COLUMN: Goth Prom

If you're reading this on the Friday it publishes, I am mere hours from one of my favorite side hustles of the year: DJing a goth dance party. Local event promoters Void Church know how to bring joy to the jaded and find merriment amongst the morose -- and tonight at Davenport's Raccoon Motel, they're throwing a formal dance for the divine subculture that celebrates the bleakness of life and the blackness of their wardrobes.

For me, it's a grand time. I first learned to DJ at teen clubs and house parties populated by the fringier outcasts from the social cliques that ruled our high schools in the 1980s. Some of those dour denizens of the night have remained my closest friends to this day, and the music of that era is near and dear to my heart. Any excuse to dust off those gloomy records and spin some goth, industrial, and darkwave classics does my haggard heart some good.

Truth be told, though, I'm likely one of the least goth-y fans of goth music out there. I have no cool tattoos or piercings. I'm scared candles will burn my house down. My go-to fashionwear has always been less about wearing all black and more about wrinkle resistency. ("Do I have to iron this? No? Cool.") If I show up to this goth showcase wearing anything that isn't a Hawaiian shirt, it'll be an achievement.

But more than anything, I make a lousy goth because I try to remain optimistic about life. I like to believe in the innate goodness of people. I like sunny days and laughing with friends and seeing adorable puppies and watching rom-coms with meet-cutes. These are not the basic tenets of goth culture. I should be downtrodden and angsty and nursing black coffee at a Village Inn somewhere until the wee hours. Instead, the advent of warm weather fills me with joy and wanderlust. If I had my way, I wouldn't be sitting at a desk typing this right now. I'd be in my car somewhere majestic, maybe driving down the PCH, seeing ocean waves and mountains and feeling innately alive. I just might be doing it while blaring gothy music out the stereo is all.

This month, though? It's been mighty tough to be an optimist.

I can't make it to work without swearing to myself at least three times in the car. If there's a road in the Quad Cities, it's either (a) riddled with potholes, or (b) under construction. The temporary closure of the Government Bridge has caused massive congestion on the Centennial Bridge, so what better time to work on the Centennial on-ramps and close lanes to power wash the old girl? The other day, I started to cross the bridge to find a guy at a dead stop because he was seemingly confused by the lane closures and forced merging.

Horn-honking is NOT my forte, I swear to you. But I was already running late for work and this guy was inexplicably not moving. So I honked. Wait, let me rephrase that. I booped. Just a wee quick tap on the horn. Also: I drive a Hyundai. If you've ever heard the horn on a Hyundai, you'll know it is the least threatening noise on the planet. Hyundai horns are the car equivalent of the squeal that a wimp makes just before a bully kicks sand in his face at the beach.

My wee boop caused the guy to proceed, but then brake-check me the rest of the way over the bridge, until he was finally able to change lanes and slam on his brakes so he could roll down his window and flip me off while hurling obscenities at me (at least I presume. I had my windows up while listening to goth music at a problematic volume.) Road-raging over a half-second boop at 8 a.m. before I've even made it to my morning coffee should be a felony.

Also this week, I was in a public group on Facebook and someone was talking about the club I was DJing at later that night. "I'm sure the music there is terrible," posted some random cheery stranger who's probably never been there. "I've got an in with the DJ," I cheekily replied. "I'll tell him to avoid terrible music tonight." It took thirty seconds for someone to reply. I was hoping it would be someone else defending the club. I was hoping it would be someone complimenting my DJ skills. Instead, it was a stranger taking time out of their day to thoughtfully reply, "YOU LOOK INBRED." Sigh.

While at the aforementioned DJ gig later that night, I witnessed a police chase that turned ugly when the guy they were chasing blew a red light and almost clipped a pedestrian before T-boning a car crossing the intersection. At least two people were carted off by ambulance, and I hope they're okay. The streets were closed for hours, including the one I was parked on. Not ALL people are innately good, it appears.

Yesterday, I went to the YMCA to work out. If nothing else, I'm continuing my mission to at least look like a slightly less chubby inbred. I was there for fifteen minutes before a giant fight broke out. Next thing I knew, people were running around screaming and throwing punches while others were ducking behind treadmills. My only thought was, "If I get killed at a gym, my friends are going to laugh about this forever." I can see my tombstone now: "HE ALWAYS SAID EXERCISE WOULD KILL HIM."

And to cap off my week, I literally just received word that an old friend from college passed away unexpectedly yesterday. I thought I'd clear my mind by turning on the nightly news. Spoiler alert: Wars. Protests. Murders. Trials. Elon Musk. 

The optimist in me still wants to find the sunny side of the street. I'm sure it's just over yonder, somewhere past the protesters and the car chases and the road ragers and the fighting. And when I DO find it, it'll probably be overcast and stormy, which is exactly what they're predicting for tonight.

Come to think of it, maybe I'm in the PERFECT mood to DJ a goth dance party. See you tonight? I'll be one looking gloomy.  

COLUMN: Ricky's Martin

Once upon a time, I thought I was edgy. I've never exactly been a poster child for the counter-culture, but I spent a good chunk of my youth assuming I was destined to turn heads, push envelopes, and shatter ceilings. Thanks to the ridiculous movie "Pump Up The Volume," I used to wear a pin on my jacket unironically that said "TALK HARD" and thought I was cutting edge. Look out, status quo -- here comes Shane to challenge your norms and push your boundaries.

And here we are, some thirty years later -- and maybe now I'm starting to realize that I'm actually a prude.

I don't ever like to admit that I'm getting old, but the reality is that society has started to outpace me when it comes to challenging the norms. Instead of my pipe dream of confronting convention and offending the masses, it's the masses that are starting to offend ME. Instead of surfing the pop culture zeitgeist, I'm one of the people running from that wave like it's a tsunami about to drown my entire generation in a sea of ick. I fear it's just a matter of time before I buy a cane to shake at the neighbor kids while telling them to get off my lawn.

I don't blame myself for this and I don't blame society. I simply blame time. The job of pop culture is to scare the bejeebers out of the generation that preceded it. In the 1950s, the mere thought of Elvis shaking his hips on national television was enough to cause an uproar. In the '60s, the haircuts of the Beatles made our grandparents fear the world was falling off a moral cliff. In the '70s, punk rock arrived in a rage-fueled flash of shock and awe. In the '80s, we all hid our 2 Live Crew tapes from our parents, some of whom were dragging musicians before Congress to berate their corruption of the innocent.

I've always tried to remain open-minded and roll with the changes. But this year, I may have finally reached the limits of my tolerance. The other day, I caught myself saying a decidedly old-man phrase: "What's WRONG with people today?!"

As regular readers know, I'm a newspaper guy by day and occasional club DJ by night. When you think about it, it's really the ultimate dream hobby. When I go out for a night on the town, I don't just get to pick all the music on the stereo -- I get PAID to pick all the music on the stereo. It's fairly ideal.

Well, it WAS, until this generation came along and mucked it all up. See, I'm one of those nice DJs who plays requests and tries to keep up with the charts and pop culture trends. But here's the thing: Shh, don't yell any young folks I said this, but most of today's pop culture trends are ridiculously terrible. Not all of them, mind you. There are dance songs released every week so good they make my armhairs tingle. But club kids in our neck of the woods don't wanna hear any of those. They just want to hear the filthiest hip-hop songs in my collection.

When I was younger, I thought that we, as a generation, had reached the pinnacle of delightfully rebellious filth. Madonna was SO scandalous. 2 Live Crew dropped four-letter words so casually you'd have thought it was polite dinner conversation. By and large, I was okay with it. It was shocking, it was exciting, and most importantly, it made my parents upset -- which meant it HAD to be cool, right? When I was in grade school, they held a PTA meeting where our parents were told not to let us listen to Blondie because they were a bad influence. Instantly, Blondie became the favorite band of almost every kid at my school. 

But nowadays, the most requested songs at my gigs are SO filthy and SO shocking that they're just kind of... icky. The scandalous songs of MY era were, at the very least, somewhat alluring and titillating. The stuff I have to play nowadays is just kinda gross. I've honestly read anatomy textbooks that were sexier than the X-rated singalong anthems of today's youth.

A couple months ago, I DJed a sponsored party I didn't know was an all-ages event. There were REALLY little kids in attendance, but it didn't stop the majority of requests that night from being filthy trash. I finally found a radio edit of the most requested song and threw it on. So many of the words were censored, people couldn't even tell what song it was. For five minutes, I was onstage laughing while the song went, "Shake____________________________ hands ________________________ now ____________________ for __________________________________me." Everyone just looked confused.

It's not just music, either. I like to stay informed, which is why I subscribe to a wide variety of breaking news alert services. Whenever something exciting happens in the world, I get text alerts so I don't miss a thing. The other day, I looked at my phone to find no fewer than 4 breaking news alerts. Ooh, what could possibly be happening? More conflict in the Middle East? An update from Trump? Did cancer plead not guilty and vow not to rest until it found O.J.'s REAL killer?

Nope. Instead, I had four breaking news alerts to tell me that Latin crooner Ricky Martin had... well, he was a surprise performer at Madonna's concert, and he... umm... well, I can't tell you what happened to Ricky Martin, because this is a family publication. Let's just say, he was onstage with Madonna, and he was... clearly excited to be there. Let's just say Ricky was most definitely livin' la vida loca.

I can't stress enough how little this matters to me. But what concerned me was that no fewer than FOUR news organizations felt it an urgent and important enough development worth texting me over. Okay, ONE of those organizations was TMZ, but still. (And let's give TMZ their props. They're pondscum, but they had O.J.'s death eleven minutes before any other news outlet. Respect.) Regardless, it alarms me that I received more text alerts about Ricky's Martin than I did about Iraq bombing Israel and putting us at risk of WWIII.

Have I lost my edge? Am I just turning into a fuddy-duddy prude in need of a cane to shake? Or has society descended into a such a void of bad taste and idiocracy that I've lost my will to stay hip? There may be only one thing that can save us. I'm looking at you, Taylor Swift. Your new album drops today, and society needs your wisdom. Guide us, oh mighty queen. And if you go back on tour, whatever you do, don't let Ricky Martin onstage.

COLUMN: Eclipse

One of my favorite cultural phenomenons in the history of the internet is the "DVD logo screensaver" meme. Are you familiar?

You remember DVDs, right? Those things we used to buy and rent before Netflix came along and sucked away our souls and wallets? Back in the entertainment era of yesteryear, when you paused a DVD, eventually a screensaver of the little DVD logo would pop up on your TV. This logo would happily bounce around the edges of your screen until you un-paused your movie. Every few minutes, though, if you were paying careful attention, you'd see true magic: the logo would land perfectly in the corner of the screen -- and there was much rejoicing.

For no good reason, it was always an extremely satisfying sight to behold. In one of the funniest episodes of "The Office," hapless boss Michael Scott thought his team was cheering one of his boring sales presentations. In fact, they were cheering because a screensaver logo behind him finally hit the corner. Since then, I've seen videos of packed sports events exploding randomly in joy when a screensaver logo on the jumbotron hits the corner. Some sports arenas are now purposely showing the screensaver in hopes of getting a crowd reaction. It's a silly moment of pointless happiness we can all get behind.

It also happened this week -- just on a slightly larger scale.

Except, instead of a TV, it was the universe. And instead of a DVD logo, it was the moon. Just like how the DVD logo is geometrically destined to land perfectly in the corner of the screen from time to time, so too is the moon geometrically destined to occasionally pass between the sun and the Earth. We call this fully predictable phenomenon a solar eclipse, and as we all know, that moment of pointless happiness happened to us a few days ago. It was great fun.

At 2 p.m. last Monday, if you wanted to do business with our company, you were out of luck. All work in our office ground to a halt for a few minutes so we should step outside with our spanky eclipse glasses and look up at the sun as if we were auditioning to be the cover stars for a Devo album. There was no point in accomplishing anything productive, not while one giant space circle was passing in front of another giant space circle. We weren't in the path of totality here in the Quad Cities, so we only experienced a partial eclipse of the heart, but it was a rare and exhilirating moment to behold regardless.

If you were fortunate enough to be in the path of totality (where the sun becomes completely blocked by the moon,) solar eclipses are even more spectacular. Back in 2017, I stood on a hill in Missouri to experience a total eclipse, and it was pretty epic. Witnessing that fire-ringed black circle was a visual reminder of just how insignifigant we really are in the grand scheme of things. Any time my ego gets pointlessly inflated, it's good to remember that we're all just tiny specks stuck to a ball that's floating through infinity at 67,000 miles an hour. The reality of our universe is cool beyond comprehension.

Regardless of what certain crazypants people on the internet want us to believe, though -- eclipses are NOT a sign of the end times. This week, I saw everyone from online strangers to members of Congress insinuating this week's eclipse was some heavenly harbinger of doom unless we do such-and-such or vote for so-and-so come November. Sorry, I'm not buying it. Eclipses are fully predictable scientific events. In fact, they happen somewhere on Earth almost annually. Just as mathematicians can determine how often that DVD logo will hit the corners of your screen, so too can science geeks predict every eclipse that Earth will ever experience. If a bad omen can be predicted by a nerd and a calculator, it's not especially ominous. 

For our more primitive forefathers, eclipses had to be nothing shy of terrifying. If you were out and about hunting mastadon or trying to invent the wheel and suddenly the sun turned black, that's cause for concern. But in our modern world even with our relatively thin understanding of the universe, I think most of us could go outside this week and enjoy the show without fearing we'd somehow angered a sun god.

I have to admit, though: there was a small part of me keeping a spiritual eye wary for any otherworldy eclipse shenanigans afoot. Alas, I didn't spot a single werewolf. Apophis, the Moon Serpent, did not attempt to eat me. Not a single wizened wizard approached me saying, "BEHOLD, THE PROPHECIES ARE TRUE! YOU ARE THE CHOSEN ONE!" Of course, a friend pointed out to me that I probably shouldn't yearn to be the chosen one. I've seen enough fantasy movies to know nothing good ever happens to chosen ones. Someone else can gladly take that helm. But if the chosen one ever needs a mixtape, I'm your guy. I'm not destined to save the world, but I'm fairly confident I could give it a good soundtrack.

While I don't think eclipses are portents of doom, they're still rare and amazing spectacles to witness. Some of my more jaded and cooler-than-thou friends were so interested in being disinterested in the eclipse that they had to get on social media just to brag about how disinterested they were. "Marked safe from watching one circle float in front of another circle," one wrote. Ooh, I'm so impressed by your apathy. Mountains have existed since the dawn of humanity, but it doesn't make them any less majestic. New Year's Eve is just another night on a man-made calendar, but I bet you've had fun counting down the seconds before midnight. That DVD logo might land in a corner of the screen on every 27th pass, but it doesn't make it any less satisfying when I see it for myself.

As for me? I spent eclipse morning getting a passing grade from my cardiologist check-up. And when the nurse practitioner asked me if I was keeping up with exercising, I proudly replied, "Every single day without fail. And if I'm lying, may God turn the day into night."

COLUMN: Bananapants

I swear, I was going to write about something highbrow this week.

Let's be real: this column is never going to be your weekly destination for erudite intellectualism. We have wonderful writers dedicated to bringing you everything from local news to sports highlights to thoughtful opinions. As for me? I just hang out in my little corner and talk to you about cats and TikTok and nonsense that hopefully makes you smile once in a while.

Occasionally, though, I yearn to write something with a little more depth. You know, maybe showcase some range and perhaps bring a little unexpected sophistication to these pages.

And then, yesterday, a banana exploded in my pants. Take a guess which topic I'm choosing to write about. I know my lane, people.

Public speaking has never been my favorite activity. I'm self-conscious enough without a room full of people staring at me. Anytime I'm tasked with talking to a group of people at once, it's tough to keep my brain focused on the mission. No matter how hard I try to shut it up, there's always a second voice in my head. A much louder voice. It screams things at me like:

"DO I LOOK WEIRD? I BET I LOOK WEIRD. EVERYONE IS STARING AT ME. SIT UP STRAIGHT. SUCK IN YOUR GUT. I'M NOT MAKING ENOUGH EYE CONTACT. WAIT, NOW I'M MAKING TOO MUCH EYE CONTACT! OH GOD, IS MY FLY OPEN? I AM A COMPLETE FAILURE AS A HUMAN BEING."

I don't know how people feel at ease giving a speech. I've always hated it, but in an exciting way. Some people go on rollercoasters for a thrill. The only adrenaline surge I need is for someone to say, "Hey, Shane, why don't you say a few words?"

Most of my work week is spent in our company's advertising department, helping businesses reach audiences like you through our wide portfolio of print and digital solutions. On Mondays, we have our weekly meeting to catch up on all things advertising. This week's get-together was already destined for weirdness. My colleague Brian Menster (who always complains I never mention him in my column) thought it would be great April Fool's Day fun for all of us to walk in wearing tacky vintage sports coats, so we obliged.

I brought one I used to wear unironically in the 80's when tacky sports coats were somehow fashionable. Thankfully, we've evolved from that era. Unfortunately, so has my stomach. My once oversized sports coat now barely gets around my frame. Throughout the meeting, I was in constant fear it was seconds away from audibly ripping down the back like I was Bruce Banner about to transform into the world's chubbiest superhero, The Incredible Bulk. 

What a perfect time, then, to engage the team in a rousing exercise of SALES ROLEPLAYS. It's actually a valuable exercise, where one of us plays a client and we practice assessing their needs and explaining how our products can help them reach customers and gain traction in the community. It's fun, except it's also a little daunting being the center of attention and knowing you're about to be critiqued by your colleagues. When it came my turn, I think I did a decent job, but that shrill little voice in my brain wouldn't shut up. This time, though, it was saying something unexpected.

All the voice said to me was, "SOMETHING FEELS WEIRD."

Two fun facts I forgot to mention:

#1: The pants I was wearing that day have a small hole in the lining of the right front pocket. They came that way, and I can't sew to save my life.

#2: That morning, I was focused on nonchalantly smuggling in the aforementioned tacky sports coat, which explains why I absent-mindedly stuck my mid-morning snack banana into that pocket -- and then promptly forgot all about it.    

So, yes -- to clarify for all parties involved: that WAS a banana in my pocket and I was NOT happy to see you. And as I sat there fidgeting in my comically small sports coat, The Incredible Bulk inadventently crushed that banana into oblivion ("BULK SMASH!"). And as I was in the midst of my sales roleplay with all eyes on me, the decimated pile of what was now rapidly becoming banana pudding wasn't just collecting in my pocket, it was actively seeping through the hole in said pocket and slowly oozing down my thigh.

If there ARE highbrow intelligent readers among you, they might be currently wondering why I didn't immediately excuse myself to sort things out. But there's simply no graceful way mid-meeting to say, "One moment please, I'm having somewhat of a banana crisis within the confines of my trousers." Instead, I just sat there, slowly coming to terms with what was happening in a land down under. Eventually, the meeting ended and I was able to sheepishly shuffle out of the room before I started leaving a delicious trail of pants puree in my wake.

Is there a lesson to be learned in all this? I'm not highbrow enough to find one -- well, other than if you're heading into a high pressure business meeting, you might want to check your pockets for any hitchhiking free-range fruit beforehand. And if you're curious why my pants magically changed colors over my lunch hour Monday, now you know. Personally, I found the entire episode to be a heroic act worthy of acclaim. After all, if I can get through an all-eyes-on-me business meeting with a DIY smoothie trickling down my leg, perhaps I'm a better public speaker than I ever thought. I'd test the theory further, but I'm fresh out of bananas.