COLUMN: Javier the Time Traveler

In keeping with my role here as a hard-hitting journalist who focuses on the issues that matter, I feel like it's my duty to bring everyone up to speed on the latest developments in time travel.

Last time we spoke on this, I told you about a TikTok user named Eno Alric ("theradianttimetraveler") who purports to be a time traveler from the year 2671. Alric claims to have traveled to the past on a mission to spread warnings about our future fate. You know, run-of-the-mill events like California falling into the ocean, lizard people being among us -- and, per his latest TikToks, scientists will discover a bunker on February 27 containing an alien species that emits a liquid from its mouth that can stop human aging and make our skin rock hard. So there's something to look forward to.

Of course, Alric has also made countless predictions yet to come through, but I'd guess his truth-telling caused a rift in the space-time continuum, altered the events of future human history, and saved us from destruction. He's clearly the hero we need, and I see no reason to doubt him. After all, there's only two possible truths here: (1) A time-traveler from a future world has come to warn us of impending danger, and has decided the best way to do so is via an app where children lip-sync to vulgar songs; or, (2) someone on the internet is lying, which obviously never happens. If you can't trust a complete stranger on TikTok, who CAN you trust? This guy is clearly the real deal.

But friends, Alric is the least of our worries. Just when I got used to receiving urgent warnings about my fate from ONE time-traveller, another has shown up on TikTok. And this guy means business.

His name is Javier, aka "LoneSurvivor," and he, too, hails from the future. But apparently it's a DIFFERENT future than Alric, because Javier claims to be from 2027 and brings us terrible news. Apparently something rather bad has happened, and all of humanity has been wiped off the map -- except for him. He is the last surviving human. Fortunate coincidence, then, that the last surviving human ALSO has the ability to travel back in time and warn us of our doom, with only a mere four years to spare.

But owing to cold-hearted naysayers on the internet who don't believe him, Javier doesn't spend any time telling us what happened to the human race or how to stop the pending apocalypse. Instead, he spends his time on TikTok posting videos from 2027 as proof he's the last person alive on Earth. His evidence is indisputable.

For instance, in one video, he films himself walking alone at night in an empty parking lot. I don't know about you, but that's all the proof I need that humanity's been destroyed. I've never seen an empty parking before in my life. In another video, he's in a corner of a museum by himself and there's no one else there! My God, how can we stop this plague? Interestingly, though, the museum still appears to have POWER. The lights are on. Javier must have a portable generator he carries with his as he traverses the post-apocalyptic wasteland. That's the best way to explain how he charges his phone to allow him to take all these pics from the empty and desolate future.

I have to admit, I am a bit curious as to HOW humanity disappeared from the planet. In his many videos, we see Javier walking along empty sidewalks and buildings without any sign of other human beings. Had the apocalypse struck, wouldn't the earth be littered with a few billion pesky corpses laying about? In fact, Javier's apocalypse looks downright tidy. It's as if whatever killed off humanity at least had the manners to dust and polish the place before it left. 

There's also no sign of any animals in Javier's videos. I would assume that within minutes of the human race being raptured off the planet, Earth would pretty much belong to the raccoons. You'd think packs of wild chickens would be running the streets while bears hibernated in our skyscrapers, but it appears nature is keeping to itself in Javier's videos. 

Still, I see no reason to doubt Javier. Well, maybe one reason. Let's suspend disbelief and assume you live in a future that may or may not be a terrifying end-of-days hellscape. The GOOD news is that you've also just invented time travel (whew!). You can go anywhere, see anything, live in any era. You could hang out with dinosaurs. You could re-live the moment man walked on the moon. You could use your future knowledge to invest in Microsoft, buy a mansion, and live out your days in quiet anonymity. Or, out of all the eras of human history, you could be like Javier and return to that glorious decade when half the population hated the other half and a global pandemic was terrifying the world. THAT'S the era I'd like to visit, said no-one in the future ever.

But on the off-chance that you ARE a time-traveller and have returned from Tomorrowland in order to catch up with your favorite newspaper columnist of yesteryear, if you could let me know this weekend's winning lottery numbers as well as the plot of Season 4 of "Barry," I'd owe you a solid.

COLUMN: DJ RIP

Some weeks, I struggle to write this column, cursing the lack of inspiration over the previous week. For once, I kinda wish I didn't have any inspiration -- at least, not THIS particular inspiration. It's been a rough week.

As regular readers likely know, I spend my weekends moonlighting as a DJ at bars and clubs around the area. I've been doing it since college. It's my only real hobby and the one activity that generally keeps me centered and sane. 

It's certainly not the easiest side hustle to get into. For every working DJ in town, there's a dozen bedroom DJs honing their skills and trying to get into the game. Once upon a time, I was one of those bedroom DJs, trying to get noticed while simultaneously being intimidated beyond words by the guys who were already working those DJ booths around town. As a fresh face who moved here for college, it was tough to squeeze my way into a scene populated by talented locals who had grown up together and been friends for years.

As it turned out, the people I was intimidated by turned out to be some of the best friends I could have. When I started DJing in the area, I wanted to hate my competition like Donnie Haggerty and DJ Buddha. After all, we were fighting for the same crowds. Curse my rotten luck when I discovered they were super nice guys. In no time at all, we were sharing tips, tricks, and tunes.

Some of the biggest names in the local club scene got their start hosting ground-breaking hip-hop shows on St. Ambrose's student radio station, KALA. It didn't take long for me to learn names like Mixxin' Mel, GMJ, and DJ Commando. Chris Bone was a staple behind the mic on KALA, and he parlayed that college radio experience into becoming one of the most well-known country radio DJs in town. Eventually, Bone would open up Billy Bob's in the District of Rock Island and somehow convince me to work for him.

There was DJ Dolla, an enigmatic figure equally at home mixing at a Top 40 bar as he was DJing some underground house party at 3 a.m. On nights when Dolla wasn't working, you could often find him making the rounds with fist bumps and respect aplenty, often with his friend DJ Marco in tow. Marco was a wiry little guy with an infectious laugh, a million stories, and an undying love for ridiculous 1980's Miami freestyle music. Whenever I'd see him at one of my gigs, I'd drop a freestyle track. It would invariably kill the dancefloor, but it was worth it to watch him freak out with joy.

I also got to know Brian Duex, aka DJ Hi-Tech. Everyone knew Brian, because Brian was everywhere. Duex was a workaholic, grinding every weekend and taking any gig that would come his way. He was a formidable mixer, but his REAL talent was his unbridled optimism. He could take the world's worst gig and spend an hour telling you how much potential it had. His social media is full of shout-outs to other DJs in town. Brian would take it upon himself to organize regular informal DJ meet-ups, where many of the QC's most-storied mixmasters would gather together to tell stories, spin records, and spend quality time in the company of fellow music nerds. 

When I contracted COVID last year, Brian was the first to call and see if I needed anything. Through him, I met other local jocks, like Calvin Lloyd, who almost single-handedly kept Muscatine dancefloors bopping for decades. Brian, Calvin, and I became each otber's backups, there to help any time one of us needed a night off. Sure, we're all competitors, but the club DJs of the Quad Cities are also friends -- and I don't ever want to relive this past year with my friends.

It started in June, when we unexpectedly lost Chris Bone on the day he was to sign paperwork for his new business venture. November robbed us of Calvin Lloyd, taken at way too young an age. An I-80 car crash on Christmas Day claimed the life of Anthony Mullenberg, aka DJ Marco. And yesterday, I woke up to the devastating and unfathomable news that Brian Duex had shockingly passed. Just days ago, he was DJing across the street from me and we were sending good-natured texts over who had the bigger crowd. Just hours ago, I was rolling my eyes at the eleventy-millionth motivational post on his Facebook page and actually said out loud, "Brian, sometimes it's okay to be negative, dude."

It's tough to process his positivity getting extinguished. It's hard to believe I won't see Calvin's devilish smile ever again, or hear Marco tell me why The Cover Girls should've been as big as Destiny's Child. Quite simply, the area DJ scene will never be the same.

And I guess that's just natural. Some of those bedroom DJs will probably be leaping up, hungry to snatch up Brian and Calvin's gigs, and that's okay. Brian and Calvin and Marco are probably up there somewhere rooting those kids on. The power of music is bigger than the power of any of us. People will always want to dance, and there's always some new DJ trying to be a little bit cooler than the last one. Lord knows I've never been the coolest. 

But the next time you pass a dancefloor, take a second and think about the feet that've stood there before you, the records that were played, and the hands that played them. I'm sad that my friends are gone, but they wouldn't want us to be sad for a second. After all, nobody needs a DJ at a funeral. They'd want us to keep the legacy alive and the tunes blaring. And if there's a heavenly dance club out there, there's one heck of a DJ lineup this weekend.

COLUMN: Bald Eagle Days

There's definitely a list of things you have to experience at least once in your life before you can officially call yourself a Quad Citizen. I finally crossed one off the bucket list this past weekend:

I went to Bald Eagle Days.

The annual event at the QCCA Expo Center was back for the first time since the pandemic, and I finally got to take it in. Part animal exhibit, part conservation education, it's the largest event in the country devoted to our national symbol. This year's attractions included live eagle shows and Birds of Prey seminars from the World Bird Sanctuary of St. Louis. It was pretty cool.

Me and bald eagles have always had a weird relationship. I love animals -- but, by and large, only the cute ones. I'll watch cat videos all the live-long day, and is there anything better than playing with puppies? I think squirrels are adorable, even the ones who live in my backyard, clearly hate me, and make angry little "thk! thk!" noises every morning when I leave for work.

Bald eagles, on the other hand, are NOT cute. You don't want to snuggle one. They don't purr. They don't come when you call. With eagles, words like "cute" and "adorable" are replaced by words like "noble" and "majestic." That's a nice way of saying that if we were a bit smaller and eagles a bit bigger, they would have NO qualms whatsoever about flying off with us for a dinner date. There's a reason why bald eagles are the symbol of our nation and not, say, a labradoodle or something. Eagles are a little intimidating.

I got REAL close to the one that was at Bald Eagle Days, and I swear that thing saw right through me and stared directly into my soul. I watched children stare at him with admiration and wonder. I also watched him stare back, likely wondering what children taste like.

Once, I had to call in late for work with an excuse so weird my old boss still talks about it to this day. I was already running a bit behind schedule and had given myself only enough time to leap into my car and pray for green lights on the commute. Instead, I ran out to the parking lot and skidded to a halt -- because there was a bald eagle sitting atop my car, just hanging out like he owned the place.

Pray tell, what's protocol in a situation like this? There I was, staring down an endangered creation of nature and the very symbol of our independence. Do I shoo it? Is it even LEGAL to shoo it? "Say, uh, majestic buddy?" I inquired politely. "I kinda need to leave for work. So, umm, git?" For the record, it did not "git." I attempted to make a move for the driver's door and he did that weird bird thing where his head turned to me while his body stayed completely motionless. Nope, nope, nope. I wasn't getting anywhere close to that thing. And THAT, friends, is why I had to call in late to work on account of eagle. I ended up standing there for ten minutes like a moron until a passing car finally spooked him away. 

This year, my car's almost become TOO good of a friend with one of our bald buddies. On two occasions now this winter, there's been a bald eagle playing aerial acrobatics and skimming WAY too close over the Centennial Bridge. The first time it happened, my car was at the apex of the bridge precisely when this eagle swooped not more than two feet over the top of my car. The second time it happened, I swear a talon actually touched my front windshield for a split second. Had that daring bird not put in a couple of extra flaps, I'd be riding around with a majestic and endangered hood ornament -- and there's just no way to be the good guy when you've got the literal symbol of freedom splattered over your front grill.

What surprised me most about Bald Eagle Days, though, were the OTHER creatures on display. I'm not sure whose idea it was to bring live eagles to an event and then fill the rest of the expo center with animals that eagles like to eat, but all creatures great and small appeared to be on their best behavior and I don't believe anyone got to witness the circle of life play out on the convention floor. There were porcupines and wolves and a poor terrified little skunk. There were hairy spiders and what ominously looked like empty tanks where other hairy spiders should have been. And yep, there were loads of bats.

Eagles might be scary, but bats are straight terrifying. I'm not especially sure why Mother Nature felt the need to bless our world with rabid winged rats, but these particular mini-vampires seemed healthy and their cages seemed secure, so I timidly approached. Surprisingly, they didn't try to stick a single fang into my neck. They were just (literally) hanging out, yawning and snoozing. Dare I say it, they were almost... cute. And that was the precise moment one bat woke up, gave a great big yawn, righted itself, spread open its wings to reveal its nekkid little bat body, stared me straight in the eye, and peed alllll over the place, almost including my sleeve.

I don't know what kind of weekend YOU had, but unless you can top getting stared down by an eagle while getting flashed by a peeing bat, I'm pretty sure I won. 

COLUMN: Heat Out

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my dwelling, it was so freaking cold that it merits tale-telling.

How were YOUR holidays? Mine proved a little more interesting than expected. Having recently recovered from the flu (note: do NOT recommend), I was all set to make up for lost holiday merriment in the run-up to Christmas. Then Winter Storm Elliott came along with predictions of anywhere from 1-30 inches of snow followed promptly by blood-freezing wind chills unfit for human life. Fa la la la la.

So instead of firing up the yule log with friends, I spent the holiday week making sure I was well stocked on pantry provisions and knew where the flashlights were. Truly, it's the most wonderful time of the year.

The good news was that our frozen friend Elliott only ended up dropping a dusting of snow in my neck of the woods. Unfortunately, though, the forecasts were spot-on when it came to the cold... I think. I wouldn't know for sure, because I spent much that time snug under a blanket with no intentions of stepping outside until possibly spring.

That lasted until the night before Christmas Eve, when I woke to find my furnace completely off and my house rapidly losing heat. I know a thing about HVAC maintenance and repair. Specifically, I know how to turn the furnace off and back on -- to no avail. Having thus exhausted my vast HVAC expertise, I started calling service technicians, who were certainly eager to hear from customers in the middle of night on Christmas weekend in -40 wind chills. I called twelve places and got through to two. Both were booked solid and couldn't work me in for days, but a third outfit called me back and their overworked service tech said that since I was without heat, he could probably get to me sometime the next day. 

I bundled up and went to bed, but woke up a couple hours later sweltering. At some point, the furnace had kicked back on and my house was toasty. I did a quick happy dance and went back to bed, only to wake up freezing again at 5 a.m. Maybe having heat was a dream? I was planning on spending Christmas Eve drinking cocoa and watching bad holiday movies. Instead, I found myself hopping in the shower and bundling up to be at Wal-Mart when they opened at 6 a.m. on an emergency mission for space heaters.

By the time I got out of the shower, the heat was back on and the house was warming up. I wasn't excited to keep playing this fun game, so I layered up until I was comprised of 80% coat and waddled my way to the garage. I'm always worried about my poor Hyundai in the winter because I don't think Korea experiences -50 wind chills too often. But she sprang to life with little difficulty and I made decent time through the arctic tundra to Wal-Mart.

Not decent enough time, though, to get a space heater. They'd been sold out for days. A similar story awaited me at a couple other stores before I gave up and headed home. The heat was out again when I got home, so I posted an open plea on Facebook for any friends with space heaters to spare. 

When you post on Christmas Eve that your heat's out in the middle of a blizzard, LOTS of people step up. Within an hour, I had over a dozen offers for space heaters, a couple invites for Christmas dinner, and one person who thought they'd seen a space heater at Lowe's the day before. I called over there, and sure enough, they had a few left. You know, at the Lowe's that shares a parking lot with the Wal-Mart I was JUST at. So I bundled up again and made my second lap around the Quad City Iditarod -- but this time, I came home with two gigantic space heaters.

Minutes later, a friend showed up with two MORE. And just as we had all four up and running full blast, the furnace kicked back on. Minutes after THAT, the HVAC repair guy I'd talked to the night before showed up at my front door. When we had spoken, I had (accurately at the time) told him that my heat was completely out. It was probably not the best look, then, when he arrived to find a functioning furnace, four space heaters on full blast, and a thermostat reading 82 degrees. Let's just say I caught some disapproving glares. 

In the end, it turned out my furnace was shutting itself off because of overheating, which seems a ridiculous problem for a furnace to have. Shouldn't a furnace be COMMENDED for doing it's job TOO well? You never hear things like, "I'm sorry, sir, you can't come in to Olive Garden today. I'm afraid the food here is overdelicious." But overheat it did, due to overuse and a half-frozen air intake line we had to thaw out.

I haven't lost heat since, but maybe it doesn't matter. It's now two weeks later and I'm wearing short sleeves because it feels like spring out. I kinda want a holiday do-over, which I guess I'll get in roughly 50 weeks or so. Of course, by then I'm guessing we'll all be underwater and possibly quarantining from toxic lobsterpox, but at least I'll be nice and toasty.