COLUMN: Vomit Infamy

Life as a mega-famous local columnist can often be grueling. I know I'm an incomprehensibly sexy and beloved public figure, but can I not get just ONE moment of peace and serenity in my glamorous life? Oh, what I wouldn't give to walk down the street without being chased by paparazzi, autograph hounds, and stalkers screaming their daily marriage proposals and devotions. I'm sure the mere sight of me must leave you normies in a state of awe and wonder, but I promise you that beneath all my celebrity pomp and elegance, I'm just a regular joe. Fame and adoration just come with the territory -- it's the burden of being me.

Orrrrrr maybe not. At best, I'm about as famous as that dog at the end of your block who barks too loud, and I'm pretty much okay with that. Based on the occasional interactions I've had with readers out in the wild, I'd make a lousy famous person.

Don't get me wrong, I love meeting readers. I still find it insanely weird that I even have readers, let alone ones that would ever want to meet me. I feel bad for those folks, though, because it's almost a certainty that I'm a huge let-down. In person, I'm not especially charming or witty. Unless you hand me a pen and paper and give me a half hour or so, I'm not full of comic hijinks. I'm terrible at small talk. If you've ever met me in person and I held eye contact with you for more than a second, take that as a win. I'm the whole package, provided the package you ordered is both awkward and off-putting.

But for a few minutes last week, I felt next-level famous.

I'd spent the afternoon running some annoying but necessary errands that I was in no mood for. Being good and responsible sucks -- so I decided to treat myself with a deliciously unhealthy dinner as a finale. It was there, in line at the fast food joint, that I spotted them. Or, rather, they spotted ME. A couple walked in, made eye contact with me, and immediately lit up.

"Wow," I thought to myself, "they must be fans of my column." Maybe I was just imagining it, so I looked back. Nope, they were definitely pointing and whispering and staring at me. These were big fans. We were on opposite ends of the line by this point, so I couldn't really communicate with them. Besides, Captain Awkward, what would you say if you could? "Yep, it's me. I'm him -- that guy who writes about cats too much. Great to meet you. Fancy an autograph? I have some 8x10's in the car!"

But it WAS kind of awkward, because they were definitely staring at me. I figured my best move was to make a subtle gesture of acknowledgement. I was aiming for some kind of head-nod / cheeky-grin combo that would clearly say, "Hey, I appreciate you reading my column and being a supporter. You're aces in my book." That's the gesture I was going for. I'm pretty sure the gesture I ended up making looked more like, "Hey, there are ants in my pants and for some reason I'm smiling about it. Watch out, I might follow you home!" 

When I looked back, both of them had phones in hand and were now clearly taking pictures of me. That's officially weird, right? Suddenly I became the most self-conscious person in the restaurant. How should I be standing? Do I have a dorky expression on my face? Please tell that my fly's buttoned.

It was mostly awkward, but maybe a little flattering? I'm pretty sure I floated home from the restaurant on an ego high. Am I camera-famous all of a sudden? IS THIS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE TAYLOR SWIFT? Then I got home, took two paces into the house, stopped, and went, "Eww!"

There, on the second step to my upstairs loft, was a giant pile of vomit. Gross, but as a cat owner, it often comes with the territory. I did wonder, however, why it was so spread out and extra disgusting.

Every morning, I take a shower, get dressed, head into the living room, and put on shoes. How do I put on those shoes, you might ask? Why, by sitting on the second step to my upstairs loft, of course. And do you think on that morning that I paid close attention to that step? Nope. Was the vomit spread out and extra disgusting because I'd sat in it hours earlier? Perhaps. Was I wearing tan slacks and unknowingly wandering around with puke smeared all over my butt? Yep. Did I just run an entire afternoon of errands with what looked like poo hanging off my pants? Most definitely.

Was my fanclub at the restaurant taking pictures of Shane, their favorite newspaper columnist? Or were they taking pictures of some random fat guy grinning maniacally at them while wearing poo-pants? I have a feeling I know the answer. Frankly, I'm just glad I have ANY kind of feeling, because it's clear that I must have a numb butt to have not noticed sitting in a pile of puke.

I wonder what it's like to be famous. After this week, I don't think I want to know. Knowing my luck, if I ever achieve fame, it won't be from doing anything cool. I'm just praying it won't be from becoming Mr. Viral Poopy-Pants. Keep your fingers crossed and your browsers closed.

COLUMN: Caprese

I didn't want to have an existential crisis. I just wanted to watch TV. And now I need your help to find out if my entire grasp on reality is broken.

Stop what you're doing right now and think about a salad. Not just ANY salad. Think about that fancy Italian salad that's comprised of fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and sweet basil. Do you know the salad I'm talking about? If so, say its name out loud right now.

I'm referring to a caprese salad. Hopefully you're familiar.

For 52 years, I've lived a relatively comfortable existence, fully and completely convinced that the word "caprese" was, is, and has always been pronounced "ka-PREE-zee." You know, like "breezy."

Tonight, I was in the kitchen doing dishes. As is often the case, the TV in my front room was blaring some rerun for background noise while I tidied up the joint after dinner. That's when an ad came on for Jimmy John's. Apparently they've got a new menu offering for the spring season: a "Caprese Salami Pesto Sandwich," which actually sounds pretty good, right?

Except one thing. When the announcer pronounced it, he called it a "ka-PRAY-ZAY" sandwich. Ka-PRAY-ZAY, with hard exaggerated American ayyyys. It was so weird, I walked straight out of the kitchen with wet, soapy hands. I rewound the DVR. I'd heard it correctly. "Ka-PRAY-ZAY." 

There's no way I've been running around for fifty-two years straight-up mispronouncing "caprese," is there? "Ka-PRAY-ZAY" sounds ridiculous, but who am I to question the vernacular validity of Jimmy John's? The mispronounciation of words has long been a hang-up of mine. I hate when other people do it, and I'm appalled when I do it. I think it goes back to elementary school, when I was addicted to reading Hardy Boys mysteries. Joe Hardy has a recurring girlfriend throughout those books. Her name is Iola.

I had never heard the name Iola, nor have I ever heard it since (probably because we don't live in 1927 when those characters were invented.) I still have no earthly idea how you're supposed to say the name Iola. Is it "eye-ola?" "ee-ola?" "yola?" Whenever she'd pop up in a story, I'd cringe and come full stop. I often wondered if even Joe Hardy knew how to say her name. "Say, fellas, you've met my girlfriend, right? Guys, this is... umm... Eye-hole-ay?"

It's one thing to struggle with pronounciation, but it's another thing to discover you've been blindly mispronouncing a word for years. After finishing up in the kitchen, I went straight to Google and searched "caprese" for the final verdict. Not only does it give you the Oxford dictionary pronounciation guide for the word, it also gives you a recording where you can listen to the correct pronounciation of the word. 

Immediately a voice came on and, with confidence, said "ka-PRAY-zee." It's... wait, WHAT? Google gave me a THIRD pronounciation of the word different from the way I've been saying caprese my whole life AND different than the Jimmy John's ad. According to Google, "caprese" should rhyme with crazy or lazy. I'm so confused.

I tried Googling "how to pronounce caprese" to see if I could find answers. Instead, Google pulled up a DIFFERENT pronounciation guide with a DIFFERENT recording, and THAT one said "ka-PRAY-ZAY" just like the Jimmy John's ad. So even Google's confused and offers two completely different pronounciations of "caprese," but NEITHER of them rhyme with "breezy," so I'm pretty sure I'm a moron.

There is, incidentally, a Youtube video entitled "How To Pronounce Caprese Correctly." In it, an Italian native instructs on the proper way to say "caprese," which involves rolling the "r" and doing that Italian trill thing where the "R" kinda sounds like an "L" and it ends up like "ka-PLLLAY-zay." But frankly, I don't trust any language where the word "bruschetta" is somehow pronounced "brew-sketta."  

I'm officially declaring caprese anarchy. I'm gonna keep saying it like "ka-preezy." Feel free to say it like "schnauzer" for all I care. Caprese salads don't exactly come up much in day-to-day conservation. If you're silly enough to pay good money for a hunk of cheese and a tomato and some basil and think you're getting an amazing salad, then you're silly enough to say "caprese" however you fancy. I'm just worried it's the tip of the iceberg and I'm about to find out the word "chair" should be pronouned "tz-ay-ruh" or something. 

So I guess pull up a tzayruh if you've ever been a member of the Mispronounciation Club. We'll be the ones in the corner -- and we need more dressing for our salads.

COLUMN: I'm Sick

I'm sick.

It's nothing bad, I hope. Pretty sure it's just a head cold. But it sucks regardless.

Having made it to post-pandemic life, it now seems rather poor taste to whine about something as mild as a cold. There's not going to be much sympathy for the common cold after we've spent three years trying to duck and cover from airborne cooties with the potential to send you to the hospital or worse. This is disappointing for someone like me, a well-trained and highly gifted whiner. I humbly request: (a) my mommy, (b) a bowl of chicken noodle soup, and (c) maybe a Planet of the Apes marathon.

Say what you will about masks, but for those two years when most of us were wearing them, I didn't catch so much as a sniffle. Since I stopped wearing mine on the daily, I've managed to contract COVID, the flu, and now this rotten cold. My body has essentially become a winter rental for vacationing viruses. I'm pretty sure my sinuses must be listed on Airbnb. I think I might miss masks.

You know what else I miss? The ability to call in sick to work. Once upon a time, if you felt lousy, you could call your boss and say, "I feel icky. I'm not coming in today." Your boss would then say something like, "That's a shame. Get some rest and feel better!"  Today, I called my boss and said, "I feel icky. I'm not coming in today." And my boss said something like, "That's a shame. Good thing you're still set up to work from home!" Note to self: research who invented the remote desktop and send them a harshly worded e-mail that perhaps questions the beauty, weight, and/or moral character of their mother.

I've now spent three days working from home, and it didn't take long to remember the pros and cons.

PRO: The break room here has much better snacks.

CON: I can't taste anything and all food sounds disgusting.

PRO: I have a proper desk in my basement office that's an ideal setup to work from home.

CON: Too bad I'm not using it. I've found I much prefer belly-flopping onto my living room couch where I am presently sprawled out in the least ergonomic manner possible. I am in full beached-whale mode.

PRO: That last one wasn't a con. Beached whale life kinda rules.

CON: Except for one thing. I'm used to sitting in front of two oversized monitors where I can have umpteen open documents allowing me to multi-task all the live-long day. When I work from home, I have a teeny tiny laptop that I have to squint to even see what I'm doing. I might have to buy a pair of cheaters on my next drug store run (and that, friends, is the most fuddy-duddy sentence I've ever uttered in my life.)

PRO: The office is sadly lacking in cats. As I type this, there's currently one asleep on my back.

CON: When I got up a few minutes ago to grab a soda, my cat decided to take a leisurely stroll across my keyboard, which in turn caused an e-mail to go out to my most important client which read, and I quote,  "fjjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkbn".

PRO: I just had a productive 8-hour work day while unshowered, pants-free, and wearing a ratty t-shirt.

CON: I was so loopy from cold medicine that I forgot about our department-wide Zoom meeting, which left me five minutes to dive into a sweater, wet my hair down, and try my best to NOT look like a degenerate on camera. I don't think I fooled anyone.

PRO: Working from home can be relaxing and productive.

CON: But not when you have Kleenex shoved up both your nostrils and Vicks smeared on your chest. Even the cats are keeping their distance now.

All things considered, it's actually been pretty nice working from home this week. When lunch hour hits, I can just roll over and take a nap. I actually had an Amazon order overnighted to my home address without fear of porch larceny by the time I usually get home from work. And being able to work from home has kept me from focusing on how terrible I feel, which is what makes me whiny in the first place. 

I don't think I could do this full time, though. I miss human interaction and I've already started to go a little stir-crazy. Today, I caught myself holding a full and detailed conversation about work with my cats and asking their opinion on how I should best proceed. Their consensus opinion was "meow." Also keep in mind that I'm talking to cats through laryngitis AND a fully plugged nose, which makes me sound like a sad cartoon character on his last legs. Except I'm not even ON my last legs, because I'm sprawled out like a beached whale on the couch.

Hopefully, in a few days, I'll be back in fighting form, ready to rejoin society. Until then, it's Kleenex and Netflix and bedrest (err, couch-rest) for the foreseeable future. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some sneezing I've been meaning to get to.

COLUMN: e85

I did a really dumb thing. 

I've been debating all week whether to even write this column. Honestly, I was planning on sweeping this entire episode under the rug forever and telling this story to precisely no one ever. But if owning up to my stupidity can help even ONE person as clueless as me out there, it's worth the shame. Besides, none of you can make me feel any worse about this than I already do, trust me.

Remember last week when I wrote about my phone getting stolen? That wasn't the only major drama that went down that night. Earlier that same evening, the "check engine" light on my car's dash came on. Sadly, my car's starting to reach the age where occasional warning lights might not be uncommon. It was driving just fine, though, so I nursing it along over the weekend, hoping it was a simple sensor issue. I made a mid-week appointment to get it checked out.

It was a sensor, alrighto -- one that was trying to warn me that my car was being murdered.

I dropped the car off at my dealership around 8 a.m. and got the diagnosis a couple hours later: my car was full of bad gas. It had already done serious damage to my spark plugs. Their immediate recommendation was to drain the fuel tank, install a new set of spark plugs, and perform a full flush of the entire fuel system. The estimate was staggering. How could this have happened?

How could this have happened? On most Fridays, I get off work, go home and chill for a bit, then head out to my weekend side hustle, slinging records at dance clubs until the wee hours. But this past Friday, in-between Jobs 1&2, I opted to play on a team at a charity trivia night. I needed gas, so I left the trivia event with JUST enough time to swing through a gas station, drive home, get my DJ gear, and make it to the gig with minutes to spare.

It was shortly after I filled up the tank when the warning light first appeared on my dashboard.

I was in shock over my car getting poisoned by some gas station, but there was nothing I could do to prove it. I didn't have a receipt or anything, but I wanted to let them know about the problem, so I sent an e-mail to their corporate customer care center, and was surprised to get an immediate response. Within hours, I got a call from the district manager, who was super nice and went back and pulled up their security camera footage from that night.

"Pretty sure I found you on the tape," he said, confirming my car's model, color, and the shirt I was wearing. Then he said words I wasn't expecting: "Do you know what e85 gas is?"

Let the record state, I did not. Let the record also state that I sure do now.

e85 is a fuel blend of 85% ethanol and 15% gasoline. It burns cleaner, costs less, and is good for the environment. Unless, of course, the environment in question is the internal combustion engine of an older model Hyundai. It is considerably less good for THAT particular environment. e85 blend is only compatible with certain (newer) car models. Mine isn't one of them. My car was indeed poisoned, but it turned out the attempted murderer was ME.

Flabbergasted, I conducted a quick straw poll of my close friends. Based on their comments, it appears everyone on Earth has known about e85 gas for years and I've been living under a rock. As God is my witness, I had never heard of e85 until last weekend.

I'm fully aware that I can sometimes be ridiculous. I'm not exactly brimming with common sense. I can't swim. I have no earthly idea how to snap my fingers. I usually wear slip-ons because I'm lousy at tying my shoes. But seldom do I find myself ridiculously uninformed like this. I read the news every day. I drive around aimlessly and have visited hundreds of gas statioms over the years. How is this an entirely new thing to me?

Apparently e85 pump handles are yellow and say "FLEX FUEL," which is how I'm supposed to know I can't use it. I saw it and just thought "FLEX FUEL" was some cutesy name for their gas. Shell calls THEIR premium gas "V-Power" and I have no idea what that means, either, but it doesn't destroy my car when I pump it. I had no idea "Flex Fuel" was something you used to euthanize old cars in record time. 

I probably should just claim that I was in a hurry and not paying attention. That's still dumb, but its at least somehow better than thinking "flex fuel" was a silly name for gasoline and then pouring it into my car without a second's hesitation. I guess I'm just lucky I didn't elect to top it off with some diesel and a splash of antifreeze for color.  

So, yeah. I feel like a moron. But my mom didn't know what e85 was, either, so I'm not the only one. Maybe there's a handful of other people out there unfamiliar with the car-destroying yellow gas pump of doom. And maybe I just saved them from a similar fate. That doesn't make me any less of a moron, but at least perhaps it makes me a HEROIC moron, and I'll take what I can get this week.

Lesson learned. I just wish this particular lesson hadn't cost as much as a college credit hour.

COLUMN: Phone Stolen

I don't think I could ever pass myself off as an optimist. 

I'm a realist and I know the world isn't always sunshine and lollipops. That said, I've always stood firm in my belief that, by and large, humanity is good and kind and not a dumpster fire of nightmare people. But if there were ever a decade to disprove this theory, it might just be the 2020s. It was one month ago that I was whining in these very pages about having accidentally left my cell phone at home and struggling to survive without the warm, comforting embrace of 24/7 internet connectivity in my front pocket. I think I jinxed myself.

This past Friday night was spent in the same way mine usually are: in a DJ booth, playing records for people half my age -- people whose entire existence might very well have hinged on me having played records for their parents' hook-up decades ago. It's been my life-long hobby, and there's still few places on Earth I'd rather be than behind DJ decks staring down a packed dancefloor.

For a while that night, I was in the zone. I had a packed dancefloor, people were feeling my playlist, and it was one of those nights when songs were mixing like butter. "This crowd is awesome," I thought to myself. "I need to post a video!" 

That's when I reached for my phone and instead found myself pawing at an empty table.

My phone never leaves my side while I'm working. I usually keep it right beside the DJ controller, but it wasn't there. I checked all my pockets, checked under my coat, and looked all around. It was gone. More specifically, it had been stolen.

I should've been instantly mad. In all honesty, I was mostly just impressed. It wasn't like I'd left the phone somewhere far away. It was inches from my hand at any given moment, but it still somehow managed to grow legs and walk away. Whoever lifted that thing was good. This was a lesson learned: I needed to keep that thing in my pocket.

But I rapidly went from impressed to indignant, as soon as I saw an instant message from one of my friends pop up on my laptop. It reminded me that my laptop computer was connected to the internet, and I was hotspotting that internet signal from my cell phone. That message was proof my computer was still online, which meant my phone was still close enough to sync to my laptop. Someone on that packed dancefloor right in front of me was a phone thief. 

What could I have done? Cold stopped the music, grabbed the mic, and yelled "J'accuse!" into the open air? Stomped my foot and refused to play another song until someone ponied up the phone? There was no cool way to handle this scenario.

Instead, I stood there for another hour, fully aware that one of the people in front of me was a thief. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, I was instead trying to spot any tells or anyone giving off a guilty vibe. Eventually I glanced at my laptop and watched helplessly in real time as my wi-fi signal slowly dropped from five bars to zero as my phone was somewhere walking away from the club and into the night. 

I tried to keep the energy up for the remainder of my DJ set, but I was no longer in the zone. I was mostly just mad. The minute we closed, I was able to remotely lock and erase the phone, so congrats on your relatively worthless piece of hardware, friend. I changed all my important passwords and reported the phone stolen.    

Oh, and I almost forgot: I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. YOU'RE ON TAPE. I HAVE THE FOOTAGE. There's cameras all over that place, including directly over the DJ booth. I also don't think you planned on pilfering my phone. You were really nice when we spoke that night. But you were also pretty drunk, and I think you grabbed my phone by mistake. If that's what happened, just bring it back. Mistakes happen, especially when Funky Monkeys are involved.

If my phone's gone forever, I guess it's not a big deal. I had one payment left on that busted old phone and was planning on upgrading this month anyways. Enjoy my cracked screen and that broken button on the side. Maybe you can clear level 494 of Bricks & Balls, because I sure can't. Still, it'd sure be nice if you brought it back and proved me right that humanity is innately good. I'm not optimistic.