COLUMN: Footloose

Normal people's brains at midnight: Wow, it's really late. I'm very tired. I'm going to bed.

MY brain at midnight: Wow, it's really late. I'm very tired. I'm going to think about the movie "Footloose" for the next two hours.

Why my noggin occasionally shifts into overdrive in the pitch middle of the night is beyond me, but I've become accustomed to just riding it out. Why "Footloose" was tonight's topic du jour is anyone's guess, but it's likely because a friend of mine is directing an upcoming high school production of Footloose: The Musical (and if you fancy a drive to Monmouth-Roseville High come March 17-19, I have it on good authority that it's gonna be awesome. Spoiler alert: everybody cuts footloose.)

Here's a horrible confession that just might destroy my 80's pop culture street cred: I'm not sure I've ever seen Footloose all the way through. I've seen pieces here and there, but I'm not sure if I've ever sat down and watched it front to back. Truth be told, even 80's Shane found the movie kinda silly. 

As I recall, the plot goes something like this: Kevin Bacon plays Ren, an all-around cool teenage dude whose sole passion in life seems to be donning a pair of headphones and dancing around abandoned barns in slow-motion montages. Ren and his mom have just moved from Chicago to a rural town that hasn't received the memo about the whole separation-of-church-and-state thing. The citizens there are controlled by their conservative minister, who has convinced the town council to ban dancing, secular music, and essentially fun in general.

Rebellious Ren won't stand for that, so he does a lot of clandestine barn dancing, gives an impassioned speech to the town council, and eventually the minister relents and allows funkiness back into the lives of one and all, culminating in a senior prom for the ages. Presumably everyone lives happily ever after and are now raising their own children on a steady diet of Cardi B. and Skrillex.

I have questions.

Let's say you grew up in a town that has banned dancing. No one you know has ever danced. You might not even know what dancing IS. But then along comes this rebellious troublemaker with his big city tales of this mythical "dancing" you've only heard spoken of in whispers. This city slicker woos you with his devil tongue, telling you how amazing and free and wonderful it is to dance. You're enthralled by the concept. Eventually the unthinkable happens, good wins out, and you're allowed to have a school prom where you can finally, for the first time in your life, dance with carefree abandon.

You know what would happen? You would be the WORST dancer in the world, like, ever. We're talking Elaine Benes levels of bad dancing. Having never once even considered shaking your booty ever in your entire life, how would you even know what to do? You WOULDN'T. You'd be in a school gymnasium with 250 other absolutely rhythmless teenagers, gyrating randomly while continually apologizing to your date for repeatedly kicking her in the head while you were trying to bust a funky move. It would be an unmitigated disaster (but an amazing home movie for the ages.)

But that doesn't happen in Footloosetown. No, in the big prom scene at the end of the movie, all it takes is three seconds of the title track to play, and suddenly this packed gym full of never-danced-before children are suddenly pulling moves like professionals. One of them busts a full breakdance routine out of thin air.  

Also keep in mind, this town hasn't just banned dancing. They've banned all secular music in the first place. This is the first time these kids are ever hearing songs that aren't psalms. And yet, they all seem to strangely know the tune "Footloose" the second it starts. They know when the chorus is about to drop. They know where the bridge is. In fact, for a song they've never ever heard before, they somehow manage to spontaneously craft and perform a synchronized dance routine to it.

All of which can only lead us to one possible conclusion: KENNY LOGGINS IS A WORLOCK. How else can a dumb three-minute song suddenly get Louise, Jack, Marie, Milo, and everyone in the place to kick off their Sunday shoes and cut footloose? Clearly, Kenny Loggins is a dark wizard who can turn teenagers around, put their feet on the ground, and take ahold of their souls. Clearly, he must be stopped before he reaches... the danger zone.

But Ren really IS a hero, because he missed a delicious opportunity to conduct a cruel sociological experiment. If this town had truly succeeded in banning secular music, none of these kids would have ANY idea what secular music even IS, right? They wouldn't know a rock from a roll. You could've played them ANYTHING and told them it was the rebellious rock music they'd been missing out on. You could've played them "Elvira" by the Oak Ridge Boys. You could've played them Barney the Dinosaur. You could've played them a tape loop of a laughing hyena and been like, "doesn't this ROCK?" And then comes the REAL test of persuasion and peer pressure: Would those kids then still create a choreographed dance routine to laughing hyenas just because ONE dude from Chicago showed up and told them it was cool? I think it would've happened.

Sorry to waste so much time thinking about Footloose, but I strangely feel it's important to avoid any future scenarios where we encourage children to dance to laughing hyenas, even though it would be RIDICULOUSLY funny. And sorry to the 1980s for buzzkilling one of your most iconic pop culture offerings - I promise to never diss Ferris Bueller or The Lost Boys. But mostly I'm sorry to all my friends who woke up to a 2 a.m. text from me: "Kenny Loggins: Worlock? Discuss."

I was REALLY tired. 

COLUMN: Alien Invasion?

Seriously? You're reading MY column?

It's only been a few days since the United States government just casually admitted shooting down a handful of UFOs, and you're just sitting around with nothing better to do than peruse some local columnist? Shame on you. Clearly, you should be out panicking in the streets. 

This is NOT how I expected first contact to go, people. There should be at least a modicum of street panic, a slew of end-of-the-world rhetoric, and a healthy sprinkling of some good old-fashioned martial law. So far, this alien invasion is NOT living up to the movies one bit. I haven't even heard a single quip from Will Smith yet.

Okay, fine. So recent events most likely WEREN'T the opening gambits of an alien attack. Still, you've got to admit it was kinda cool, in a sci-fi geeky sorta way. The United States military really DID shoot down a handful of objects, and those objects really were both unidentified AND flying. By dictionary definition of the term, we shot down actual UFOs. This isn't an everyday occurrence. 

I know this because on Monday, White House press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre literally had to say the following words in a press conference with a (kinda) straight face: "There has been no indication of aliens or extraterrestrial activity with these recent takedowns." I never thought I'd see a day when the White House had to assemble the press of the free world in order to deny military engagement with an alien spaceship. I found it both ridiculous and reassuring.

It is ALSO, however, exactly what the White House would likely say if they HAD engaged in an alien dogfight. No one wants to host a press conference that redefines reality and throws a cog into most major world religions. Things like that usually don't end well.

I, however, will forever be Team Alien. I fully believe we're not alone out there. Go out on a clear night and look up at the stars. There's a kajillion of them. And beyond THAT kajillion is, like, a billion-kajillion more we can't even see with our naked eyes. It would be mighty presumtuous to think that, in all the solar systems in all the galaxies of the universe, WE'RE the only planet with one-celled organisms who had the wherewithal to grow legs, crawl out of the primordial muck, and build shopping centers. 

That said, it's equally presumtuous to assume that, should alien life exist, they'd want to come HERE. Let's be honest, if there's an E.T. society so technologically evolved that they've conquered interstellar travel, I don't think Earth would be high on their list of vacation getaways. There's little we're going to offer them apart from COVID-19, a hangover, and a souvenir plastic fish that sings "Take Me To The River" when you walk past it.

We should probably be happy that whatever we shot down last week doesn't appear to be alien in origin. If an E.T. species ever decides to visit Earth, it probably won't be to get our favorite hotdish recipes. It'll probably be because humans are the main ingredient in THEIR favorite hotdish recipes. Thankfully, it sounds like the things we've been shooting down are balloons and surveillance gear from other countries playing high-altitude peek-a-boo. This is where I also get confused a little.

Doesn't balloon flying seem like a rather outdated means of espionage these days? If you want to see the first-hand power of surveillance, just go to Google Earth. The images there are captured from satellites orbiting 370 miles above us. That would be the equivalent of trying to look out your window in Moline in an attempt to view Toledo, Ohio. Yet the resolution of Google Earth images of the Quad Cities is good enough for me to discern they were taken on a Saturday afternoon. Our parking lot at work is empty, which rules out weekdays. If you look down upon the parking lot of the Davenport Freight House, you can see clean-up underway from that morning's Farmer's Market. And if you can find MY house, you'll see my car outside, parked in a spot I usually only use when I'm loading equipment for a weekend DJ gig. 

If you can get all THAT from a satellite 370 miles away, what on Earth do you need to launch a mini-Hindenberg for? There's not much stealth at play when you can look up, point, and go, "What's with the big floaty thing in the sky?" It sounds like the first object we shot down was a Chinese balloon carrying a payload the size of three city buses. The other two objects we downed are still unknown, although they've been described as "octagonal, with dangling strings," which I'm guessing means either more nefarious balloonery OR giant flying squid monsters -- and in EITHER scenario, shooting them down seems like the optimal response.

Long story short, UFOs officially exist. But they're likely not the friendly little green men my childhood dreamed of. It's probably just the Chinese government trying to eavesdrop on my DJ set. If that's the case, my dudes, all you need to do is ask nicely and I'll send you a recording, promise.

COLUMN: Dream Bear

Normally, I try to be the guy who brings a little levity to your weekly news. Not this week. Serious faces, everyone. I need to let you in on a new and important danger that plagues our fragile earth and threatens our very way of life. This week, I'm afraid I'm the bear-er of bad tidings.

It all started last week when my friend Suzy posted a message on Facebook.

"I had the weirdest dream this morning," she began. "I dreamt that I let my dogs outside, but instead of living in Bettendorf, we had a house on a lake somewhere. The lake was frozen over and the dogs ran out on the ice, when suddenly a polar bear showed up and lunged at the dogs. I knew the ice would collapse, so all I could do was yell for the dogs to come. They outran the polar bear, but then the polar bear starting coming for ME!"

Thankfully, she woke up before the polar bear could inflict any dream-carnage. But even weirder than Suzy's dream was a comment underneath it from my friend Bill:

"I had a bear-mauling dream as well!" he posted. "It started out with bear cubs, but then mama bear showed up to do the deed, and next thing I knew, I was awake!"

Terrifying, right? How weird is it that two of my friends BOTH had dreams about being mauled by bears on the same night?

Thankfully, my nightmares are usually a little tamer. I had a dream that same night, too. In MY dream, I was DJing a wedding reception in some weird venue that was terrible. It was a fancy modern building, but it was wooden with huge vaulted ceilings, which turned the whole room into a giant echo chamber and the speakers sounded terrible no matter what I did.

So I kept struggling with the sound system, and the bride and groom kept yelling at me because it sounded so bad, and I kept trying to explain to them how it all due to the terrible architecture of the venue, but they didn't understand and blamed me for everything. At the end of the night, I had to go settle up with them, and I was afraid they were going to stiff me the payment because of how bad everything sounded. I walked out to find the couple, but instead of the bride and groom being there, it was instead... A BEAR. WHO PROCEEDED TO MAUL ME.

That's right -- for no particular reason whatsoever, killer bears played a prominent role in THREE dreams that night. This can only mean one thing, people: the great dream bear uprising is upon us. No one is safe. Somewhere in dreamland as we speak, an army of furry Freddy Kruegers is assembling. Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite OR ALLOW THE BEARS TO EAT YOUR FACE OFF. The bear in my dream was not a friendly Teddy Ruxpin type. The bear in my dream was CLEARLY hungry for face.

I'm sure there's some common sense tactics we can employ to try and thwart the onslaught. I recommend an IMMEDIATE ban on any dreams involving pick-a-nicks or pick-a-nick baskets. Beware of hidden agendas -- your dream bear may say "waka waka" or "oh, bother" or go on a scene-stealing rant about how you can prevent forest fires, but trust me -- he still wants to eat your face.

There MAY be hope for us all, though. I had the misfortune of dreaming about a bear attack, BUT I may have also dreamt up the solution. In my particularly un-bear-able subconscious saga, I was eventually able to flee from the mauling and ran back into the wedding venue, where I happened upon the manager of the place. And, because dream logic is the BEST logic of all, the manager was -- you guessed it -- acclaimed actor Richard Dreyfuss. Why he was moonlighting as a wedding planner is anyone's guess. Maybe he needed a second income to buy a bigger boat.

The bear chased me into the venue, but ended up going after Dreyfuss instead. I had managed to climb a scaffolding (because, umm, sure,) and watched in horror as the bear ate Dreyfuss far more effectively than Jaws ever managed to. But a few seconds later, the bear keeled over and fell dead. And that's when I woke up from one of the dumbest dreams in recent memory.

I often forget my dreams within minutes, which is why I leave a little notebook on my nightstand for occasions just like this. I may have never remembered this one, had I not jotted down five words at 3 a.m.: RICHARD DREYFUSS IS BEAR POISON. You're welcome, world.

There's probably little I can do to stop the great dream bear uprising. The three of us really all DID have weird bear nightmares on the same evening, which is kinda spooky. But I guess next time you're asleep and having a close encounter of the bear kind, try to climb up something tall, dream up a Dreyfuss or two, and see what happens. Mr. Holland probably won't have a good opus, but you might just survive the night.  

COLUMN: Left My Phone at Home!

I'm in a panic.

Seconds ago, I just realized that I've done the unthinkable. I went home for lunch today and returned to the office without my cell phone. I left it at home. I hope it's okay without me.

I feel naked, afraid, and entirely cut off from society. Please pray for my survival.

 

Being without a phone these days doesn't even seem like a realistic concept, but I have to remind myself that I somehow survived over a quarter of a century before someone had the decency to invent the cell phone. This included my entire school career, up to and including college. I'm pretty sure telling kids about life before cell phones is this generation's version of "back in my day, I had to hike through three miles of snow barefoot to get to school."

But it's true. I attended high school AND college without the aid of a cell phone. When I needed to talk to a friend, I actually had to TALK to them (the HORROR!) If I wanted to play Words With Friends, I had to do it on a big square board the ancients called "Scrabble," and the Friends in question would have to actually come over to play. If I wanted to share a pic of my dinner, I'd have to bring a camera to the dining room table, wait 3-4 days for the film to be developed, and then walk around with a photo in my hand like, "See? Dinner!"

For now, though, I need to be strong. It's 1 p.m. I'm not going to see my phone again until after sunset. I quickly need to develop an action plan for how one navigates life without constant access to TMZ and Twitter. For the next five hours, I will have no earthly idea what Kanye West is doing or what beauty products Kylie Jenner thinks I should buy. It's going to be a VERY long day.

Honestly, though, how did one piece of equipment become so vital to human existence in such a short time? When I was younger, if I was stressed out or having a bad day, I'd grab a couple friends and we'd go bombing around lost highways and country paths until the wee hours of the night, cruising the backroads with the radio cranked. A few decades later, that sort of activity seems downright reckless. I'm not saying aimless driving is foolish or immature, because I still hop in the car and dip out to the sticks anytime I'm stressed out. But these days, I wouldn't dream of doing it without Google Maps and an instant connection to 911 in my pocket.

What would have happened to footloose and phone-free 1990s Shane had his car broken down at 1 a.m. along some gravel road in the middle of the woods? I don't even wanna think about it, but my best guess is that I'd have been eaten by wolves while crying for my mommy. Strangers who knock on the doors of country folk in the middle of the night are usually NOT greeted with a smile. I'm already worried about driving home tonight without a phone, and it's literally an eight-minute urban commute. I can practically see my house from the office.  

It's dumb to not have a phone with you at all times in case of emergencies. But it's equally as dumb to rely on those phones for as much as we do. I just realized I can't call a single one of my friends right now. This isn't because I don't have a phone. There's a landline here atop my desk, and I'm surrounded by co-workers whose phones I could probably borrow if I looked sad enough. I still wouldn't be able to call my friends, because I have NO idea what any of their phone numbers are. They're all programmed into my phone.

I used to know everyone's digits. I can still remember some of my friends' home phone numbers from the 1980s. But nowadays, even if I want to call my very best friend in the whole world, I would need to pick up my phone, click on "Recents," and find his name. Sometimes, I'm too lazy to even do THAT and instead just yell, "Hey Siri, call Jason" into the open air. And okay, sure, half the time when I do that, my phone will inexplicably reply, "Okay, calling BASEMENT" and one day I swear I'm going to let that call play out just to find out what "BASEMENT" is and why Siri knows its number.

At least once a year, I'll stumble across some article about the horrors of cell phone addiction, telling us we need to limit our screen time or we'll forget how to interact with our fellow man. I usually roll my eyes. It's hard for me to find a negative side to a device in your pocket that can communicate around the world, serve as a camera, and give you 24/7 access to maps, weather, news, and nearly every TV show, movie, and record album known to man. I'm guessing a good percentage of you are probably reading this column from your phones right now.

The key, I think, is striking a good balance. I try to live a life augmented by technology, but hopefully not reliant upon it. Sometimes I succeed in that balance, and sometimes I miserably fail. Either way, there's probably an app for that. Now, if only there were an app that would tell you when you're about to forget your phone on your kitchen counter, I'd be having a MUCH better day. Hold those tweets, everyone. No one go viral. I'll be home in five hours.