-screen, dad gets embarassed, too. If the romantic hero gets put in an awkward situation, my dad starts to fidget. I'm pretty sure he's incapable of suspending disbelief long enough to laugh at anything silly or ridiculous. Invariably, he will stand up, say something like, "I can't watch this nonsense," and leave the room, often to bury himself in a book of wholesome family entertainment wherein some loose cannon on a lone search for justice single-handedly lays waste to an international terrorist organization. You know, believable stuff.

I'm Team Dad all the way, but my taste in pop culture has always been more in line with my mom's. I love silly romantic comedies and bad sitcoms. I'm the weirdo who secretly watches Hallmark Christmas movies every year, no matter how groan-worthy they are. But the older I get, the more my brain is getting incapable of suspending disbelief. I think I might be slowly turning into my dad.

This year, there was one new holiday movie I was eagerly awaiting: "Genie." After all, how could you possibly lose when you put comic powerhouse Melissa McCarthy into a movie written by Richard Curtis, the genius behind such classics as "Four Weddings and a Funeral," "Notting Hill," "Bridget Jones' Diary," and the perennial Christmas favorite, "Love Actually"?

Spoiler: It's possible. "Genie" does NOT capture magic in a bottle.

The plotline is simple enough: Bernard is a hard-working antiquities expert whose life is falling apart. When his evil boss forces him to work late and miss his daughter's birthday, his wife leaves him. The next day, he loses his job. Despondent, Bernard absent-mindedly opens an ancient box he'd brought home from work and unleashes Flora, a 2000-year-old genie (played with the usual gusto by McCarthy) who grants Bernard endless wishes.   

Comedy gold, right? From here, the movie could practically write itself. Obviously, Bernard's going to get his family back in the end and holiday merriment will prevail. Along the way, Bernard's probably going to learn a lesson about materialism and discover that money and power can't buy happiness, yada yada yada. But the movie falls apart quickly.

For one, Flora's just spent 2000 years in a box. We get a glimpse of her early days as some kind of feral warrior before a sorceror condemns her to the genie life. Yet when she pops out the box, she speaks perfect English. I was okay with that, because, hey, genie magic, I guess. But she ALSO somehow knows American slang and colloquialisms, which is just silly. Also, she's been in a box for 2000 years with no exposure to modern society. New York City should terrify her. Heck, electric lighting alone should terrify her. Instead, all we get is a tired joke where she doesn't know what hand sanitizer is and tries to eat it.

At one point, Bernard wishes for a pizza from his favorite eatery and it magically appears, despite a multitude of jokes about Flora not knowing what pizza is. You shouldn't be able to have it both ways. Either you're omniscient and come out of the bottle knowing everything about everything, or you should be woefully clueless about everything and screw it all up. This is Genie 101 stuff, people.

It reminds me, in a not-great way, of the only movie I have ever fallen asleep in a theater to: the horrible Will Ferrell/Nicole Kidman remake of "Bewitched," a rare mis-step from the late, legendary Nora Ephron. There's a scene in the beginning of that movie where Kidman's witchy Samantha character first arrives in Los Angeles. She drives around and spots her dream house. She then twitches her nose, and thanks to her witchy powers, a "For Sale" sign appears in the yard and a realtor magically walks out of nowhere and sells her the house.

I love silly comedies. I love laughing. But to this day, I haven't been able to shake the thought: WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FAMILY THAT LIVED IN THAT HOUSE? Did the heroine of the story just snuff innocent people out of existence with a twitch of her nose? Using your witch powers to clean your house or fly through the air is one thing, but she just bent the fabric of time and space, potentially committed multiple homicides, and forever altered history. And where did the realtor come from? Is it a demon from hell? Otherwise, you just zapped a realtor into some weird new existence, added a new listing to the national MLS database, and reprogrammed the realtor's brain to not question where she was or what she was doing. That's one heck of a nose twitch.

For all I know, "Genie" might NOT have a happy ending. Maybe Bernard never gets his wife and/or life back. I'll never know. I switched the TV off halfway while muttering, "I can't watch this nonsense." That's when I realized I might have more in common with my old man than I ever thought.

I still can't build a house, though. But I might be able to tell you when a movie's bad and you should skip it.

COLUMN: Festival of Trees Silent Disco

Welp. It's officially the holidays, I guess. Fa la la.

Once upon a time, I bet "the holidays" referred strictly to Christmas and New Year's. Thanks to the gods of retail, "the holidays" now incorporate Thanksgiving, Halloween, and pretty much any date that falls between October 15th and January 2nd. I'm surprised by this point we haven't just rolled Valentine's Day into the mix. January 21st is National Squirrel Appreciation Day, and I bet if you gave greeting card companies enough time, they'd figure out a way to monetize it.

As for me? I am not feeling it yet. 

I normally love "the holidays," and honestly, who doesn't? If there's an opportunity -- even if it's just an arbitrary day on a calendar -- to feel some warm fuzzies, take the day off work, and get together with friends and family, what's not to like? I mean, other than crass consumerism, forced interaction with toxic family members, overindulgence, pointless arguments over whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas movie, and hearing that terrible "Santa Baby" song on the radio eleventy-kajillion times. But I mean, other than all that, it's kind of an alright time to stroll the Earth, no?

But THIS year? I've yet to find that holiday vibe. In fact, as I type this, I'm still stubbornly wearing a short-sleeved shirt, refusing to accept the fact that Old Man Winter has already started his annual commute to our neck of the woods. I don't only want an extension of fall, I'd be up for a complete re-do of summer, please. My brain still wants outdoor fun, country drives with the windows down, and a sun that doesn't set at an eyeblink past noon. 

Despite my stubbornness, though, the holiday season marches on. I'm trying to figure out exactly what I need to do to get into that mindset.  

As much as I hate to admit it, one thing that might shift me into holiday mode would be a good old-fashioned snowfall. There's no denying winter is coming when you wake up to a blanket of freshly-fallen snow. When I was a kid, I used to beg the heavens to open up and blizzard away at full force. I remember my dad getting stressed out about plowing the drive, and I was so confused as to why anyone could possibly dislike snow. It's the closest you could ever get to toys literally falling out of sky.

Then I got older. I got a driver's license. I bought a house with a sidewalk I'm suddenly responsible for. I broke my foot on a patch of ice. I get it now -- snow sucks. It makes a mess everywhere, it takes work and effort to shovel and plow, it's treacherous, and it adds extra time to the morning commute when my brain is powered by little more than caffeine and hope. My days of praying for snow are over. Still, there's nothing like a coating of slushy ick to put the final nail in summer stubbornness and force me to move those short-sleeved shirts to the back of the closet. 

In my continuing efforts to find some Yuletide glee, I tried watching a made-for-TV Christmas romance the other night. If television has taught me one thing, it's that if you're a holiday humbug, all you need to do is get stranded by a snowstorm in a small mountain town where the woman of your dreams (who is usually a former cast member of Full House or Party of Five) and her precocious son and/or daughter will force you to discover holiday magic while you save her hotel and/or Christmas tree farm from an evil corporation (that you probably work for.)

These days, though, I find I have the attention span of your average eight-year-old. The guy in the movie had barely gotten stranded and I was already picking up my phone to watch some inane TikTok video instead. After rewinding the same scene four times to try and focus on the Christmas magic unfolding before me, I finally just gave up and turned the movie off. I'm pretty sure I know how it ends. Someday I want a Hallmark romance with an ending where the guy doesn't get the girl, the hotel gets foreclosed on, and a card before the credits comes up and just says, "Can't win 'em all, I guess. Sad holidays!"  

All that said, I do have one last trick up my sleeve and a hail-mary effort to officially get in holiday spirit. It involves a certain Festival of Trees you all might be familiar with. You might NOT, however, be familiar with what happens this Saturday night at the River Center. The Festival of Trees shuts down at 7 p.m., but then re-opens at 8 p.m. for the after-hours Festival of Trees Silent Disco. Every attendee gets a pair of headphones, and you can select from one of three DJs throwing down beats onstage. I'll be one of those DJs.

It's my favorite gig of the year, and its the only opportunity where you can dance around the Festival of Trees expo hall without people thinking you're a bit weird. If nothing else, show up just to hear people singing horribly off-key in an otherwise silent room. It is yuletide comedy gold, trust me. Tickets are still available on the Festival of Trees website and also come with a free general admission pass to the daytime festival if you're so inclined. 

Normally, I'd apologize for shamelessly turning my column into a plug for a DJ gig, but if we're living in a world where stores have their Christmas displays out the day after Halloween and radio stations are already belting Christmas songs weeks before Thanksgiving, I figure I'm just a tiny cog in the holiday money machine. And with your help, this gig might be EXACTLY what I need to find that elusive holiday spirit. Bonus points if you're the woman of my dreams. But I'm not saving your Christmas tree farm. I've got, like, stuff to do, sorry.

COLUMN: Catnapper

So let's get the sad news out of the way first.

Last month, I had to say goodbye to Isobel, my feline houseguest and roommate of the past 18 years. She was the nicest, most loving, doofiest cat I've ever been around, and her loss has left a cat-sized hole in my already addled heart. I lost her twin sister about a year ago, so my house is the quietest it's been since, well, ever.

This leaves me with just one roomie, the feral neighborhood cat who just strolled through my back door a few years ago and looked at me like, "oh hi, I live here now. Food, please." Bereft of ideas for a name, I went to a website that uses cutting edge AI technology to generate random cat names, and this is how I came to have a cat named Meatbag. She never got along well with the twins, and honestly seems pretty happy to have the run of the house.

From an owner's perspective, having just one cat is MUCH easier as well. The litterboxes have ceased to be daily biohazards and I'm no longer buying more cat food than people food at the store. Still, the house has been mighty empty and sad this past month.

Which is why I've been a little over-excited this week to spot a couple tiny new neighborhood strays cavorting around my alley and backyard. My initial thought was, of course, "KITTIES! LET ME GRAB YOU AND SQUISH YOU AND LOVE YOU AND YOU WILL BE MINE FOREVER AND EVER." But I'm also a realist. The newer, mellower Shane might be better off sticking to a maximum capacity of one pet. And I have a feeling the Meatbag might also prefer the solo lifestyle. If I did take these new alley-dwellers in, I'd be in store for a lecture or two from some of the more irritatingly responsible people in my life (hi, Mom.) 

Plus, for all I know, these cats might very well already have happy homes, and I'm in no hurry to add "catnapper" to my resume in any other context than sleeping. I'm no thief. Before I took in the Meatbag, I put a collar on her with a note that said, "Is this your cat? Because she strolls into my house every day and I'm taking her in if nobody claims her." And when I did take her in a week later, I had her scanned for a microchip and I put posters and flyers around my neighborhood to make sure I wasn't stealing someone else's pet.

I should probably be responsible and NOT abduct any more alley strays. But these cats look awfully skinny and needy (AND ADORABLE), so maybe they're hoping for an open door and kind heart, who's to say? I'm not going to go out of my way to lure strange cats inside the house, buuuuut, I mean, if I were to say, leave a little bit of food on the steps in the name of charity, and if they were to eat said food and then perhaps decide to saunter inside to say hello, who am I to stand in the way of cat/human relations?  

So I left some cat treats on the back steps a couple nights ago to see what would happen. And wouldn't you know it, when I walked out to work yesterday morning, all the cat treats were gone. Perhaps I've made new friends, I thought to myself with a mild skip in my step.

Then I got home that night and rewound the security cameras to see if my feline friends enjoyed their dinner. They did not.

Instead, I watched in fast forward as for hours, the army of squirrels that reside in my neighbor's walnut tree conducted a well-choreographed stealth night raid of my back steps. Long story short, there's likely now a hidey hole somewhere in that walnut tree chock full of cat treats.

Once upon a time, I used to like squirrels. I thought they were cute and fluffy. Then I moved into a house with a walnut tree overhanging my back yard, and quickly learned that squirrels aren't cute and fluffy at all. They're mean and fluffy. Every year, a pack of them harvest that tree until every single nut is decimated. With a ballet of skillful precision, they climb onto my house, roll the walnuts off the roof and onto the sidewalk below, and use my back steps as their own personal nutcracker. I come home nightly to a blanket of walnut debris covering my walk. And no matter how hard I try, I always manage to track that detritus into the house where it tries its best to stain my carpet and I find myself on my hands and knees with a bottle of Resolve.

I wouldn't even mind any of that if the squirrels were nice, but they're not. They're mean little buggers who scowl at me when I interrupt their harvest. They climb to eye level, stare at me with their beady little eyes, and angrily go, "Thpf! Thpf!" They purposely try to drop walnuts on my noggin. Hand to God, one morning a squirrel climbed the tree for the express purpose of peeing on my head. While it WAS one of the Top 5 most interesting reasons I've had for calling in late to work, it wasn't exactly my favorite morning.

So instead of luring any cats to their doom -- I mean, their future loving home -- I instead contributed to the ongoing epidemic of squirrel obesity plaguing our fragile world. Live and learn, I guess. As for the cats, I'm guessing they ARE feral, because they aren't exactly keen on humans and run away at the slightest glance. For the time being, I think I'd better stick to one indoor pet and a couple dozen mean and fluffy outdoor ones.

COLUMN: Einstein's Pink Frosted Sister

It was definitely my own fault. I did it to myself. I was the one who uttered those two cursed words a couple weekends ago:

"I'm boooooored."

I announced this, without even thinking twice, to an audience of precisely one person -- and that person was actually a cat. She didn't seem nearly as concerned as I was.

When I went to college at Augustana, the majority of the student body (and hence the majority of my friends) came from the greater Chicagoland area. With few exceptions, most of my big city friends loved the college but hated the Quad Cities. Hearing them talk, it was as if their parents were punishing them by sending them to the outer reaches of civilization for their education. "There's nothing to do here!" was a refrain I'd hear often.

I don't come from Chicago. I grew up in Galesburg. I didn't have the heart to tell my friends that when the cool kids from MY town talked about going to "the big city" for the weekend, they meant HERE. I've always been of the opinion that the Quad Cities has perfectly enough to do. Chicago is a fun place to visit, don't get me wrong -- but there's something to be said for eight-minute commutes, river views, and the comforting knowledge that I could be escaping down a dusty country road towards the middle of nowhere by the time this song on the car radio ends.

But for a few fleeting moments that weekend, I felt like my whiny Chicago friends of yore. I was bored, and there was nothing going on. My close friends were all busy. I spent a good portion of that weekend sighing, pouting, and having an exceptionally pathetic pity party for a table of one. At one especially depressed point, I put on my shoes, resolute in my efforts to find entertainment. I drove my car about 3 blocks before giving up and returning to the house, muttering "there's nothing to do!" This time, I didn't even have my cat's attention. I was just whining to the open air.

I'm happy to say I made up for it this past weekend.

It's official: anyone who says "there's nothing to do here" is an idiot. Or at least doesn't check the calendar of events.

Last Friday night, I found myself at Davenport's Raccoon Motel, first in line to check out the rock stylings of Chicago shoegazers Airiel. I'm a big fan of the high-volume, laid-back bliss of the shoegaze subgenre, so I was prepared for the sonic onslaught. What I was NOT prepared, for, however, was the opening act. They were called Pink Frost, and they were angry. Or at least discontent. Something in their lives, or perhaps the lives of others, was clearly not going well, and they had things to say about it. Or occasionally scream about it.

It was amazing. This band came out with such an intensity that I was moderately concerned about the structural integrity of the building and/or my future ability to hear anything ever again. Wear your earplugs, kids - that's my PSA. But if you're ever going to be driven mad and deaf by a band, this would've been a solid choice. 

"Wow," a friend of mine said after a couple songs. "What do you think?"

"I WANT TO START A REVOLUTION," I replied. "I'm not sure what or whom we should be revolting against, but this noise is clearly a call to action." They were great. Airiel were great. Everybody was super nice. I felt 20 years younger. It was a rock and roll lovefest.

The next night, I was back in action, this time at Common Chord's Redstone Room for the long-awaiting reunion gig of local powerpop heroes Einstein's Sister. This was a show that was a little more my speed. Einstein's Sister have been doing their thing since I was a freshly-graduated idiot turned loose upon the world, and grey was the predominant hair color of the evening.

They're some of the best musicians in town. Their fans are some of the best people in town. It was a veritable who's who of experienced local music nerds, and there were more friends than strangers in the audience that night. It was less a concert and more a big party of friends, except that it was still VERY MUCH an amazing concert, too. Unannounced guests like local legends Manny Lopez and Nervous Neal Smith joined the band onstage, and the setlist leaned heavily on Einstein's classics alongside tracks from their newly released EP, "Exit Strategies." 

The set ran blessedly long and culminated in a lovingly shambolic, half-improvised cover of "Gimme Shelter" that saw almost a dozen musicians take to the stage. There's videos of it floating around online - try to find and watch it while reveling in the fact that we're lucky enough to co-exist in the same metropolitan area as these class acts.

It was a stellar weekend for music, friends, and fun. And after the year I've had, I no longer take nights like these for granted. I'm glad I live in the Quad Cities. I'm seldom bored. I'm grateful for my friends and the great venues we have in this area to get together and celebrate. And this week? I'm also awfully grateful for my couch. That's where you'll find me for the next few days. I could certainly go for a nice, boring weekend right about now. 

COLUMN: Salt

Today, I inadvertently channel-flipped into Blink 182's "I Miss You" and almost rolled a tear. Sometimes all it takes is a good melody and some simple lyrics to capture the unrelenting pain of missing that which will forever sit close to your heart.

I'm talking, of course, about salt. I miss you, salt. It's been months since we ended our relationship, and I'm starting to regret the break-up.

Salt will forever sit close to my heart. This is mostly because it's embedded in my arteries and will likely never leave, no matter how much bland broccoli I force down my gullet. When my doctors told me I should go on a low sodium diet, I said, "No problem." Just lay off the French fries and stop sprinkling table salt on my dinner plate and I should be all good, I figured.

It's not that easy.

Salt, it turns out, is everywhere. It's in everything. It's in bread. It's in cereal. It's in fudgesicles. If air had one of those "nutritional information" charts, we'd probably learn that air is loaded with sodium and we should all stop breathing immediately for the sake of our hearts. 

A few days ago, I was excited to try out a new restaurant that opened up in town. Their menu has a lot of healthy-looking fare like chicken and rice and veggies, so I thought it would coalesce nicely with my new heart-healthy diet. Then I had to be stupid and look up their menu's nutritional information. If you've ever felt the urge to look up a restaurant's nutritional information, my best advice is... don't. Trust me, it's better not to know.

I'm supposed to aim for around 1500 milligrams of sodium per day. The "healthy" dish I was eyeing at that restaurant turned out to have 3900 milligrams of sodium per serving. That's more than twice what I'm supposed to have in a DAY, let alone a single meal. Had I not looked this up before-hand, I'd probably still be bragging about the smart dinner choice I almost made. 

Thankfully, there seem to be a lot of people in my boat, which is why they make an array of sodium-free spice blends you can use in lieu of table salt. I think I've tried all of them over the past few months -- and they all pretty much taste like grit. Sometimes it's slightly garlicky grit. Sometimes it's slightly lemony grit. But it's grit regardless, and does little to nothing to enhance the flavor of whatever vegetable I'm trying to choke down.

Someone told me that if you stop eating things that are salty and sweet, you'll eventually learn to appreciate the other tastes. I've now spent months trying to develop a fondness for sour, bitter, or umami flavors. No dice. I'm pretty sure sour and bitter taste buds evolved for one reason: to tell us when the salty and/or sweet things we're craving have gone bad. That leaves umami, which no one can even easily define, other than some vague explanation like "savory-ness." 

If umami means bland and boring fare like turkey and beans and salmon, then crown me the 2023 Umami King, because that's pretty much all I've been living on for months now. I've been trying recipes for heart-healthy dishes, but it hasn't exactly been a culinary triumph. Last week, I tried a recipe for "heart-healthy vegetable soup." You know what heart-healthy vegetable soup WITHOUT SALT is? It's green things floating in tomato water. And it tastes exactly how you'd suspect green things floating in tomato water to taste (spoiler: not good.) 

One recipe was for "delicious heart-healthy chili." I'm not sure what the thing I ended up eating was. It was, by no definition I could muster, chili. At best, it was bland Mexican soup. Maybe if the recipe had been called "bland Mexican soup," I might have been like, "Hey, this bland Mexican soup isn't half bad." But the recipe was called "chili," and I can't forgive that. 

So my search for enjoyable yet healthy food continues. The other day I went to a family restaurant with friends and wanted to eat healthy, so I ordered their most boring meal: a chicken breast with a side of broccoli. I took one bite and made a face I wasn't expecting. "What's wrong?" my friend asked. "This is SO salty," I replied in shock. In hindsight, I don't think it was especially salty. It's just that I haven't cooked with salt in months, so to get something with even a hint of salt on it tasted like a brine explosion.

I'd like to tell you I went "eww!", complained to the manager, and didn't rest until I had a salt-free delicious meal in front of me. But when I said, "This is SO salty...," I'm pretty sure I followed that a few seconds later with, "...and AMAZING!" And then inhaled every morsel and milligram of that deliciously salty plate. And then drank three diet sodas because I was so parched. I'll try to curb my addiction now before you find me on a street corner begging for sea salt. In the meantime, I'll be over there in the corner trying to will broccoli into tasting NOT like broccoli.  

COLUMN: Spooky Season

Spooky season is once again upon us -- and, as per usual, I've assumed my annual role as the Grinch-o'-ween, grimacing at most things that October fans adore.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I despise dressing up in costume. I despise other people dressed up in costume. I have social anxiety. Putting me into a party situation where I'm forced to small talk with people I barely know is a risky enough proposition on a GOOD day. But if you make me small talk with someone dressed up like Barbie or Chewbacca, it's basically like inviting me to a parade of panic attacks.

True story: one time I bumped into an old college friend at a Halloween thing. I was wearing normal clothes. He was dressed up like a Stormtrooper. He came up and did some schticky Stormtrooper bit, like "Halt! Identify yourself!" I laughed like a lunatic, turned tail, and legit RAN AWAY at a decent trot. That's how well I cope with not being able to recognize people in costume. Halloween parties are a swell time for me.

I also hate being scared. I've never been to a haunted house, nor will I. There are friends who count the days until haunted-house season every year. Heck, there are friends who count the days until they can put on make-up and go WORK at haunted houses every year. If that's your thing, groovy. If you want to squeal while my friends chase you around with rubber knives, have a blast. But it's definitely not MY thing -- and never more so than this year.

My usual response to haunted house invites used to be, "No thanks, you go have fun getting spooked. I know how many cheeseburgers I've eaten in my life, and I reckon my heart doesn't have too many scares left ha ha ha ho ho ho."

That joke loses its lustre after you spend the summer in cardiac rehab. You can keep your jump scares to yourself. There's a lot of things my life needs at the moment, but sudden bursts of adrenaline are NOT it. I'm on an all-tranquility diet with a side helping of blood thinners, thanks much. 

Last night, however, was a test of how well that cardiac stent's working. 

I went to the gym after work, so it was nice and dark and spooky as I was pulling down my alley. That's when I saw him. Standing in the middle of the alley, directly behind my garage, was a Random Creepy Guy. Like something straight out of a movie, there was a motionless figure standing perfectly still, Blair-Witch style, in the middle of the alley with his back to me. I quickly pulled into the garage and closed the overhead door while Creeper Guy continued to creep.

There's about six paces between my garage and my house, which is plenty enough room for a homicidal maniac to axe-murder me, I reckon. But it's also being filmed 24/7 by my security cameras, so if I DID get axe-murdered, at least my next of kin would have a nice snuff film as a souvenir. Before I opened the garage door, I pulled up my camera feed on my cell phone to make sure the coast was clear. There was nary a bogeyman in sight. Still, you can't be too safe. That's why I had a plan.

By opening my garage door, I was also silently setting off my security alarm. I knew I had exactly thirty seconds before it called the police. This would be just enough time to get into the house and deactivate the alarm, provided I had a murder-free stroll to my back door. I opened the garage door with every bit of my attention on the Random Creeper Guy in the alley. But with all my attention turned towards what was behind me, I didn't even notice what was in front of me.

At the top of my back steps, there's a little shelf to rest groceries or what-have-you while you open the door. What I didn't notice in the dark was the stray alley cat having a snooze on that shelf. Honestly, I don't know which of us was scared more. It hissed. I screamed. It jumped pretty much directly at my face. I nearly fell backwards off the steps. It zigged. I zagged. And somewhere in this fracas, my keys went flying to the ground. 

"Hey Siri," I yelled. "Turn flashlight on."

"What was that?" replied Random Creepy Guy from over my shoulder. I screamed again.

It wasn't a creeper after all. It was my neighbor, who had been taking a break from lugging some heavy stuff down the alley. In that spooky and dark October moment, though, I just assumed he was Freddy and/or Jason and/or Michael Myers wrapped up in a tidy little murderous bow.

But rather than axe-murder me, he helped me find my keys. Then I had the fun duty of getting inside and immediately calling my security company, who were in the midst of sending the police to my back yard. It was not my finest moment. THIS IS WHY I HATE HALLOWEEN, PEOPLE.

Except that I honestly don't. While I hate jump scares and things that go REDRUM in the night, I like creepy stuff. As long as nothing jumps out and yells "BOO!," I like ghost hunting shows and eerie movies and chills in the air. In fact, I'm DJing a spooky Halloween party on the 31st. I might even go in costume and (gasp) talk to other people in costume. Just don't force me into dumb small talk. The last thing anyone needs is their DJ laughing like a maniac and running out the door.

COLUMN: Workout Playlists

There's a lot of things to pay attention to when you're exercising regularly for the first time in your life.

Are my weights set correctly? What's my goal? What the heck are "mets" and am I achieving enough of them? How's my pulse looking? Do I need to add more resistance?

And then there's me, whose priority clearly seems to be: What music am I listening to, and have I quite possibly created the greatest workout playlist ever known to man? I'm pretty sure the answer is yes.

Ever since I started going to the gym, I've been fascinated by what everyone listens to. Almost every single person in the place is sporting a pair of earbuds or wireless headphones. What's everyone's go-to exercise soundtrack? I really wanna know, and I kinda wanna judge you for your answers.

I know it's exceptionally poor taste to spy on people, especially when they're exercising. Lord knows I don't anyone to cast a single glance my way while I'm wheezing on a treadmill. But sometimes it's hard not to take a quick peek at your exercise neighbors. Thus far, it's been alarming.

Last week, I was mid-workout when some random girl climbed aboard the treadmill next to mine and proceeded to run at a pace almost twice my speed. Of course, she was barely breaking a sweat while I was an exhausted pile of goo. I wondered what she must be listenening to in order to maintain such an impressive pace. I assumed it was some kind of uplighting, high energy, beat-driven dance frenzy. Then I caught a glimpse of her phone.

As it turned out, she wasn't even listening to music. Her phone was playing an episode of The Kardashians. She wasn't vibing to some motivational club anthem. She was watching vapid millionaires be vapid. I'm pretty sure it's the least motivational thing I could possibly think of to watch. But the more I considered it, it honestly makes perfect sense -- after all, whenever I see one of those Kardashian people pop up on my TV, my initial instinct is to run away at top speed. Why not do it on a treadmill and call it exercise? 

But nothing in my brain can rationalize the dude in front of me the other day. Again, I swear I wasn't trying to be nozy. But the guy was on an exercise bike directly in front of my line of sight, and he had his phone propped up so it was basically the only thing I could focus on when staring straight ahead. And on that phone, he was watching the astonishingly bad 1981 animated movie, "Heavy Metal." Now THAT is an impressively niche choice, my sweaty friend.

"Heavy Metal" is essentially a series of animated vignettes similar to "Fantasia," except instead of classical music, you get Sammy Hagar and Blue Oyster Cult. It's also really quite bad. Maybe it was cutting edge for 1981, but when viewed through 2023 eyeballs, it looks about as cool as an episode of "He-Man." Still, I was able to recognize the movie from a tiny phone screen feet away because I've seen it a kajillion times. No one my age watched "Heavy Metal" because it was good. We watched "Heavy Metal" because it contained a few titillating seconds of scandalous animated nudity, and thus every adolescent boy around that time declared it to be the greatest film of all time. Why one might watch it forty years later in a public YMCA, however, is beyond my understanding. To each their own, I guess.

I'm still experimenting with my exercise music playlist. It's a mix of dance music from the 70s to present, with a focus on newer club tracks that make me feel like a fit and active 20-something and NOT a 50-something chubster grooving out to tunes made by people half my age, played irresponsibly loud to make me feel especially young, dumb, and inspired. It's a work in progress, but I think it's great.

I did, however, inadvertently discover the music NOT to play while one works out. The other day, I thought I could multi-task at the gym. Local promoters Void Church are throwing a super spooky Halloween bash at Wake Brewing in Rock Island on the 31st, and I've been tapped to share DJ duties that night. It'll mostly be an evening of goth, industrial, and darkwave alternative music from yesteryear, so I've been going through tracks looking for some gems to dust off that night. At the gym the other day, I decided to peruse some of Spotify's goth playlists in hopes of finding some good spooky tracks for the party.

I hit shuffle on the playlist and hopped on an elliptical machine. Within seconds, my ears were greeted by a surplus of haunting, ethereal, and entirely inappropriate workout music. I went to skip ahead, but quickly realized my phone was in a cubby-hole just out of reach. I didn't want to stop the elliptical and ruin the good heart rate I'd worked up, so I decided to just power through for a half hour and let the playlist shuffle away. What followed was the weirdest workout of all time. The All-Music Guide refers to the British group Cranes as "chilling," "unsettling," and "nervously threatening," which is exactly the kind of vibe you don't need to conjure up at the YMCA. Yet the Cranes, This Mortal Coil, and Bauhaus soundtracked my evening jog on the elliptical that night.

So if you were wandering around the YMCA last week and saw a sweaty fat lunatic giggling to himself, he was NOT plotting your demise, I promise. He was just REALLY amused to be jogging to a soundtrack of death, despair, and loneliness. Maybe my new calling is to become the Richard Simmons of the counter-culture set -- I can lead classes called "Sweatin' With The Goths" where dour day-walkers in all-black shuffle around morosely to the dulcet angst of the Sisters of Mercy. You've got to admit, it'd be better than watching The Kardashians. 

COLUMN: Spin Class

I think I've officially figured out my least favorite part about the little, err, cardiac event I suffered earlier this summer.

Was it the pain? Nah. The multiple doctor visits?  The complete 180-degree lifestyle change I've had to make? The unwanted reminder of the fragility of existence? The taste of broccoli?

Nope. I'm pretty sure my least favorite part of this whole ordeal is that I can no longer make fun of people who exercise.

Let's not mince words: I was judging you people. From the comfort of my sedentary lifestyle with a burger in my hand, I was judging you and your sanctimonious, self-righteous ways. Every time you jogged past my house, I was judging you and all your friends with the unmitigated gall to run through life physically fit. I'm talking to all you people with your gyms and your hot yogas and your 5Ks thinking you're better than us lowly couch-dwelling folk. I mocked your very presence in our world.

And now? Now... I am one of you. I walk on treadmills and lift weights and stand upright on elliptical machines for TEN WHOLE MINUTES yesterday. I can no longer mock the exercised, for I have drank from their Kool-Aid. Their sugar-free, low carb, electrolyte-laden Kool-Aid. When I woke the other day at 7 a.m. and thought, "oh, I should go work out for a bit," that was the precise moment I lost any claim at mocking people who exercise. 

It didn't stop me from trying, though -- but karma saw through that right away. The morning I woke at 7 a.m. was the morning of the Quad City Marathon. As I crossed the Centennial Bridge en route to the gym, dozens of runners were also making their way across. It was downright chilly that morning, but of course in the thick of the runners were a couple dudes completely shirtless, jogging in little more than short shorts.

"You idiots," I thought to myself. "I bet you're freezing your little --" WHAM.

That was the precise moment when I got rear-ended by the car behind me. I have a feeling he was staring at and probably mocking the same dudes I was. My car was less dented than the front of his truck, but this was clearly karma telling me that my days of being mean and judgemental towards people with active lifestyles were probably over.

Except maybe for one last thing. Before I swear off mocking the exercise set forever, can we just talk about ONE thing real quick? Can we just, maybe if only for a quick second, talk about... SPIN CLASSES?

Now, I'm new to gym life and I'm sure these classes are wonderful. I've never stepped foot inside a spin class, but there's a room for it at the YMCA. I've never caught more than a stolen glance inside it -- mostly because they keep it super dark in there with disco lights flying around. Maybe there's WAY more to it than what I've seen. Maybe it's magically fun and amazing and awesome.

But from what I've glimpsed, it's basically a room full of exercise bikes, and you pedal them REALLY fast. Like, fleeing-a-crime-scene fast. Certainly faster than I'm capable of. And the whole time, beats are thumping, disco lights are flying, and there's a miked-up instructor screaming over the whole thing. I can't ever tell if the teachers are super motivational, super excited, or super mean. From outside the classroom, it's basically like listening to Charlie Brown's teacher, if Charlie Brown's teacher consumed WAY too much coffee that morning. 

I'm sure it's great fun, so please don't write me mean letters. But I know I couldn't handle the pace or the yelling -- and above all else, I certainly couldn't handle the music, which is usually the worst type of aggressively-caffeinated European techno imaginable. This makes sense, because whenever I hear music THAT insipidly obnoxious, my first instinct is to pedal as fast and far away from it as humanly possible. Maybe the people in spin class are like hamsters running endlessly on wheels in a futile effort to flee the Vengaboys.

I fear I may never know anything more about spin class, because me and the other chubsters give that room a wiiiiiide berth when we're at the YMCA. It is for svelte, sadistically healthy people and it frankly scares the rest of us. We don't even dare look in that direction. Honestly, if you were a nefarious group of evil-doers and needed a hideout to plan your evil-doing, you should do it in a spin class -- I promise you, none of us will ever bother you in there. Oh, and once you finally commit your evil-doing, you could probably just pedal quickly away with your toned physiques while the rest of us wheeze and high-five each other for walking a half-mile on a treadmill without vomiting.

I want to hate on spin class for pages and pages, but I can't. The people in there look like they're having fun. Well, some of them. The rest look like they're actively dying, but that's exercise for ya. It's sort of like wee tiny episodes of torture that are good for you. I'm sure spin class is a hoot. Just don't mind me while I look the other way, slip in my earpods, and listen to WAY better music.    

COLUMN: Teresa

My friend Teresa died last week.

The obituary in the paper was rather small. There will be no services. She lived alone, in a rental house about the size of my garage. She didn't have much of a social life. She mostly kept to herself.

But for about a decade, Teresa sat in the chair next to mine here in our newspaper's advertising department. She was a cherished member of our work family, and it's tough to accept that she's gone.

Did we get on each other's nerves? Heck yeah, we did. Like any family member you spend years with, we knew EXACTLY how to push each other's buttons. But was she one of my favorite people in the world? Absolutely. Teresa could make me laugh like few others could. Sometimes all it took was a glance. Good times or bad, we had each other's backs. 

Wherever she is right now, I guarantee she's mad as heck. Her obituary the other day may have been small, but it contained the one piece of information she never wanted any of us to know: her real age. She hid that number from everyone on Earth, and she hid it well. Once we had a work outing to a bar, and I begged the door guy to card her just so we could catch a glimpse of her ID. She straight up said she'd turn around and go home, and she meant it. That was nobody's business but hers.

We never knew her real age, but we had clues. One time, a Hendrix song came on the radio and Teresa out of nowhere just said, "Oh, he was so good live." And I was like, "Wait, what? You saw Jimi Hendrix in concert?" and she just casually replied, "Sure, yeah, a couple times. He was talented." And then she'd nonchalantly go about the rest of her day as if she hadn't just raised her level of coolness exponentially.

She didn't talk much about her past. She was married once. It didn't take. She seldom told stories of those days, but occasionally they'd slip out. Once, I was retelling a weekend adventure of driving back from Chicago on a starry night and pulling over to stare at the Milky Way. "Oh yeah," she replied, "That sounds like the night my ex and I went mountain climbing in Colorado." Again, we were all like, "Whaaat?" Teresa lived some exciting years -- she was just selective in who she let in to learn that side of her.

Another reason why she's probably mad as heck right now is that she shuffled off this mortal coil without getting to learn who wins this season of Big Brother. Teresa loved reality television with a fiery passion and just assumed everyone else did, too. I'd come into the office bleary on a Monday morning and she'd greet me with, "Could you believe what Jen said to Rob last night? I thought Cody was going to lose it!" She was on a first-name basis with every contestant on Survivor and Big Brother. Eventually, she wore me down and I started watching, too, mostly so we'd have something to talk about. A year later, she'd ask me, "Could you believe what Jen said to Rob last night?" and I'd spin and be like, "I KNOW! CODY WAS GOING TO LOSE IT!" I still watch Big Brother to this day, and it's all her fault.

With her gone, I also worry about the future economic stability and fiscal solvency of Asian restaurants in Moline. I remember when she was laid up at home with a bad back and I asked her if she needed anything. "Umm," she replied, "egg foo young?" I learned much about egg foo young from Teresa. What it consists of, which local restaurants make it the best, and even how to make it at home. Thanks to her, I am a walking encyclopedia of egg foo young knowledge. Note: I do not like egg foo young.

The only things Teresa hated more than red meat were spiders. She would never leave for break or lunch without first picking up her coat, examining it thoroughly, and shaking it violently to dislodge any potential 8-legged hitchhikers. Once when she was at lunch, I thought it would be funny to change her computer's desktop background to a big ol' spider because Shane's a funny guy, ha-ha-ho-ho. When she came back and that picture popped on her screen, she SHRIEKED. Not in a ha-ha-ho-ho way. In a horror movie way. In a way that all work in the building stopped and people came racing in from other departments assuming to find a murderer and murderee. In a way that I never messed with her again about spiders.   

Occasionally, she'd make amazing everything-but-the-kitchen-sink casseroles and bring them to share. The first time she brought in a casserole (and every time that followed), there was a Post-It note attached to one side that said, "SHANE'S CORNER." I was a bit confused as to why the casserole had assigned real estate.

"Duh," she explained, "I remember you saying you don't like onions, so I made sure to leave onions out of that one corner." True to her word, there was never an onion in Shane's Corner. I miss those casseroles. I miss those corners. I miss my friend.

The last year we worked together, she was having back issues worse than usual and it was her birthday. I thought I'd surprise her, so I got her a birthday shout-out video from Fessy Shafaat, her favorite contestant on Big Brother. Before he recorded the video, he sent a note asking how old she was turning. "Not sure," I wrote back. "Maybe 71. Maybe 51. Maybe 101. Maybe 21. No one knows for sure, and she'd like to keep it that way."

COLUMN: Y.M.C.A.

Some people have hot girl summers. I apparently get heart attack summers.

Ever since politely declining an invitation back in June from a hooded gentleman with a scythe, I've spent a good portion of the last three months climbing aboard a delightful array of assorted treadmills and elliptical machines in order to teach my blood how to once again flow throughout my body unencumbered. It's been a swell time.

Truth be told, I haven't altogether hated it. Honestly, it's occasionally been kinda (gasp) fun. I've lost a decent amount of weight, I've gained a ton of stamina, and I've met some really great people. Not once has anyone pointed and called me names, so cardiac rehab has already proven itself to be a MILLION times more valuable than junior high gym class ever was.

But all good things come to an end, and I've only got a few remaining sessions before I graduate rehab, receive my complimentary t-shirt, and get shown the door. From there, staying on the healthy path will be entirely up to me. Gulp.

I'm in it for the long haul, though. I've done the hard part. I've turned that new leaf. I deleted the pizza delivery numbers off my phone. This is the longest I've gone without a cheeseburger in my adult life. I've got a long road ahead of me to get back in fighting form, but I'm already a few miles farther down that highway than I ever thought I'd get. 

And this week, I did something I never thought would happen. Shane Brown, of his own free will and volition, joined the YMCA.

The me of two decades ago would've hung his mouth open in utter shock upon hearing such nonsense. WILLINGLY entering a building where people PURPOSELY sweat and work out without a sectional sofa or flatscreen TV in sight? Say it ain't so.

But listen, I've done my research -- and I have it on pretty good authority they have everything for a man to enjoy, I can hang out with all the boys, and it's fun to stay at the YMCA. Honestly, if you can't trust a cop, a construction worker, a soldier, an Indian, a cowboy, and a biker, who CAN you trust? 

I've been to the YMCA a handful of times now, and I've already noticed a few things.

At cardiac rehab, I sometimes feel like an athlete. It's easy to have confidence when you're surrounded by exercise professionals who know what they're doing and your heart rhythm is being monitored by attentive nurses in real time. Each week, I've been adding a little more resistance and speed to hopefully improve my performance and capability. It's almost like I'm becoming a real jock or something.

And then I went to the YMCA and had a bit of a reality check. I'm definitely no jock. Over the past few sessions at rehab, I've been quite proud of myself for trying their stand-up elliptical machine. Ten minutes on that baby and I'm an exhausted, flabby pile of ick trying hard not to barf. Well, the YMCA has a bunch of those machines, too. And the first time I was there, I watched a dude log 60 minutes on one of those things while chatting on his phone and barely breaking a sweat. Last time I was there, I thought I was walking a decent pace on the treadmill until two girls got on either side of me and starting running at more than double my speed. I am many things, but a "real jock" is NOT one of them.

Still, no-one laughed at me, and I've yet to flee in terror. I've been hitting the YMCA after work on my off days from rehab. I signed up for their fancy e-Gym, where the machines act as your own personal trainers and automatically adjust weights and resistance to meet your exact needs. Today, one of those machines told me I currently have the upper body muscle strength of an 83-year-old, so thaaaat's awesomesauce. I tried to see if I can do more than ten minutes on THEIR stand-up ellipiticals -- and I cannot (yet.) Their treadmills are high-tech and have screens where you can pretend you're walking along a beach in Europe or through the mountains of Argentina. Today, it randomly chose a casual stroll down the Sunset Strip. I was hoping to bump into Axl or Slash along the way, but no dice. 

So here's to this good thing not coming to an end anytime soon, and here's to getting that Village People song out of my head as soon as possible. Don't worry, once I become a buff and toned jock with abs of steel, I won't point, laugh, or kick sand in your face as I walk past you on the beach with a hot babe on each arm. Promise.

COLUMN: Am I A Prude?

As I've said many times in the past, one of my biggest fears in life is the self-realization that I've become a... (gasp) fuddy-duddy.  

I'm seeing it happen more and more often, like when my friends who used to stay out until dangerous hours doing dangerous things are now tucked into bed by 10 p.m. Like when I flip past the oldies channel and they're playing a song that came out AFTER I graduated college. Like when I see some hooligan on the street and immediately assume they're up to no good. When I use words like "hooligan." 

I am no longer a spring chicken -- but I do a decent job at living in denial. I still occasionally do dangerous things at dangerous hours -- but the danger is mostly me going, "Gosh, it's late. I bet there's a lot of drunks on the road. I need to be extra cautious during these risky hours of travel." I still watch TV shows about 20-somethings and their 20-something problems. I share silly viral videos off TikTok and find myself astonished when my friends have no idea what I'm talking about.

But the biggest denial of my laps around the sun happens on the weekends, when I spend my evenings filling dancefloors with people half my age. I might have a mild-mannered day job during the week, but when the weekend comes, you can usually find me in some DJ booth, doing my very best to soundtrack a great night out for clubgoers young enough to be my children. And it doesn't phase me one bit. When I'm behind the DJ decks, I never feel like the old guy in the room. I'm just focused on the tunes. But as much as I don't want to admit it, sometimes the tunes are what makes me feel ancient.

Everyone says the music of their era was the best music ever -- and everyone is usually wrong. The music of your youth is simply what you identify with the most, and it will usually always be your go-to. Big band fans probably hated Elvis. Elvis fans probably hated the Beatles. Beatles fans probably hated disco. While it's great to have favorites, it's always a pet peeve to hear someone say, "today's music is TERRIBLE!" Just because you don't identify with something doesn't make it inherently bad.

At least, that's what I always believed. Then the 2020's showed up. Maybe I'm officially old. Maybe I'm officially becoming set in my ways. That said, there's been some straight up TERRIBLE music climbing the charts lately. 

"Excuse me?" the cute, polite, well-mannered girl at the club asked last weekend. "Do you take requests?"

"Maybe," I replied with a smile. "Whatcha wanna hear?"

"Thanks," she said. "Can you play '[EXPLETIVE] On My [EXPLETIVE]?'"

I played it for her. But I also kinda wanted to wash her mouth out with soap, or at the very least offer a brief but informative lecture on self-respect and safe sex practices. But it's official - I know I'm becoming a fuddy-duddy when the lyrics to today's pop songs start embarassing me. But seriously, have you HEARD some of these tracks? 

Back in the Fifties, they wouldn't show Elvis' hips on TV for fear of upsetting people. In the Seventies, punk rock was the shocking sound of molten anger. In my era, the limits of decency were shattered by the fiendishly filthy 2 Live Crew, whose juvenile raps caused such outrage Congress got involved.

Well, the 2 Live Crew may as well be Kidz Bop compared to some of the most popular songs in the clubs right now. I bet these tracks would even make Luke from 2 Live Crew blush. I wonder if he has teenagers now? I wonder if he lets them listen to these filthy new songs? I'd really like to picture some poor kid getting a lecture about morality from the guy who wrote "Me So Horny."

But last weekend really brought it all home for me. A retro cover band was playing a Gilda's Club event at the Rust Belt, and yours truly got the opportunity to show up and open the night DJing a set of all 80s music. I hate people who say the music of their era was the best music ever -- except when people from the 80s say it, because they're correct. 80s nusic was, is, and always shall be magical.

That night, I didn't have to worry about the Top 40 charts. I didn't have to worry about being a fuddy-duddy. I certainly didn't have to worry about [EXPLETIVE] on my [EXPLETIVE]. That night, I was only focused on a few key concepts: (1) That I was living on a prayer, (2) that girls just want to have fun, and (3) that I had to fight for my right to party. I'm not one to brag, but that night, I may have rocked down to electric avenue and then I took it higher. It was ridiculous fun, and I got to drop New Kids, Debbie Gibson, AND Tiffany in the span of a half hour, so my mission was accomplished.

I have no plans to stop mixing records unless clubs finally decide to stop hiring an old guy to do it -- and the way I see it, I'll eventually cycle back to being cool again, because what club wouldn't want to book the old senior citizen DJ who limps into the booth with a cane and then melts peoples faces off with sick beats? In the meantime, if you ever want to throw an 80s party, you know who to call.

COLUMN: AI Shane

Are you familiar with those cheesy motivational posters that some people hang on their office walls? You know, the ones that say cringeworthy things like "PERSEVERANCE" beneath a picture of a sailboat trying to navigate a stormy sea? Yeah, I've always hated those posters.

I once had a boss who COVERED his office with those tacky things. On his first day, he summoned every employee for a one-on-one, and I proceeded to open my mouth and insert my foot immediately upon arrival. "Whoa," I exclaimed uncontrollably as I looked around his office. "Was there a sale somewhere at Motivational-Posters-R-Us?" That boss never liked me much. I can't imagine why.

Well, maybe I have a guess or two. Perhaps it was the "motivational" poster that hung for years in my cubicle. It was a gorgeous shot of a beach at sunset with the word MOTIVATION in giant print. Beneath it, an inspirational message I could always turn to during rough times: "If a pretty poster and a cute saying are all it takes to motivate you, you probably have a very easy job. The kind robots will be doing soon."

Well, it's been twenty years or so since I hung that poster up -- I figure it's high time we gave those robots a shot.

Nothing's been more buzzworthy this year than artificial intelligence and ChatGPT, the interface that lets you talk to a robot and beg it to write your term papers for you. Artificial intelligence is here, it's smart, and it's becoming hard to tell the difference between AI and a real person. 

This smart technology has grown considerably, even over the past couple years. If you don't believe me, go to Youtube and search "AI commercials" and watch some great clips from a few years back, when they tasked AI machines to study the human race and produce TV advertisements humans would like. The resulting ads were delicious nightmares, where eight-legged breakdancers with cheese for lips told you that pizza was better than family.

Today, though, teachers are literally struggling to tell the difference between real homework assignments and AI-generated cheats. The practical benefits of advancing AI are limitless, from self-driving cars to robots that can do the intellectual heavy lifting for us. Of course, the down side is that we as a people continually move ever closer to a dystopian future where mankind becomes enslaved by robots smarter than us. "The Terminator" CANNOT become a documentary, people.

That said, if a kid can now skate through college letting a robot write his term papers, there's absolutely no reason why a tired newspaper columnist can't take a quick vacation and let some piece of software write his newspaper column for a week, right? I figured it was worth a shot, so I went to the ChatGPT interface this week and gave it a simple command:

"WRITE A NEWSPAPER COLUMN IN THE STYLE OF DISPATCH/ARGUS AND QUAD CITY TIMES COLUMNIST SHANE BROWN."

Simple enough, right?  It took ChatGPT about 3.5 seconds to deliver a 700 word column. This was the first paragraph:

"Saddle Tales: Where Hooves and Hearts Converge, by Shane Brown.  Howdy there, folks, and welcome back to another riveting ride through the wild and wonderful world of the Quad Cities. Today, I reckon we're gonna stir up some dust and dive right into a topic that's as timeless as the Mississippi's flow – horses. Yep, you heard me right, those four-legged companions that have been galloping through history, leaving hoofprints on our hearts and heritage."

I will never doubt technology again. Had I not given you a spoiler alert, there's no way you would've known that paragraph wasn't written by me, eh? The artificial intelligence knows me perfectly: my fondness of the word "howdy," my predilection for flowery alliteration, and of course, my favorite column topic of all time: horses. You nailed it, ChatGPT!

Don't blame the robot, though. It was pretty cocky for me to have assumed that ChatGPT would have any earthly idea who Shane Brown is, let alone what my "style" would be. Just because one nice lady at the grocery store last week told me she liked my column (aww!) does NOT make me a household name worthy of anyone's intelligence, artificial or no.

Also, I'm not saying that I Google my own name on the regular, but if you DO fancy searching online for "Shane Brown," you'll likely run into a business called Shane Brown Performance Horses. That particular Shane Brown lives in Texas, likes horses considerably more than myself, and has no qualms posing against fenceposts while wearing spurs that I can only presume jingle, jangle, and jingle. I believe ChatGPT just wrote a column in HIS style, not mine.

Artificial intelligence has evolved, but probably not quite to the point where I can take a vacation and leave my column in its good hands -- mostly because artificial intelligence doesn't have hands. Yet. Please tell me it doesn't have hands. 

COLUMN: Riverdale

Last week, I was a bit of a Debbie Downer. Instead of the usual silly banter about cats and pop culture, I used my column space to eulogize a dear friend who left us way too soon. I was hoping to get back to more silliness this week, but alas, another friend has left us way too soon, and I fear we may need one more eulogy.

Farewell, Riverdale. You were the most ridiculous TV show I've ever been hooked on, and you will be missed. It's undoubtedly going to be a good long while before a show this bonkers ever gets greenlit again, so let's take a moment to sit back and appreciate its profoundly silly legacy.

If you've never watched Riverdale, either (a) you don't watch the CW network, or (b) you don't have anyone under 25 living in your home. Youth seems to be a fundamental prerequisite to even approach an appreciation for Riverdale. Either that or you need to be a newspaper columnist with the emotional maturity of a teenager and WAY too much time on his hands.

For those who haven't had the pleasure, Riverdale is loosely based on the beloved, long-running Archie comics. The characters we know and love from the comic books of yore are all present and accounted for. There's plucky teenager Archie Andrews and his best pal, Jughead. And there's Archie's competing love interests: girl-next-door Betty and big-city socialite Veronica. They live in the quaint everytown of Riverdale and their lives are filled with wacky hijinks and the whimsical follies of life as a teenager.

Its just that the hijinks and follies on the TV show are a tad less wacky and whimsical and a bit more psychotic and murderous.

In the Archie comics, the gang's plans are often foiled by the hard-nosed Miss Grundy, their white-haired, no-nonsense teacher at Riverdale High. In the TV show, we also meet Miss Grundy right away in the pilot episode -- when she and Archie are having sex while they accidentally witness a murder. Yep, it took about one minute of the pilot episode to realize this isn't your dad's Archie comic.

The Archie I grew up with liked to hang out with his friends eating burgers and shakes at Pop's Chock'lit Shop. In the TV show, Pop's is a front for Veronica's secret speakeasy she runs out of the basement. In the comics, Archie's teenage garage band writes a song called "Jingle Jangle." In the TV show, Jingle Jangle is the illicit street drug that the gangs of Riverdale riot to control. I would love to have been a fly on the wall in the Riverdale writer's room. You know those people had FUN.

Riverdale was helmed by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa, a writer who -- true story -- had once been sent a cease-and-desist letter from Archie Comics for trying to mount an unauthorized stage play where Archie moves to New York and comes out of the closet. Critics were never kind to Riverdale's half-sensical crazypants plotlines, but the teenage fans of the show ate it up until the plotlines became too hammy for even the most ardent of fans.

In the first season, Archie and his pals try to solve a murder. In the second season, there's a serial killer stalking Riverdale. In the third, there's a crazy cult AND the school falls victim to a fad Dungeons-and-Dragons style game that drives students insane. By the time the sixth season rolled around, even the craziest plotlines were running out of steam -- so they decided to give Archie and his friends SUPERPOWERS, because what the heck, why not? It got to a point towards the end where even the cast seemed embarassed of their own show.

Me? I ate it up. I was perfectly okay with the hammy dialogue, the insane plot twists, and the absurdity of the whole thing. If you're wanting to watch something grounded in reality, maybe pick a show that ISN'T based on a comic book? If you want gritty drama that reveals the inner truths about the nature of man, maybe choose a show without a lead character named JUGHEAD? If you're watching Riverdale and expecting anything other than mindless popcorn fun, you're doing it wrong.

Riverdale was a glorious train wreck, and I shall miss my favorite secret shame. Worse yet, with its passing, so too ends the CW network as we've known it. For years, the CW has been THE home for impeccably cool young-adult TV. When it first sprung from the ashes of the WB and UPN, the CW gave us shows like Gilmore Girls, Supernatural, The Vampire Diaries, and Gossip Girl, which helped cement the network's legacy for top-tier content. Over the past decade, it's been the home of fantastic superhero shows like Arrow, The Flash, and Supergirl. Its the network that birthed Veronica Mars and My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, two of the most compelling TV shows to ever exist outside of streaming.

But the CW was recently sold to Nexstar, who immediately cleaned house and cancelled nearly every venture that made the CW special. In an effort to make the always-struggling network profitable, its new owners are moving to a line-up that will rely heavily on low-budget reality TV, shows licensed from other countries, and sports coverage with minimal production budgets (starting next year, the CW will be the new home for the NASCAR Xfinity series.)

While the CW never turned a profit, it DID turn heads -- and made executives realize there's an audience for ridiculous shows like Riverdale. Hopefully, other networks and streaming services noticed. With any luck, someday someone will launch a TV show even more bonkers than "Riverdale." I really don't want to be forced to watch GOOD television. Those shows are kinda Debbie Downers.