COLUMN: Retirement

I'm not sure I can write a column this week, folks. I've been a little traumatized. Besides, given my advanced age, I'm not sure I have the strength or fortitude to type this entire thing before I'm all tuckered out and need my rest.

Let's put what happened to me in the correct perspective:

I woke up last Saturday in a good mood, feeling refreshed and eager for life. Having no DJ gig the night prior, I actually managed to get a rare and full eight hours of sleep. I made a nice breakfast for myself and then went shopping for groceries -- and by "went shopping," I mean I went to the living room, picked up my computer, and ordered groceries online to be delivered. Still, it felt productive. Usually, my pre-noon Saturday agenda consists mainly of scratching myself and occasionally grunting.

I cleaned myself up, put away the freshly delivered groceries, and set off on an afternoon of fun, freedom, and adult responsibilities. My first stop was a much-needed haircut, and I walked out of the salon with a spring in my step, feeling a touch snazzier than usual. I spent the rest of the afternoon running errands that took me to all corners of the Quad Cities and back again.

Later that evening, I went to the memorial gathering for a former co-worker we lost a few months back. I'd tell you that it was a horribly sad affair, but it absolutely wasn't. Jane Woodward was a spitfire whose huge heart was matched only by her booming voice and infectious laugh. If you made her mad, she'd sure let you know about it. But if you made her smile, you could hear her cackle from the third floor. She was one of my favorite people at the paper, and I'll miss her for the rest of my days -- but I refuse to be sad about it. I'd rather be happy for having known her. 

Besides, if she knew people were all sad and mopey at her memorial service, she'd come back and haunt us all. I'm pretty sure she even told me that once.

Jane's celebration of life was packed with friends, family, and colleagues, including some former co-workers I hadn't seen in a mighty long time. In fact, I bumped into one former colleague I don't think I'd seen since she left probably some fifteen years ago. We were in the depths of that awkward "OH-WOW-I-HAVEN'T-SEEN-YOU-IN-AGES" small talk when she said it:

"Are you still at the paper? Oh, wait, what I am saying? YOU'RE PROBABLY RETIRED BY NOW, surely?"

Umm... whut? 

It turns out nothing kills the buzz of a looking-good, feeling-good kinda day faster than someone assuming I'm more than a decade older than I actually am. For most of my entire life, I've proudly been the guy who's looked YOUNGER than I actually am. I was getting carded well into my thirties. Recently, I asked a friend what age they thought I came across as. "You have the face of a 40-something," she replied, "and I'm pretty sure your brain is about 14." I am perfectly okay with this evaluation.

But never before has anyone assumed I'm much older than I am. Was today's haircut less awesome than I had previously assumed? Is my ironic wearing of old-guy shirts ceasing to be irony? Perhaps. On that day, I was feeling like a spring chicken. However, according to at least one person, I must have looked like it was time to put me to pasture.

None of this has helped my mindset this week, because as I type this, I am two days away from potentially feeling even older than I do right now. I am about to DJ a themed club night of all goth, industrial, darkwave, and synthpop music down at Wake Brewing. I'd invite you, but by the time you read this, it will have already happened. Maybe you were there. Maybe it was awesome.

I am most likely going to look super silly. Goth culture is usually a younger man's game. You sure don't often see anyone who appears to be past retirement age wearing black eyeliner and a Cure t-shirt. Goth music is dour, foreboding stuff specifically designed for angsty teens to play at top volume in order to freak out their parents. I'm pretty sure the people running this event are half my age, let alone the ones who will be attending.

But once upon a time, that angsty music was a super important part of my life. After having spent the better part of this week in my basement dusting off decades-old records and memories, I officially do not care how silly I look turning up to DJ this thing. I might be the least gothy-looking goth DJ of all time, but I'm going to have a blast. Who cares if I'm starting to look past my prime? I'm inviting some of my old goth friends from yesteryear to come down, relive our glory days, and see if today's goth culture can learn a thing or two from the old guard.

After all, you know who IS past retirement age and still wearing black eyeliner and Cure t-shirts? THE CURE, that's who. They're the grandpappies of goth, and they're going on a world tour this summer. If ol' Robert Smith can tease up his grey hair and take to the stage every night, I'm certainly capable of spinning his records.

So don't worry, folks. I have no plans to retire any time in the near future. Based on the current size of my nest egg (or lack thereof,) that day may never come. Wait, unless there's gifts. Are there gifts?

COLUMN: Couchella

Ahh, paradise. Did you all enjoy that thirty degree temperature drop this weekend? I missed the whole thing. While you were all getting frostbite while covering up your plants, I was soaking up the rays from the California desert. I spent the whole weekend watching some of the trendiest musicians in the world at the Coachella Music & Arts Festival in Indio, CA. Attending the legendary festival has always been a dream of mine, and this year's lineup didn't disappoint.

Best of all? I didn't even have to get off the couch to do it.

I really had no intention of staging a Coachella weekender from my own living room. I'd just retuned home from work on Friday when I remembered the festival usually streams a handful of performances on Youtube. What I didn't know was that THIS year, they were live-streaming nearly every performance from all six stages, dozens of bands parading through my televison screen in real time. I tuned in for a brief channel-flip, but next thing I knew, I was parked in front of the TV all weekend as a long-distance concert-goer.

For me, Coachella instead became Couch-ella. As far as I'm concerned, every music festival needs to do this.

Here is a list of things I love about music festivals:

#1: The music.

That's the whole list. I have loved music for as long as I can remember, and there's nothing like the exhilaration of a live concert. Listening to a record can be great. Watching a music video can be fun. But witnessing one of your favorite artists bringing that music to life in front of your very eyes? It's magical.

Here is a list of everything I hate about music festivals:

#1: Absolutely everything else.

Massive festivals are great, except for all the festivity. I hated large crowds of people BEFORE the pandemic. I hate them even more now that we live in a world where any number of people I'm swapping oxygen with could turn out to be plague carriers.

There's a sea of humanity at these events -- and as we all know, most of humanity is annoying and terrible. And when it comes to concerts, the annoying and terrible people ALWAYS manage to find me. If you're one of those types who likes to scream along off-key to every word of every song, you're probably standing on my left. If you like to use concerts as improvisational interpretive dance recitals, you're probably on my right. If you're eleventy feet tall, you're standing directly in front of me. If you're precariously balancing three beers in your hand while pogoing up and down like a lunatic, you are invariably standing behind me. 

But now let's take the "fun" of standing in a polo field elbow-to-elbow with the entire metro population of Davenport and let's add a couple other exciting Coachella elements: It's the California desert. There is no shade. The people surrounding you have been camping for three days. I use Mitchum deodorant, whose motto was once proudly, "So effective you could skip a day." Even if I lathered myself head to toe in that stuff, I wouldn't trust it against the California sun. I fear the music might not be the only thing that's funky in the Coachella crowd.   

Once upon a time, I could attend music festivals, wander around all day, and felt a little tuckered out by day's end. But now I'm old and fat. Last autumn, I went to an outdoor concert in Chicago and had to tap out on the walk back to the car and hail a cab. (And by "cab," I mean one of those rickshaws with neon lights and disco music. It was a vibe.)

My friend Stuart was actually at Coachella last weekend. He and his girlfriend flew to California to be in the desert throng. At one point, I texted him to see how things were going. He simply replied with a screenshot from his Apple Watch, confirming the 20,969 steps he'd taken that afternoon alone. No thanks. Stuart runs marathons, and if HE was tired of walking, there's not enough disco rickshaws in the world to keep me out of the medical tent.

Watching from home was definitely more my speed. Besides, I think a 3-day Coachella pass runs around $500. I watched the whole weekend and all I spent was $20 on a pizza. Based on the pics Stuart sent, I had WAY better seats than he did. And when a terrible artist came on, I could hit the mute button, something that most concerts don't come equipped with.

What could've been a sad, lonely weekend was anything but. A couple other friends were watching from THEIR living rooms, so we were texting and chatting like we were there. And of course Stuart WAS there, so he was calling in with live reports and we were texting him to let him know which stages were worth hiking to. It sounds silly, but I ended up so immersed in the festival that it kinda feels like I was there, minus the sunburn.

During his flight home today, Stuart texted me to see if I wanted to attend Lollapalooza with him in Chicago later this summer.

"Sure," I replied. "Which channel will it be on?"

COLUMN: Spider Attack

Hurray! Good weather is finally here! Short sleeves and windows rolled down! Beaches and boats! Backyards, burgers and brats! Green grass and blue skies! Sunshine and love all around!

...annnnd I'm good. Let's roll winter as soon as possible. Mr. Frost, do your worst. Ice and snow, please.

Don't get me wrong, I love it when it starts getting nice out. I have it on good authority that in the summertime, when the weather is high, you can stretch right up and touch the sky, and I guess that's a good thing. I love nice weather.

Specifically, I love it for about three weeks. That's how much magic time I usually get every spring before two things start happening: (1) The air fills with pollen, turning me into an allergy-riddled cartoon character for most of the spring, and (2) the air and ground quickly fill with all manner of creepy-crawlies who have the decency to die off and/or bury themselves all winter long. 

Antihistamines usually keep my allergies in check during the summer, but in the springtime, all bets are off. I'm a sniffling, sneezing wreck of a human being, which is super fun considering we now live in an era where sneezing in public makes everyone around you assume that you're a plague rat. I have horrible hay fever, but the worst allergy I have is to bees. The last time I got stung, I was teeny-tiny, but I puffed up like the Michelin Man. There's a fair chance I've since outgrown the allergy, but I'm in no hurry to find out. I suppose I could get tested and carry around an epi-pen in case of emergency, but my long-time strategy instead seems to be acting like a ninny and fleeing in terror any time anything remotely bee-sized or bee-shaped comes near me. 

Last weekend, I was excited to soak up the good weather. I walked outside, felt the warmth of the sun, took in a deep breath of fresh air... and swallowed about a half dozen gnats. What happened to my few fleeting weeks of bug-free spring bliss? This past Monday, I realized they were gone. It was a beautiful morning, and I was optimistic about the work week. I headed to my car with a coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. It only took one breath to feel it: that little tickle in my nose that meant an allergy fit was seconds away.

Sure enough, as I stepped into the garage and pushed the button to open the overhead door, I started rapid-fire sneezing uncontrollably. That's when things got real.

No sooner had I pushed the button to open the garage door when, out of absolute and complete nowhere, a spider roughly the size of Cthulhu base-jumped from parts unknown and fell directly onto the back of my right hand. Why this happened, I have no idea? Was the spider suicidal? Did my sneezing terrify it? Was it a big fan of my column and desperately wanted a selfie? We may never know the answers.

I had no idea what kind of spider it was, nor did I ask. If I had to guess, I'd say it was most definitely a brown-widow-recluse-antula that feeds on a diet of human suffering. When I was recounting the story to one of my friends, she asked if it had a distinctive violin marking on its back. I didn't check, as I was a little preoccupied trying not to have an aneurysm. 

Keep in mind that one hand was holding coffee, the other clutching a bagel, and I was still sneezing uncontrollably. Before I could even react to the horrifying reality of a giant spider falling onto my hand out of nowhere, it scampered up my arm and BEHIND MY BACK and that's where things get blurry.

The next second went by quickly. I yeeted the bagel cream-cheese side down onto the front windshield of my car. I dropped the coffee square onto my foot, where it pretty much exploded and sprayed coffee all over the garage, my white car, and the light tan khakis I was excited were back in season. Unburdened of both coffee AND bagel, my hands were then free to claw at my shirts, desperately ripping the fabric from my body like the lamest Hulk movie ever made, until I stood in the garage half-naked and still sneezing.

Was I screaming, you might ask? No, don't be absurd. Screaming requires some sort of cognitive function. A synapse in my brain would've needed to make that conscious decision and conveyed the order to my mouth, lungs, and larynx. There was no time for such frivolity. Instead, the noise that came out of my mouth was entirely outside of the control of my brain. It was guttural, it was primal, it was pure instinct. It also sounded a lot like "wfuugaaaahfrarkel." It's also a noise not recommended to make while sneezing, which caused me to bite my tongue so hard it started to swell.

I spun around like a dog chasing its tail, desperately yelling, "Ith it off me? ITH IT OFF ME?" That's when I saw my new spider-friend hustling away from the coffee-soaked laundry pile that until recently had been half the clothes on my body. Also, don't forget the whole time this was occurring, my garage door was opening triumphantly as if it were the opening curtain rising on my bravely experimental one-man thinkpiece, "Shane and the Amazing Coffee-Colored Dreamcoat Full of Spiders." I can only hope and pray no neighbor saw me. They already think I'm a little weird, and I'm pretty sure people have been institutionalized for less dramatic performances than my public salute to arachnophobia.

So we're less than one week into good weather and I've already had multiple 30-sneeze salutes to the morning AND been mugged by a spider. This doesn't bode well for the summer season. Please send help to come kill the spider. Also, make sure the help you send doesn't touch my garage door, because it's now covered in enough Raid to kill a small cow. Happy spring, everyone. I'll wave to you from the air conditioning.

COLUMN: Tornado Season

I think we can all agree that we had a fairly easy winter and got away pretty lucky. Sure, we had a few days of super low temps and a couple of quick snowfalls, but for the most part, this winter season was blessedly boring.

I didn't realize, however, that we'd be making up for it by enjoying DANGER SPRING. Frolic at your own risk, I guess.

There's a few things you can trust me to never shut up about: The merits of UK indie music circa 1988-1992. The cultural signifigance of "Twin Peaks." UFOs. Ghosts. Contemporary DJ philosophy. How my cats are da cutest widdle kittles on da whole pwanet. And, most definitely, how very badly I someday want to see a tornado with my own eyes.

There are, however, caveats to my tornado viewing request. I only want to see one from a VERY safe distance, and only if it's majestically tearing through an empty pasture or something and not ruining lives. Essentially what I crave is a tornado zoo. I would pay good money to watch a tornado safely lay waste to an uninhabited dusty field.

The only problem? Tornados are not especially known for their safety or cooperation.

Tornados don't patiently whirl around fields while we choose the best selfie pose. Tornados don't know the difference between empty pastures and shopping malls. You seldom hear things like, "an EF-5 tornado touched down last night... and everyone was fine." Tornados are scary and powerful, dangerous and humbling, and the reason words like "awesome" were invented. 

The good news is that we have some excellent meterologists in town devoted to storm tracking. But, it turns out, I can barely see them -- anytime the weather acts up, my local cable provider continually interrupts the TV signal with robot-voiced emergency announcements from the National Weather Service. This would be great if I'd been watching a Law & Order marathon, but when I'm already watching comprehensive local weather coverage, the constant interruptions are nothing less than maddening. There was a moment last Friday when my TV, my weather radio, my home security system, my cell phone, AND the sirens outside were all blaring at once. I have stood in the fifth row at a My Bloody Valentine concert and been less sonically assaulted. I was indeed alerted to the storms, but now I have tinnitus. Yay.

I grew up in a house that was virtually tornado-proof, so I never feared tornados the way tornados need to be feared. All it took was a first-hand look at communities hit hard by twisters to instill that needed fear. I saw Fruitland in 2007, I saw Washington in 2013, and this past weekend, I drove through Charlotte and once again saw the aftermath of nature's ugly middle finger.

Tornados also don't usually look as photogenic as the ones you see on TV. Sometimes, you can't even see them at all. Oftentimes, tornados are wrapped in horrible storms and just sweep across the landscape like grey and gloomy blankets of wind, muck, and especially hail. I've found that my enjoyment of storms is considerably less as a home-owner than when I was renting. I remember a day when I thought hail was "neato." Now, even the mere mention of the word makes me cringe.

But my LEAST favorite storm threat is the one happening as I type this. It's currently 8:19 p.m. on Tuesday night and we're under a tornado watch. I don't know what I could possibly watch for, though, because it's pitch black outside. Darkness takes whatever excitement I harbor for tornados and just turns it into fear. Earlier today, a tornado caused havoc and damage just a few miles away in Colona. Tonight, they say one could pop up unexpectedly at any time -- in the pitch middle of the dark. Nighty night, sleep tight, don't let THE FLYING DEBRIS IMPALE YOU, I guess. 

I have zero confidence in my ability to stay atop of overnight storms. Last night, we had a doozy of a thunderstorm roll through at 5 a.m., dropping sheets of rain, loud claps of thunder, and a considerable amount of hail. At least, that's what people tell me. I slept right through it all.

The only reason I even knew anything happened is because I woke up to a kajillion expired alerts on my phone. While sitting roughly three feet from my head, my phone was sounding alarms throughout the night and I slept through it all like it was playing Brahm's Lullaby. The only reason I know it hailed is because I rewound my outdoor security camera and watched it. If a tornado were to attack at 3 a.m., I'd probably wake up four hours later surrounded by singing munchkins, wondering which lady with weird shoes my house just landed on.

I'd go on cursing Danger Spring, but I don't want to jinx things. Tornado season has barely begun, places up north are still getting snow, and last I heard, we have somewhere between a 0 and 251% chance of spring flooding, which is definitely NOT the destination I want to reach when I get to the end of Tornado Alley. In the meantime, I shall batten down the hatches (which I'm pretty sure means we're supposed to line our windows with baseball bats, right?)

Last one to Oz is a rotten egg!