COLUMN: Grandpa

Note: This column got SERIOUSLY chopped in the papers this week. It's completely MY fault, as I turned it in roughly 250 words OVER my cut-off size. Sometimes when I do that, it's a slow news week and they run the column bigger. This time, not so much. I have separate copy editors for the Leader as well as the Dispatch/Argus, so the column ran considerably differently in each paper. Here's how the whole thing SHOULD have read, in a perfect world where people just hand me as much newspaper space as I want every week(grin).

One of my favorite songs in the world is by a little-known British pop group called The Bluetones. The chorus of the song goes, "There's no heart you can't melt with a certain little smile, and no challenge should be faced without a little charm and a lot of style." It's a credo that I try and live by -- though sometimes things happen that make that mantra all but impossible to follow. Or so I thought.

Two weeks ago, my grandpa died.

He was a good guy -- a simple man of simple means whose immense pride in his 35 years on the line at the Admiral (Maytag) plant in Galesburg was only overshadowed by his love for his two daughters and the families they raised. Retirement had been good to my gramps, and gave him plenty of time to take care of his lawn, play a tune on the old organ, and hang out on the porch swing in hopes of catching a wave from the engineers and conductors aboard the trains that passed just across the street. (One of the trainmen who always made sure to wave back? My dad.) He was a fairly gruff old guy, but if you managed to tickle his sense of humor, the smile you'd get back would light up the whole world.

As sad as I felt when I called home and got the news, I felt even worse for my mom. After losing my grandma a few years back, my mom spent time daily with my grandpa, filling the roles of daughter, friend, and caretaker simultaneously. His health had been declining lately, but no one (including his doctors) expected him to go so quickly. We had all lost a cherished family member... but my mother had lost a dad, a best friend, and a daily lunch date all at once.

The week of the funeral was the sort of somber chaos that you'd expect. My already stressed-out mother had to deal with the arrival of the extended family, many of whom stayed at my folks' place. My mom, the eternal giver, when put in pressure situations ALWAYS rises to the occasion, but often at her own expense. She was as gracious a host as ever, but I was concerned that she wasn't taking enough time to calm down, breathe, and work through her OWN grief.

My grandpa was a simple guy, and as such, requested a simple service - a quick prayer at the funeral home followed by a quick service at the graveside. The pastor at our church is a great guy, but he barely knows any of us. I can't even call it "our" church without a flash of shame - the only times I've been through its doors have usually involved either funerals or weddings. Before we left, our pastor got together with my mom to ensure he had the names right. My grandfather's clan were Fishels; my grandmother's were Coopers. With that, we adjourned to the cemetery.

At the graveside service, my mother was seated in the front row and wanted me beside her, which I gladly did. The rest of the family and friends gathered around. The service was nice, but perfunctory. At one point, the pastor eulogized my grandfather as "the most even-tempered man" he'd encountered. At this point, my cousin leaned into my ear and asked me if we were at the right funeral. My grandpa was a lot of great things, but "even-tempered" sure wasn't one of them. Well, maybe his temper WAS even - evenly GRUFF. I let it slide; like I said, he barely knew the guy.

As the pastor proceeded, my mind wandered a bit, soaking it all in and remembering all the things I loved about my grandfather. Suddenly, I burst back to reality:

"...and we can rest in the knowledge that, right now, he's being embraced by the Fishel family and by the Connor family."

Wait -- what? Did he just say CONNOR family? My grandma's family name is COOPER, not Connor. Wow, that was a really bad flub. And that's when it happened. When yours truly, at the front row of a somber funeral, did the unthinkable: I giggled.

It wasn't a loud giggle, but a giggle nonetheless. I quickly tried to compose myself and pretend that it didn't happen. But I was too late. Suddenly, I felt the shoulders next to mine heave. Oh no. I had become the world's worst son. I had the unmitigated gall to giggle at my grandfather's funeral. And my mom had heard it. And I had made my mom cry.

I leaned over to try and comfort her, to try and whisper an apology through her heaving sobs. But as I looked at her, realization hit. My mom wasn't sobbing; she was LAUGHING. She was sure trying to look like she was sobbing, but the Connor flub had hit home for both of us, and she was CRACKING UP. That was all it took; suddenly MY giggles were back, too.

It was the 'Chuckles the Clown' episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show come to life. For the rest of the ENTIRE SERVICE, my mom and I sat, heads buried in our hands, laughing uncontrollably to the point of exhaustion. The more I thought about it, the funnier it became.

I envisioned my grandfather at the pearly gates, suddenly being embraced by a family of complete Connor strangers. My "even-tempered" grandpa would undoubtedly be going, "Who are you sons-of-&$&@*es? Get the #&$@ away from me!" I couldn't stop laughing. Every time I'd get it together, my mom would lose it again. Every time she'd calm down, I'd start up again. Composure was NOT an option; if God Himself had hopped down seeking atonement, I would have still been cracking up all the way to Purgatory.

Thankfully, most of the family assumed that the two of us were more grief-stricken than funny-bone stricken. My dad knew what was up, and wasn't too amused, but my mom and I didn't care. My grandpa used to say that the last thing he ever wanted was a bunch of people gussed up and crying over his body. He got his wish. And knowing my grandpa, he would've cracked up over the Connor thing, too.

More than anything, though, our little politically incorrect foray allowed my mom to de-stress considerably. By the time we were back in the car, she was no longer the hypertense Family Rock - she was my mom again, full of life and fun and the sense of humor that she so luckily passed on to me. Our shared embarassment made for the greatest mother-son bonding moment we've had in eons.

Like I said, my grandpa was a good guy, and this was the best way I could possibly imagine to say goodbye. We should all be so lucky to go out the same way. I love you, Mom. And Gramps, may you rest in peace and laughter, with a little charm and a lot of style.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

Goodbye, beautiful flat stomach.

Hello, creepy Scientology-brainwashed seed-of-Satan baby.

COLUMN: Rock Star

Whew. I was getting worried there for a bit. It was a long, tense summer, but we rose to the occasion. We persevered through the best of times and through the worst of times, but it was worth it. Yes, we as a people can sleep much easier tonight in the safe, comfortable knowledge that -- finally -- INXS have chosen a new lead singer.

Anybody else get roped in by CBS' "Rock Star: INXS" this summer? I didn't mean to, I really didn't. I watched on a laugh one night... and inadvertently found myself completely and pointlessly hooked. It really WAS compelling television -- the contestants on "Rock Star," while arguably weaker vocalists, were FAR more engaging than anything "American Idol" threw at us last season, and it was refreshing to see a talent show -- ANY talent show -- not involving Ryan Seacrest.

We watched the contestants battle week after week ("we" being the 14 or so of you who actually checked the show out - it was fairly low-rated.) We saw the tense moments, the stumbles, the triumphs, and the bizarre covers of "Bohemian Rhapsody." And, in the end, it was homeless guy and erstwhile Elvis impersonator J.D. Fortune who won the position of fronting INXS, one of the most popular bands of two decades ago.

Umm... congratulations, J.D.! Just yesterday, you were a total nobody. Today, you're the frontman of a group of total nobodies long past their prime. Next stop? Perhaps opening for Foghat at the Oklahoma State Fair. That's right, you've MADE IT, baby!

And THAT'S what makes "Rock Star: INXS" my pick for Most Ridulous Show of the Year. Once upon a time, INXS were a truly great band. The reason for their greatness was simple: Michael Hutchence. Here was a guy who figured out a perfect formula for success: Take the swagger and sex appeal of legendary Doors frontman Jim Morrison and homogenize it down to appeal to the pop masses. Morrison took peyote and wrote songs about doing rather scandalous things to his mother; Hutchence was more concerned with finding words that sounded sexy and rhymed.

For all intents and purposes, Michael Hutchence WAS INXS. Sure, there were some other guys behind him onstage someplace, but you never really paid attention. Those other guys might have even written all the songs, but would you -- even 20 years ago when they were huge -- have recognized anybody in INXS if they were standing next to you in line at McDonalds? Only Hutchence; the rest of the guys were filler.

Tragically, Hutchence died a few years ago. And now, INXS have wrapped up their search for his replacement. The goal is that J.D. will step on stage with the rest of the band and that "INXS magic" will happen all over again.

What nobody informed you of on the show was that the magic had already run out years ago. Quick, name ANY song off one of the last 3 INXS albums. Can't do it, can you? That's because NOBODY BOUGHT THEM. Their career was already toast PRIOR to Hutchence's death. Did you also know that Fortune wasn't the first to replace Hutchence? The band had already recruited a new singer and set off on a failed world tour that netted empty seats and no new record deal.

But now, thanks to "Rock Star," INXS are once again household names (provided, of course, that you're in of one of the 8 or so households that actually WATCHED the show.) And Fortune is ready to try and do the impossible by honoring the memory of Hutchence AND making INXS somehow relevant again. Best of luck, pal.

Amazingly, "Rock Star" producer Mark Burnett has announced that he wants to do future installments of the franchise, where each season another presumably washed-up band seeks a new singer. What's next? Join us next season as the Blowfish seek a new Hootie? The Captain needs a new Tennille? Randy and Tito look for a new Michael? "The Jackson 4 + Some Guy Named Doug," coming to a Wal-Mart opening near you! Run away. Quickly.

Hod Fishel, 1923-2005

Sorry I haven't been around this week. My grandpa died. It wasn't entirely unexpected -- his health had been declining, but we weren't expecting it to end so soon. Death sucks.

I've never been one of those people who can easily wax poetic about death or write flowery prose talking about what a wonderful person he was, and how the world's a sadder place blah blah blah. All that stuff might be true, but it's just outside of my abilities/nature to talk about people that way. I don't like to bum people out or needlessly tug on heartstrings just for the sake of getting a rise out of somebody. I hate reading newspaper columns that are big, long eulogies about people I've never met.

My grandpa was a great guy, he really was. That's all anybody needs to know. And I'll hang on to the memories, the funny faces, the crazy recipes that he'd invent in the years after my grandma died, the incessant organ playing, and the gigantic brandy snifter that he used to drink his Pepsi out of every night. He was a simple man who loved simple things -- there's never been a better honest-to-gosh trainspotter on Earth. He didn't want people to make a big fuss over his death -- it's going to be a blue jeans ceremony at his request. So I'm not going to make a big fuss about it in print, either.

Just know that a pretty good guy's no longer with us... and if your grandparents are still around, give 'em a hug for me this week, 'kay?

COLUMN: Cable

We serious journalist types (cough) are non-stop seekers of the truth. We pour our hearts and minds time and again into the stories we cover to bring you the very finest in news coverage. And when one of these stories hits home, it affects us so deeply that it's seemingly all we can talk about around the office.

That's why it should come as no surprise that, over the past week, the most heated discussions around the water cooler here, naturally, have been about Cable, Ill.

Cable is a small town just to the south of the Quad-Cities. This fact alone is likely newsworthy to most of you, as "small" is a bit of an understatement when it comes to Cable.

I've been to Cable once myself. Back in college, my friends and I needed a late-night study break, so we all piled into my car and took off on an aimless country drive. We got really lost and somehow ended up in Cable.

I remember this because, as we were driving through the town, I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting WILD TURKEYS that were amiably strutting through the main street. I'm not making fun of small towns here, so don't write me hate mail -- I come from one myself. I'm just saying that Cable is the sort of town where wild turkeys can feel free to take midnight strolls, OK?

The running joke that none of us knew until last week is that Cable has no cable-television service. Thus enters an enterprising marketing guy from Quad City Satellite with a brainstorm. They went to the residents of Cable with a proposal: 10 years of free Dish Network satellite TV to the entire town -- if the town agreed to change its name from Cable to DISH, Ill.

This is, in my book, a pretty funny idea. It's the kind of funny idea that would give Dish Network AND Cable, Ill., some pretty amusing 15 minutes of fame. It's the kind of story that would run in every newspaper in the country. The kind of story that might even get a mention from Leno or Letterman. A win-win situation, right?

Not so much. The idea backfired. A city-council meeting was held, and Cable residents were, for the most part, outraged. Satellite-dish subscriptions were canceled, residents spoke their minds, and the folks from Dish Network were sent packing.

I'm not so sure I would've done the same thing. I guess I've never really had enough civic pride to honestly care about the name of my town (unless, of course, I was living in "Loserburg" or "Lameville" or something). I like living in Rock Island, but that's only because when my music-nerd friends from out of town ask where I'm from, I can throw up the devil horns and scream, "I'm from the Island of ROCK, dude."

Cable started as a mining and railroad town, and got its name because most of the major stockholders of the railroad had the surname Cable. One news report interviewed a resident of the town who said those stockholders would be "turning in their graves" over the name change.

But how do we know? Maybe those guys would all be big fans of "The Sopranos" and want their town's residents to have access to HBO. It's neat that residents of the town obviously have a great respect for history -- but you know what else can foster a great respect for history? Ten years of The History Channel for free, that's what.

At the end of the day, you have to respect the wishes of the 40 households of Cable. They were offered their 15 minutes of fame, and they wanted no part of it. That's commendable. You folks (and even your wild turkeys) should walk with heads held high.

I, on the other hand, am a complete sellout. Unfortunately, it turns out that, despite my powerful role as a beloved area humor columnist, I surprisingly don't have the authority to change the name of Rock Island. However, I can still accommodate any interested publicity executives reading now.

For the right return, and at great personal expense, I hereby publicly declare that I'm willing to change the name of my apartment from "Apt. No. 5" to "Apt. No. 61-Inch Flatscreen Plasma Hi-Definition TV."

Any takers?

You Know What I Don't Get?

So you see all these horrific pictures of cars on the interstate going like 2 mph trying to get out of the way of Hurricane Rita, right?

DOES TEXAS NOT HAVE BACK ROADS???

Sorry, but just because somebody tells me to get the heck out of Dodge (and/or Houston), that doesn't mean that the interstate is the only mode of transportation out of town?!

Surely there's like a myriad of dirt, gravel, and pavcd country roads that simply CANNOT be congested like this, right? Or am I missing something? Personally, I would be turning my car into an ATB (All Terrain Beetle) and hoofing it through the uncharted territories of Texas before I would set foot on an interstate that's moving slower than a circus parade...

Tell Us Something We DON'T Know...

I don't know how I missed this one on The Daily Kos 2 weeks ago.

COLUMN: Lost

Loser ('lu-z&r): (n.) One who is incompetent; something doomed to fail or disappoint. See also: Shane.

For those of you following my life like a serial during your morning cereal, you may recall that last week found me at the dawn of a vacation week with no decisive plans for vacating. Witness the rantings of my wide-eyed, optimistic self just seven days ago:

"I figure that my nearly condemnable apartment could use a good once-over. So I'm going to spend my week cleaning, organizing, throwing stuff away, tidying, and generally fixing my life up a bit."

Oh, Shane, you idealistic fool.

My game plan was in motion early on. Cleaning supplies had been purchased. Timelines had been drawn. Heck, I admit it, even alarm clocks had been set so as not to waste one precious moment of cleaning time. I was Man On A Mission, and nothing could stop me from turning my apartment from squalor to stateliness. And I would start this project...

... the second I got home from the Tuesday ritual. You see, only we TRUE pop culture junkies know Tuesdays need to be reserved for the most precious weekly event on Earth.

Tuesdays are a time for love, for peace, for infinite harmony to flow across the land; for, you see, Tuesdays are when the new releases go on sale at Borders and Co-Op Records.

And in one glance at the new release wall, the swift and immediate realization hit me that there would be no cleaning in my immediate future. I had forgotten this was the Tuesday that the first season of "Lost" came out on DVD.

Now, I've come to terms long ago with the fact that television does, in fact, rule my life. I love the smart, scathing comedy of "South Park," "The Daily Show," "Family Guy," and so on.

I hate reality TV -- well, I hate that I love reality TV, yet still I race home for "Survivor," "The Amazing Race," and "American Idol" week after week. As much as I love TV, though, it's very rare that I latch onto a show so intensely that it really becomes all I can think about.

"Twin Peaks" was the first. The ground-breaking '90s series co-created by the mad genius David Lynch was the first TV show I would have quite possibly killed not to miss. Between Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic, dancing backwards-talking midgets, and lines like, "This must be where pies go when they die," "Twin Peaks" made life altogether more livable.

If I wasn't such a shallow man, I'd even confess that I once dressed up in costume and went to a Twin Peaks convention; however, since I still harbor the fantasy of dating another girl at some point in my life, I'll keep that nerd-centric story to myself.

It took years for me to get over the cancellation of "Twin Peaks." I vowed never to become wrapped up in another show so deep. Then I saw "Lost." I actually waited about six or seven episodes before I gave in to the taunts of my nerdy friends and watched it. Within an hour, I was calling people up to find copies of the episodes I'd missed.

I figured a TV show about plane crash survivors stranded on a desert island would be atrocious. Knowing network TV as I do, I was expecting a cross between Tom Hanks talking to a volleyball and Gilligan playing island basketball with the Harlem Globetrotters.

What I wasn't expecting from "Lost" was monsters, polar bears, mysterious hatches, potentially evil babies, and enough supernatural, creepy heebie-jeebies to keep one's mind occupied for months.

This long hot summer wait through rerun season has been damaging to the psyche. If I don't find out what's in the stinkin' hatch by the end of the next episode, I'm going postal.

(It'll probably be a key to a door that'll be opened sometime around season five or so. I hate the writers.)

So, yeah, idiot me did NOTHING on vacation except re-watch all 24 episodes of "Lost," then watch all the bonus stuff on the DVD.

Spoiler: It doesn't tell ya one stupid thing about the stupid hatch. But I am now officially SUPER keyed up about the new season (Wed., Sept. 21 on ABC) -- so much so that I'm inviting friends over for the season two debut.

That is, if I can find my television somewhere in all this garbage.

Everybody Pees

...But not everybody has to ask Condoleeza Rice if it's okay first.

This would be our fearless leader, needing to relieve himself in the middle of the United Nations session yesterday.

I'm not kidding. Here's the caption that originally ran with this photo, courtesy of Reuters:

U.S. President George W. Bush writes a note to Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice during a Security Council meeting at the 2005 World Summit and 60th General Assembly of the United Nations in New York September 14, 2005. World leaders are exploring ways to revitalize the United Nations at a summit on Wednesday but their blueprint falls short of Secretary-General Kofi Annan's vision of freedom from want, persecution and war. REUTERS/Rick Wilking

Carefully look at the contents of said note.

"I think I may need a bathroom break? Is this possible" is what it says.

Which CLEARLY brings to mind two important points:

(1) What's with the usage of the question mark? "I think I may need a bathroom break?" Mr. President, that shouldn't be a question. You either have to doodie or you don't. It's never a "maybe" kinda issue.

(2) You are (as unbelievable as it sounds to us as it must to you) the elected leader of the free world. As such, you should not have to ask permission to use the pottie. In all due respect, Mr. President, your importance is such that, if you wanted to, you could whip it out right there in the assembly room and take a #1 on the heads of the delegation from Sierra Leone.

COLUMN: Vacation Week

Hiya, chumps! How's the work week going? Is the 9-to-5 grind particularly challenging? Are you stressing out? Having a fun time wasting your life working for The Man?

I feel for ya. I really do. I will, in fact, feel for you while sitting in my living room recliner. I do this because, while you must soon put your newspaper down to get back to whatever good and/or service you help bring to the world, I will be deep in the heart of a well-deserved vacation week.

The sad truth, though: I'm certain that my brain will ruin it.

There's a horrible question that seems to pop up each and every time I get a week off from work, and the answer to that question can make or (usually) break the entire vacation: WHAT DO I DO WITH A WHOLE WEEK OFF?

Usually there are two answers to this question: I can either do (a) Something, or (b) Nothing. And, invariably, whichever I choose, I'll decide later that I should have done the other.

Let's imagine that I answered (a) and that I'm going to do Something on my vacation. This usually involves a trip someplace. In the past decade, I've taken roadtrips to Colorado, Cleveland, Canada, Memphis, and -- most recently -- Dallas. Loads of times, I've spent a full week in Chicago visiting friends. I might even occasionally make the journey to Galesburg to spend time with my oft-neglected family.

Usually these trips are a whole lot of fun. BUT -- and this is where the mental conundrum comes in -- the fun usually comes at a price. If I'm going on an official, get-the-suitcase-out-of-the-closet kind of trip, I try to make it worth my while -- and I try to do this by moving non-stop for an entire week. A normal vacation trip for me involves so many sights and sounds that, by the time I make my way back to work the next Monday, the only thing I can think about is how badly I need a vacation.

Then there's the other option: do Nothing. I've spent many a vacation week simply hangin' out. Staying in town, not doing anything productive, and just idly watching the world go by for a week. By the time I'm back at work, I'm fairly well-rested, sure, but I also feel like I've completely wasted what little time off I have every year. (And no, that's NOT a slam against the newspaper -- I get three weeks of vacation every year, which is more than a whole lot of people get. But, in the grand scheme of things, if I'm working 49 weeks out of the year, I wanna make those other 3 weeks COUNT!) Besides, who wants to answer the "So, what'd you do on your vacation" question with, "Umm... watched some TV?"

So, invariably, every vacation that I get sucks. If I do Something, I'll regret not doing Nothing. If I do Nothing, I'll be embarassed that I didn't do Something. Ergo, I might as well just stick around at work.

Happily, however, I'm not insane. I'd rather face this dilemma time and again than NOT have a vacation at all. And this time, I may have just found a compromise.

I'm staying in town for most of this vacation. That means I'm choosing Nothing. BUT... I figure that my nearly condemnable apartment could use a good once-over. So I'm going to spend my week cleaning, organizing, throwing stuff away, tidying, and generally fixing my life up a bit. That, by definition, is doing Something. And it just so happens that my favorite band is playing in Dekalb this week, so I'm going to take one day to go see them play.

I'll let you know if the Nothing/Something compromise pans out. In the meantime, though, I reeeeally want to stop writing. No offense, but I've got a vacation to get to.

Help: A Day in the Life

Hey guys.

(First off, sorry for the disappearing act -- I'm on vacation this week!)

Later today marks the release of one of the coolest charity records that's come out in a loooong time. And it might be bad timing, because right now the word "charity" is synonymous with the word "Katrina," I know... sadly, this benefit does NOT support hurricane relief efforts, but it IS a good cause.

War Child is a British-based charity that looks after victims of war worldwide, from the hills of Afghanistan to civil war ravaged Sierra Leone and more. A decade ago, the group released "Help," a legendary charity record that was recorded in one week by a slew of top music talent and in stores the next week.

This time, they're topping themselves. "Help: A Day in the Life" is their new benefit record. Not only have they enlisted new tracks from some of the greatest bands in the world (Coldplay, Bloc Party, Keane, Kaiser Chiefs, Belle & Sebastian, etc.,) but they've pulled it off in ONE DAY. Twenty-four hours ago, all contributing artists went into the studio to record their exclusive tracks. The results will show up TODAY in the form of downloadable mp3's from the War Child site, warchildmusic.com.

An actual CD of the benefit will be in the shops in a month, but the online version should be up for sale later today. A cool project for a cool cause, go buy it.

COLUMN: Art Appreciation 101

I so desperately want to be pretentious, highbrow, and artistic.

I want to be well-read. I want to be emotionally overcome by a poem. I want to dissect the hidden inner symbolism of a Bergman film. I want to appreciate the beauty of a simple sonata. I want to click my camera and instantly create a piece of art that makes people in tweed jackets go "Oooooh, the textures!" I want to wear black turtlenecks and make controversial statements in coffeeshops.

Sadly, I want all of these things for the wrong reason. I need to come to terms with the fact that I'm just not an artsy kinda guy. As hard as I may try, at the end of the day, I'm pretty shallow, self-serving, and cynical. That's why I'm a humor columnist and not off scribing the Great American Novel. That's why I own movies like "Pauly Shore is Dead" on DVD. That's why half of my favorite books are comic strip collections.

Yet, despite my ineptitude at artistic appreciation, I still routinely try to pass myself off as someone deep and innately artistic. Why? The truth is simple. My appreciation for art matters far less than my appreciation for artsy GIRLS, and I like to put myself where they gather. This is usually an exercise in futility, as artsy girls tend to overlook chubby newspaper columnists in favor of guys who wear leather jackets, read Kerouac, and smoke clove cigarettes while listening to minimalist German bands who favor sledgehammers and trash cans over guitars. Yet I sure keep trying.

That might explain why this past weekend, I found myself strolling through the new Figge Art Museum in Davenport. First thing's first: the Figge is fantastic. The building is a work of art in itself, let alone the impressive collection within. The whole thing's a bit daunting for a non-art person like myself, but the museum does a great job at putting up informative plaques to help folks better appreciate the multitudes of paintings, sculptures, and installations.

Too bad all I can muster in my head are thoughts akin to, "Ooh, that's a pretty picture." The whole time I was there, I was observing other museum-goers. I watched a girl stand in front of a centuries-old painting of Madonna and child (one of many at the Figge) for almost five minutes. I bet she was contemplating the historical signifigance of the piece. Perhaps she was admiring the artist's subtle use of background imagery, their brush stroke, the ornate detail of the presumed masterpiece. Minutes later, I walked up to the same piece, and the best my mind could come up with was, "Man, that is one ugly baby Jesus." Yes, I'm pathetic.

The one piece, however, that I really DID love at the Figge is sadly the one that's already left the museum by the time this column makes print. Friends had been telling me about Janet Cardiff's "40 Part Motet" since the Figge opened, but it didn't do justice until you actually experience it. Cardiff individually recorded all 40 members of a boy's choir singing one of the most intricate choral pieces imaginable. The installation is basically a huge circle of 40 speakers positioned at mouth level playing back the piece. You can walk around the room and hear each individual member of the choir, or you can sit in the middle and be gob-smacked by the coolest surround sound you could imagine.

I spent a lot of time at the piece. I wondered how she was able to record every voice individually. I wondered how they were able to play it back - is there a 40-track mixer hiding behind closed doors? I was amazed at the clarity. I was impressed by the sonic tricks you could get just by walking around the room differently. The whole thing was kind of moving. Then it hit me. I was (gasp) appreciating art.

Or at least I thought I was. Then I got home and Googled the piece. I found a review on an art site: "As the voices rise and merge over us, we are brought to a sense of honesty... We are not only in this room nor only of this world. We are reminded that each of us has a part in the intricate counterpoint of existence." The intricate counterpoint of existence? Sigh... I just thought it was neato.

Part of me wants to ban myself from high art, since I'm apparantly too lame to appreciate it on the level it should be. Then again, let the pretentious posse have their stupid symbolism. It doesn't mean I can't check out all the pretty pictures, too. Well, except for that one baby Jesus. It kinda creeps me out.

MTV VMA's: Who Cares?

Ah, yes, it's Video Music Awards night on the MTV.

As Diddy (the artist formerly known as sane) puts it, "ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN!" Too bad nothing did, other than Fat Joe probably getting shot later tonight.

A few random comments on the night's boredom:

(1) Clearly, R. Kelly has lost his damn mind.

(2) Clearly, Kelly Clarkson is officially a hottie. "American Idol" really DOES work; that girl's gonna be around for awhile.

(3) The "special secret surprises" were MC Hammer & My Chemical Romance??? Suddenly I find myself yearning for the days of Michael Jackson & Lisa Marie Presley making out.

(4) Favorite moment of the night? The water jets arching over the winner's heads as they walked the aisle to the stage. Or, more to the point, the water jets malfunctioning and arching NOT QUITE over the winner's heads, causing fabulous people in fabulous outfits to either strut through the water spray (Green Day) or crawl on their hands and knees to avoid getting wet (Kelly Clarkson.)

(5) The grand public debut of the Terror Squad / G-Unit rap war. Fat Joe made fun of 50 Cent's massive security posse, then 50 & Tony Yayo called Fat Joe a "--------- pussy --------- ------!!" during their set. I don't know exactly what WAS said thanks to MTV censors. But the point is, somebody's gonna get shot soon.

(6) Paulina Rubio apologizing for the Gorillaz being "unable to attend." Possibly because they're cartoons, mmm?

(7) I'm TOTALLY writing Lil' Kim while she's in jail. Maybe I'll get an autograph back. Hey, it worked for Slick Rick...

(8) The show sucked. But what else is new?

COLUMN: Diary of a Sick Day

8:32 a.m. - Katie Holmes. A hot tub. Some lime Jell-o. It is the dream of all dreams, when suddenly I'm awakened to the blare of my alarm clock. Quick, hit the snooze timer -- Katie, come back!

8:37 a.m. - Katie is gone for good as my alarm goes off again. I shut it off and lay for a moment, enjoying the relaxing sound effects of a distant crackling fire.

8:38 a.m. - Wait a second, that crackling is coming from my LUNGS. This can't be good.

8:40 a.m. - Reality starts to settle in. Apparantly, while I was tending to the Jell-o in my subconscious, an Ebola of a cold has settled into my head and chest. Urgh. There is NO WAY I'm going to work today.

8:45 a.m. - The inability to breathe without coughing means that I MUST call in sick to work. I really hate doing this. Don't get me wrong, I love skipping work -- I just hate having to make that phone call to do so. I say a couple of sentences out loud to the wall. Grr, nope, my voice isn't shot, it sounds fine. They're TOTALLY not going to believe that I'm sick. Ah well, I really DO feel icky, and it must be done.

8:46 a.m. - Whew. Voicemail. Bosses are so less intimidating when they're recorded. Message left, which means it's official. I'm playing hooky.

8:47 a.m. - I do the hooky dance in my PJ's in the living room. But only for a second; then the headache and nausea set in. Grr, I really AM sick.

9:15 a.m. - The battle stations are prepared. I lay down on the couch and examine the table before me. Box of Kleenex, bottle of Robitussin, 2 pieces dry toast, jug of water, remote control. Check, check, check, check, and check. I'm set. Let's get to illin', y'all.

10:05 a.m. - Daytime TV rules. Today, on a special "Maury," Marisol brings in the 14th possible father of her child for paternity testing. Oh, man, do people actually WATCH this garbage every day? There MUST be something better on, I say to myself as I grab the remote control.

10:45 a.m. - It's not #14's baby, either. Ooh, Marisol, you tempestuous vixen, you.

12:00 p.m. - I'm hungry. This presents a problem, as the only inhabitants of my fridge are a can of grape juice, some Grey Poupon, and something that may or may not have been Chinese food sometime in June. I need to go on a food run. The paranoia sets in. What if a co-worker sees me out driving around? I don't want anybody to think I'm faking it. I plan a route to KFC using all side roads.

12:30 p.m. - Having returned with my stealth lunch, it's time for some soaps. Like sands of the hourglass, so are the Days of our Lives. Hasn't this show been on for, like, 100 million years? That's gotta be one slow hourglass.

1:45 p.m. - Two thoughts cross my mind. First, is there anything worse than the taste of Robitussin? I'd rather go on Fear Factor and munch on rotted animals than take another swig of this stuff. Second, what a STUPID name for a drug. Doesn't it sound like a Japanese monster-movie nemesis? "Godzilla vs. Robo-tussin," coming to a Creature Feature near you.

1:55 p.m. - Robo-tussin has declared war on the rest of my coffeetable. The Sudafed box puts up a good fight but is no match for its awesome power. The only thing that can save the peaceful community of Tabletown is... Captain Advil-Bottle! When I realize I've spent 10 minutes playing with a bottle of cough syrup (complete with sound effects and narration,) I decide that maybe I need to ease off the cold meds a bit.

3:10 p.m. - I want my mommy.

3:40 p.m. - If you channel-flip long enough, there is ALWAYS an episode of "Cops" on somewhere. Astoundingly, I've seen them ALL before.

5:00 p.m. - As my sick day winds to a close, and I trapse through the sea of wadded-up Kleenex around my couch, I still feel pretty icky. On the lighter side, however, if I do it juuust right, I might just be able to turn this into a funny column. Time will tell, I guess...

COLUMN: Peter Pan

In short time, I will be 35 years old. Eek. Don't send cards quite yet - it's not for another five months. Still, the fact that it's that far off and I'm already worried about it does NOT bode well. But who can blame me? 35 is officially old.

If I played professional sports, I'd be contemplating retirement about now. Soon, I will no longer be in the "coveted 18-34 market" that advertisers obsess about. No, instead I'll be lumped into the age bracket where advertisers try to reach me via reruns of "Matlock" and "Murder She Wrote." Where looking at college freshman girls becomes -- officially and decidedly -- creepy. Where MTV starts to become "just crazy kids making crazy noise."

I find myself at an interesting crossroads. On the one hand, I don't ever want to be "the old guy." I don't EVER want to be uncool, unhip, or past my prime. I don't EVER want to be called "sir" in my life. Yet, on the other hand, when my hopes and dreams are actually realized, it's just as irritating.

Let me explain. The other day, a co-worker of mine, in an off-hand conversation, made a comment that part of me wanted to take as a compliment, while the other half simply shriveled up in a ball of embarassment. She innocently referred to me as "Peter Pan."

I mean, why should that bother me? Peter Pan exemplifies the essence of eternal youth. Peter Pan should be my ideal! The world populace can become old fogies all it wants to -- ol' Peter Pan here will just laugh and dance about and then go play some X-Box, right? Right?

Then reality starts to nudge its way in. I'm all for youthful exuberance, but Peter Pan doesn't bring to mind youthful exuberance as much as it brings to mind creepy asexual frolicking. I mean, there's a REASON that Peter Pan is usually played by WOMEN. Staying young in spirit is nifty and good, unless the end result is that women of the free world now think of me on the same sexual level as Sandy Duncan. Never in my life have I heard a girl go, "Wow, that Peter Pan is SUCH a hottie."

I've been to class reunions lately, and people I went to school with are starting to look old and balding and wrinkly and such. Meanwhile, the other day a strange girl came up to me at a summer festival and was all, "Shane? Shane BROWN? Is that you?"

I didn't recognize this middle-aged woman one bit. Turns out we went to GRADE SCHOOL together. We hadn't seen each other since we were, oh, 10. I wouldn't have been able to pick her out of a line-up even if she were wearing her "Wataga Warriors" t-shirt. Yet, she pegged me from 50 yards off. Why? Because I still apparantly must look like I'm 10. THIS is a bit distressing for a 34.6 year old.

The other day, it got WORSE. I was having a "feel-bad-for-me" day, so I decided to treat myself to a movie. However, what I was not expecting at the ticket counter? "I'll need to see some ID, please."

That's right: 34-year-old me got carded trying to get into an R-rated movie. Suddenly, I was HAPPY I went by myself. I was so flabbergasted that, for one of the few moments in my life, I became indignant.

"Look," I said to the ticket girl, "you have GOT to be kidding. I could walk into this movie with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, an absentee ballot in my pocket and a porno mag tucked under my arm!"

Note to self: This is NOT the best way to impress a theatre employee. Yes, I had to stand there, holding up the line, while she carefully held my ID to the light, checking to ensure it wasn't a fraud -- and all this to prove that I was of the maturity level necessary to watch "Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo." There really IS something wrong with this world.

At the end of the day, I guess I just need to stop worrying about what others think, and just be me. My co-worker says my Peter Pan mentality is both "my charm and my downfall," and hey, I can live with being charming. Perhaps a compromise is in order. I'm not going to start wearing suits and listening to Celine Dion, but maybe it's time to ditch my subscription to "Electronic Gaming Monthly" and start getting "Esquire" instead. After all, in five months' time, the REAL fun can start: that's when this Peter Pan will be old enough to run for President.

Head colds suck.

That is all.

COLUMN: Cookouts

I am never going to be a homeowner. This decision, which I made ages ago, means that I will never have complete privacy. I will never be able to crank my stereo as loud as I want. I will never be able to take a shower without fear that the guy in the apartment next door will pick that exact moment, as he often does, to flush his toilet.

BUT -- it also means that I will never have to do yard work. I will never have gutters to clean. I will never make a mortgage payment. And, most importantly, I will never have to succumb to The Rule.

As more and more of my friends have left the collegiate era of apartment dwelling to become responsible, white-picket-fence home dwellers, I've started to become all too familiar with The Rule. Though I have never seen this rule in print, I know that it must exist, as every one of my homeowning friends has fallen under its spell. The Rule is such: If you own a home, you must -- at least once per year -- invite everyone that you've ever met on Earth over for an afternoon cookout.

Happily this is a rule that shall never apply to me, as "cooking out" at my place would involve holding the microwave precariously out the kitchen window. As that's a bit impractical, I may forever escape the role of party invitor. Sadly, the downside of that coin is that I am perpetually one of the invitees.

So what to do if you find yourself invited to one of these Saturday afternoon shindigs? The way I see it, I have two distinct levels of friends. When an upper-tier friend -- mainly former college roommates, girls I fancy, and co-workers who sit within 3 desks of mine -- throws a party, it's a Must-Attend. If it's anyone else, there's a good chance I've got Other Important Stuff to do that day.

Last weekend, I found myself at one of these cookouts. A good friend of mine just moved into her first house, plus it was her birthday to boot, so her party definitely fell within the Must-Attend variety. The problem was that when I arrived, I found that of the 75 or so people in attendance, I knew precisely: two. This isn't just a bad thing for me; it's borderline apocalyptic.

I come from the land of shy, awkward dweebs. Small talk is not a life skill that I've picked up over the years. "Mingling" is not in my vocabulary. But, I gave it the ol' college try -- and I discovered that, when faced with a cookout full of total strangers, a few simple strategies can be employed to make the event less awkward:

(1) Align yourself with the Providers. Everyone respects a man standing beside a grill. Small talk is easy when you're gathered over a burger. Everyone's got a magic grilling secret, myself included (onion powder, garlic salt, and 2 parts steak seasoning pre-grill; 1 half-can beer poured at the halfway mark.) Befriending the Grillmaster is a safe bet -- unless, of course, the Grillmaster is one of those crazy "I-just-like-fire" guys who's hooking up the propane with one hand while taking a drag off their cigarette in the other (that's NOT the version of "housewarming" one wants.)

(2) Align yourself with a housepet. Find the party-thrower's cute kitty and spend as much time as possible playing with it. Kittens are fun to hang with, they draw cute girls like flies, and you don't have to worry about making up inane banter about football or the weather.

(3) Find like-minded souls. Scan the crowd for anyone else outside the fray with a similar look of desperation. All it takes is one well-timed "man, I don't know ANY-body here," and your fellow outcast should commiserate.

If all else fails, sit back and remember why you're REALLY there. You're there because it's your friend's special day and she wanted you there.

Then realize that your friend is way too stressed out throwing the party to actually realize who's in attendance; promptly bum-rush the kitchen and eat your body weight in free burgers, brats, and Aunt Edna's potato salad; then sneak out the back when noone's looking. Or maybe I'm just pathetic. Sorry, Jamie, next time I'll be more social. Promise.

Planning for Cancellation

Is it just me, or does it seem that a lot of these much-hyped new fall shows are setting themselves up for little more than one-season orders?

There's a show coming to CBS this fall, I think, called "Prison Break." They're running the ads for it incessantly on TV. (This, meanwhile, is problematic enough, as these commercials take away from the leadening fact that THE FUTURE OF OUR WORLD DEPENDS ON JUST EXACTLY WHO WILL BECOME THE NEW LEAD SINGER OF INXS!) The plot of "Prison Break," as I understand it, involves Brother A being convicted and sent to prison for a crime he didn't commit. Brother B, some sort of prison-building-expert or something, commits a robbery on purpose in order to be sent to the same prison and help his brother hatch an elaborate escape plot.

(1) How would this guy know he'd be sent to the SAME prison? Wouldn't it suck to do the crime and then find out you're going to Utah or someplace to spend 20 years in a jail cell with a guy named Bubba Love?

(2) HOW can this show exist for more than 1 season? It's either going to be THE most elaborate prison break in the history of history (Season 1 involves 24 different attempts at sneaking a nail file into a cake,) or perhaps on each season finale they'll be re-captured and re-sent to a different prison so they can team up and do it all over again.

Oh, and there's another show -- maybe this one's coming to Fox, I don't remember -- where the show is basically a 20 year old murder mystery involving a group of friends, and apparantly every episode takes place 1 year after the previous episode. 20 episodes and you see 20 years evolve in these character's lives. It's like the anti-"24." Jack Bauer would NOT be amused.

(1) How would you like to be the makeup crew on THIS show? "Yeah, we need you to age, umm, EVERYONE in the show by 20 years. Cool?"

(2) How can THIS show exist for more than 1 season? I think it'd be great if the show gets picked up and they force the cast to evolve ANOTHER 20 years... then ANOTHER, etc., until finally it's a show about geriatrics living in the year 2050, still trying to solve the 100 year old murder while dodging flying cars and evil robots hell-bent on world destruction.

Maybe I just over-think things sometimes...

Secrets of the Dispatch/Argus/Leader, Episode 1

Here behind the closed doors of the Moline Dispatch Publishing Co., LLC, we are respectable journalists. Work-a-holics. Slaves to the grind. Here to inform you, the innocent public, about the news and times of this, our world. Nothing stands in our way to bring you the truth. And, when we trusted public servants have the occasional down time, what sorts of academic worldly pursuits become our folly? Why, we intellectual types ONLY reach to expand our minds to the height of knowledge:

Yes, this IS a real picture from the inside of our break room.

COLUMN: Sweat

Attention farmers of the Midwest: I bring good news. I know it's been a rough summer for all of you. That's why I, at great expense of personal resources and brainpower, have figured out a simple solution to this drought problem.

It all came to me two weekends ago. The Travoltas -- the disco tribute band from Canada with legions of fans here in the Quad Cities -- were playing outside at Ribco in the District of Rock Island. Because there was no opening band, I was hired in my usual moonlighting capacity to hop onstage and spin some records for two hours to warm the crowd up.

Problem was, the crowd was already warmed up, owing to it being 100 degrees outside at the time. Add to that the extra heat of the stage lights blazing over my head and I was quickly learning the REAL definition of "Disco Inferno." That's when it happened: I started to sweat. But this wasn't your average, everyday, "hey-I'm-out-in-the-sun" kinda sweat. This was a full-on deluge. I looked like I'd been on the losing end of an epic battle with a Water Weasel. I've never felt so gross.

Ten minutes later, sitting in my car with the air on blast, I got to thinking about just how nasty sweat really is. When you're working hard and break out in a mild sweat, it feels almost satisfying, as if it's liquid testament to your hard work and diligence. Heck, sometimes looking at members of the opposite sex as they're sweating is a turn-on. Personally, if anyone had looked at me onstage that night and thought "sexy," I would have been fleeing in terror. When you really ponder it, sweat's just plain icky.

Think about it: we secrete weird biological fluid from the pores of our skin in order to cool off. LITERS of the stuff, in fact. That doesn't sound natural to me at all. That sounds slimy, alien, and gross. Thank heavens for whoever came up with the word "sweating," because let me tell you, Richard Simmons wouldn't sell any copies of something called "Secreting Fluid to the Oldies."

After lengthy research (aka typing the word "sweat" into Google,) I was even more appalled. Sweat comes from glands all over your body, some of which (your apocrine glands) produce sweat that's ripe with protein and carbs. When released to the skin, that protein gets munched on by bacteria that naturally hangs out all over your body. The bacteria then produces its own waste material that often has a distinctive odor (known by its scientific name, "da nasty funk.") So the next time you're standing next to some dude who's rank as decaying fish inside a gym sock, what you're REALLY doing is inhaling tiny molecules of, essentially, bacteria doodie. Folks, there are reasons I don't like to go outdoors; this is one of 'em.

I'm already the most self-conscious guy in the world; I don't need the added paranoia of wondering if I'm stanky or not. I'm a proud endorser of Mitchum deodorant, just because of its slogan: "So Effective, You Could Skip a Day." Not that I'm about to try it. Regardless, Mitchum or no, that Saturday night was the only time I've prayed that cute girls DIDN'T come up to the DJ booth to request a song.

I despise sweating like a pig. Except for the fact that pigs don't sweat. Pigs actually have the decency to keep their body fluids to themselves. This makes us inherently more gross than many of nature's creatures. I mean, would you keep a housepet if it sweat all over the place? Would you still love little Fluffy or little Fido if they cuddled up to you at night all wet and sticky? Ewwwww.

So I've learned that, when faced with massive temps, I sweat gallons. Drought schmought -- I'm just going to hire myself out to farmers. Just stick me in the sun and let me roll around the cornfields a bit. On that note, I'd best be off; this column paints SUCH a sexy picture that I'm guessin' the ladies will be e-mailing like mad.

Oh Man...

Okay, at the risk of sounding like (as my co-worker Heather often says) Bitchy McBitcherson, I need to vent about something for a second. And this involves people you've never met and probably could care less about. But a friend of mine is getting the shaft BIGTIME and I need to rail on it.

I've got a friend. She's not an extremely close friend, and her name's not important. But she's one of the most interesting people that I've ever met... and, for the most part, the only non-crazy person that I've ever met strictly within the confines of this here internet thingajigger.

Anyways, this girl's from the Quad Cities, but is currently off at seminary school far, far away. As long as I've known her, her life has been dominated by religion. But not in the usual way.

When you think of people whose lives revolve around religion, a certain stereotype falls into mind, doesn't it? You think of people who spew Bible verses at random, who go to church every Sunday, who have Jesus fish bumper stickers on their car, etc., etc. Perhaps it's an unfair stereotype, but it's an honest one (at least for me.) Basically people who live their life according to their spirituality.

My friend, however, let's call her Mary (just 'cause she'll HATE that *grin*,) follows a different code. Rather than letting spirituality dictate her life, her life dictates her spirituality. Her entire existence is a quest for knowledge, answers, and spiritual satisfaction. The church needs more Marys.

This is a girl who has never been afraid to ask some tough questions about her faith... to examine the grey areas... to seek truth, even if she trods through some deeply controversial waters on her journey. She doesn't want an easy answer. She attempts to understand how religion affects such things as interpersonal relationships and femininity and sexuality. She's not afraid to question some of the hairier parts to the Bible, to speak her mind about the aspects of religion that can be unfair or offensive or goes against her personal viewpoints on life. In other words, she's going into seminary school, but not letting it dictate to her how she should blindly defer to the traditional church doctrine and never question her faith.

When she first told me that she had been accepted into seminary school, I was a bit aghast and may have mentioned something about her turning into a "Jesus zombie." I just didn't want her to EVER stop exploring... to ever say the phrase, "...because the church says so." Her quest for the inner truths in life are nothing short of inspiring, and I didn't want to see that quest get lost in a haze of morality and tradition.

I needn't have worried. Mary's been in seminary for a couple years now, and she's still just as vibrant, just as intelligent, just as curious. And I love her for it. She's met the guy of her dreams down there, and I couldn't be happier.

For years now, Mary has kept a blog on the internet. Not only does this blog detail her life at seminary, it also chronicles her quest for insight. She's not afraid to raise some pretty controversial discussions on her blog, and her visitors have long and often appreciated the spirited debates and discussions that her frequent posts raise.

This girl has an AMAZING future ahead of her. There are few people out there in life who I think TRULY have the power to change the world, and this girl's one of them. In person, she can occasionally come across as shy and reserved; but inside, she's sharp as a tack, quick-witted, and the bearer of an intelligence that I could only DREAM of having.

This past week, Mary's entire identity has officially come under attack. I don't know the EXACT details, because I don't go to seminary myself and I'm not nearly as well-versed when it comes to religion. But basically the story goes like this. At her particular school, each student has a judicatory group of faculty and staff who basically advise that student -- a peer group to let them know how they're coming in their progress, their strengths and weaknesses, offer advice, etc. It might be constructive or it might be domineering, I honestly don't know because I'm not there.

The problem is: this judicatory group finally discovered the existence of Mary's blog. And they're none too pleased. I won't deny that the blog's not shocking -- there's frank language, frank debate, and more controversy than you can shake a stick at. But it's not POINTLESSLY shocking; it serves a greater good. It's there to expose the problems that exist in religion, and to open discussions that might clarify and might even help overcome these problems.

If you were to talk to Mary, she'd tell you that her blog is just the chronicle of her journey through seminary school; I'm sure she thinks it's nothing special. But I tell you now, and this is coming from me who's not a deeply religious person, the information and posts and discussions that this blog brings up could make a best-selling book. Seriously. I'm completely addicted to her blog. Even though I barely pipe up in there to say more than the occasional "hi," I love to read her thoughts and the thoughts of those that regularly visit.

Except that now it's gone. Her judicatory group insists that the blog stop; they've given Mary several reasons for it, including that the blog's existence could harm her chances of getting a job once she's through school. I think that Mary could care less; if a prospective employer didn't appreciate her freedom of expression and her questioning nature, she wouldn't want to work for that employer in the first place.

So now my poor friend is in a quandry. She's honestly contemplating NOT becoming ordained as a result of the blog shutdown (opting instead on a focus towards Human Sexuality Education Within Christianity.) How on Earth a group of people devoted to religion couldn't see the AMAZING benefit of this challenging yet spiritually redeeming journal boggles my brain.

In the meantime, she's started a new journal -- but this one's only open to those she can trust and those who can appreciate her insight without the gasp of self-righteousness and closed-mindedness of many in the religious community. Perhaps if you comment to this post, and perhaps if she sees that comment, she'll contact you and include you in her odyssey. Then again, maybe it's best that Mary stays on the down-low, so that she can continue her spiritual exploration within the confines of the morally superior.

Regardless, I make this post to publicly say that I wish her well on her journey, and to let her know that her work is not in vain. Someday she'll change things; mark my word on it.

The REAL magic of Harry Potter.

Wow. I sure have gotten some interesting mail this week.

It seems that my Harry Potter column has stirred up some controversy. Specifically, it wasn't so much my column that stirred the controversy, but the words "Harry Potter" themselves.

I had heard that there were those out there with serious Harry Potter issues. I've now heard from a few of them... and I want to say a few things out in the open.

First off, I'm not a very religious person. Don't feel sorry for me or anything; I'm honestly okay with it. I went to a Lutheran college, I've had my share of religion classes. I'm FASCINATED by religion and LOVE talking about it. I just don't know if I necessarily buy into it. I like to consider myself still searching... for answers, for truths, for a religion that jives with me and my belief system.

I respect all religions. I understand that it's a VERY VERY VERY important aspect to many a person's life... and there's nothing wrong with that one bit. Even if I don't agree with your religion, anything that builds community and positivity and peace is, frankly, a GOOD thing in my book.

However, all this said, I'm now receiving letters from folks out there condemning me for even referencing Harry Potter in one of my columns... because, to make the story short, Harry Potter is apparantly turning children of the free world to the occult. And, more to the point, by my mentioning of Harry Potter in a column, I'm basically an accomplice to the crime.

No offense... but man, gimme a break.

First off, what the Harry Potter books have managed to do above and beyond all is to encourage kids to read... and quite frankly, there's nothing wrong with that. That's AWESOME. Reading opens doors to the mind, to the world, to possibilities.

I don't for a second think that reading a FICTIONAL book about FICTIONAL kids who know how to cast FICTIONAL magic is opening the doors to the realm of the occult. Show me a kid who's read a Harry Potter book and promptly gone out and renounced their religion to perform black magic... and I'll show you a kid who must have had some SERIOUS issues before he or she ever cracked open that book.

Nowhere in the Harry Potter books can one find a passage encouraging little kids to perform evil magic or join the ranks of the occult. It's a STORY. Just like the 200,000 other stories that one can find in one's local library. It's so harmless it's absurd.

Worse yet is this insinuation that by referencing the Harry Potter series, I'm somehow in cahoots with the dark occult evil empire. Get real. I'm not mad that someone's casting me in a negative light; people do that all the time. But I AM mad that someone would use Harry Potter as a reason to do so.

I write for a newspaper. We cover news -- whether it's politics, sports, weather, (cough) HUMOR, whatever. Our paper has spent several a column inch reporting on Al Qaida... does that make us in league with terrorists, too? Get real.

There's a whole lot worse out there for kids than Harry Potter. If you squirm about your kid reading Harry Potter, you should be bedridden with fear over what your kid experiences every day when he or she gets to school. Schools are a bubbling cauldron of peer pressure, outside influence, and bullying. Little girls walk the streets in Paris Hilton get-ups. Eating rotting bugs is now considered prime-time television entertainment. Oh, Mr. Dylan, you WERE so right -- the times, they sure ARE a-changin'.

Yet with all the tragedy... all the trauma... all the senselessness in the world, some people out there prefer to set their radar on HARRY POTTER?! The morals in those books are strong, unwavering, and crucial to success in life. Valor... honor... compassion... love. That's what Harry Potter teaches. And it's VALUES that need to be encouraged in kids rather than random fear. Those values will set the path for the children of tomorrow to make the right choices in life. And the positive impact that a little kid can get from reading books like Harry Potter is the only REAL magic afoot here.

Is there anything funnier on Earth than this comic strip? I mean, REALLY?! It might be in poor taste to be up here promoting a comic that our newspaper tragically doesn't even run (despite my many pleas to management,) but I don't care. It's just that funny. Monday's actually made me inhale Pepsi up my nose. Go to comics.com (click above,) read it, buy the books, get a t-shirt, whatever. Just worship at the ground of Stephan Pastis. Trust me.

Alan Ball Must Die (Six Feet Under & Out)

(Photo courtesy hbo.com)

What on EARTH has Alan Ball done to HBO's "Six Feet Under" this year?! I'd like a do-over, please.

I've only encountered a few people who are addicted to "Six Feet Under" like myself. Usually, those people share the qualifying trait of being some of the coolest people I know. It's like a secret club that only hipsters and people I respect belong to or something.

But MAN has this show lost itself this season.

This is, in case you don't know, the final season for the groundbreaking HBO series. At this writing, there are (I think) 3 episodes left. In final seasons of TV shows, we expect closure... we expect things to wind up, then dramatically wind down. It's (appropriately enough) the closest thing to the 5 stages of grief that we can witness outside of feeling it ourselves.

I've invested a whole lotta time into "Six Feet Under." I've watched close to every episode from Day One. And here it is, the final season, and the show is now a full-on parody of what once made it so freakin' great.

This season, the writers seem to have ONE agenda: take every major character and completely flip-flop their personalities. Occasionally, it's worked to good effect; but for the most part, it's more laughably absurd than brilliant.

Take, for instance, the long-suffering Fisher daughter, Claire. When the show began, Claire was an interesting kid. Dark, deep, gloomy, a little messed in the head -- the archetypal Disaffected Artiste. Imagine Winona Ryder's character from "Beetlejuice" a little more detailed. For years, we've watched her weather the emotional storm of her family and her life whilst she's developed into a pretty cool artist. In short, she's become any girl I've ever wanted to date ever. This season, it all falls apart. Claire has a wake-up call, puts her art aside, and basically gets a stereotypical office job and falls for the stereotypical suit-wearing co-worker. The fact that she does a complete about-face as a character might be considered interesting if it were done well. It's not been. In last week's episode, for example, Claire takes her new Republican boyfriend to an art show thrown by her old friends (central characters in past seasons; barely seen since.) And her old friends, who once had defineable, compelling problems, were there... as caricatures of their former selves -- turned from visceral characters that you once CARED about into shallow art geeks having emotional blow-ups over little more than their own pretentiousness. It's like the writers are saying, "Yeah, we totally wasted your time with these people." If the moral of this show is to be that art types are little more than whiny deranged pansies, it's time for me to find a new show. I simply don't believe that anyone who is, at their core, deeply artistic can happily just seem to toss it all aside as youthful folly. And, if there's anybody out there who really HAS done that, it should be seen as more tragedy than triumph.

Then you've got Ruth, the matriarch of the Fisher clan. Once the solid rock of old-fashioned wisdom and charm, this season finds Ruth ditching her new husband because of his mental illness, then going on a crazy rampage for companionship of any kind. It's a joke. To hear Ruth yearning to live on a man-free commune and borrowing Claire's pot isn't just a character shift; it's a full-on meltdown of everything we've come to love about the woman.

David (the Fisher son) and Keith (his lover) have been an intriguing pair since the show's start. This year, their quest to adopt children has turned the two into little more than a parody of "Mr. Mom." They've almost turned into comic relief.

And the OTHER Fisher son, Nate... well, if you didn't see tonight's episode, I won't go into detail... but suffice to say he got his life-changing experience tonight as well.

Maybe Alan Ball's done a fantastic job -- maybe he's a genius. I mean, really, there's not much else on TV that would make me sit here in front of my computer and type such a nerd-centric blog entry. I must care about these characters to be this worked up about the writers screwing them over so badly this year.

I dunno... I'm just appalled, though. Not that I won't watch the final episodes in search of a little redemption. All I know is that a show that was once the most cutting edge thing on TV has become ridiculously weird and cartoonish. And that's just sad. RIP.

COLUMN: Harry Potter

You guys almost didn't get a column from me this week; I had better things to do. I wish those things made for a cooler story, like saving little bunnies from menacing testing labs or saving little Katie Holmes from menacing Tom Cruise, but no such luck.

Instead, I, like the other 9.5 million of you, spent the past week deeply engrossed in "Harry Potter & the Half Blood Prince." Some of you might not see any problems with this; I consider it to be a HUGE character flaw of mine.

For a very long time, I resisted the Harry Potter lure. "It's a kid's book," I would say to myself while shaking my head with disbelief whenever I caught one of my co-workers deeply engrossed in a J.K. Rowling book. "Why on Earth would you be reading it?"

I've never really thought of myself as a book snob -- but a lot of my friends definitely are. I have friends who sit around and read Nietzsche and Descartes FOR FUN. I, meanwhile, don't much care for books that require five attempts to make it through one page, especially when that particular page is the beginning of a 50-page philosophical discussion on whether or not a chair is a chair. (Personally, I agree with Burt Bacharach that a chair is still a chair, even when there's no one sittin' there, but a chair is not a house and a house is not a home yada yada.)

I have far more lowbrow tastes when it comes to books. That said, I've never dipped so low that I've walked into the children's section at Borders for pleasure reading. Back then, I thought that a 34-year-old reading Harry Potter was no different than a sober person watching the Teletubbies.

Until one day I snapped. I was officially sick of my co-workers using words like "quidditch" and "muggle" in regular conversation. It was like the whole world was joining a club that I wasn't a member of. So I went to Borders on a clandestine mission and picked up the first Harry Potter book. I think I even said something to the clerk like, "It's for my little cousin." Yeah, right.

Within two days, I had finished it. Within two hours, I was back for the sequel. On and on, until I had read 'em all. Last week, I was so excited about the new installment, "Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince," that I left my weekend DJ gig at 3 a.m. and drove straight to Wal-Mart to buy it. And yes, my world came to a grinding halt until I had made it all the way through. It's a pretty dark book, too -- definitely the "Empire Strikes Back" of the Potter saga, and a good setup for the grand finale promised for the next volume.

Is Harry Potter great literature? Probably not, but I still love the books -- although, from an adult perspective, a few concerns:

-- The kids in "Harry Potter" are known to sit around and drink "butterbeer" and "firewiskey." There's a reference to the firewiskey "going to their heads." Perhaps there really is no evil Lord Voldemort; maybe it's all just a paranoid delusion brought on by adolescent alcoholism. Just say no, Harry.

-- At the Hogwarts School, kids are split into four "houses." The good kids go to Gryffindor; the bad kids go to Slytherin. I feel bad for the kids who are relegated to the OTHER two houses (Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw). They're seldom mentioned in the books, confined to a life of minor characters and magical mediocrity.

-- The jock in me (yes, he's there -- he's just really small and likes watching instead of playing) has to say that quidditch is, at its heart, a really stupid game.

-- I know it's a kid's book, I know it is. But I really detest the corny endings in the Harry Potter series. Every time, Harry is confronted by evil. Every time, Harry manages to come out on top because "he can love." My biggest fear is that we'll get to the final showdown between Harry and Lord Voldemort, and Harry's gonna run up to him and give him a great big bear hug, and he'll evaporate into a pink cloud of butterflies, sunshine, and effervescent cheesiness.

But that won't stop me from secretly sneaking out to buy the next book and trying to beat every 12-year-old on the planet to the finish. Then I can stop this silly obsession and move on to quality literature that's more my age.

I've been hearing good things about this Lemony Snicket fella...

This Book Rules

Kill, maim, do whatever you must.

Read it.

That is all.

Disco Inferno

Well, survived Travoltas madness. DJ'ing outside on the main stage in that heat almost did me in, though. My sanity was somewhat salvaged, however, by my decision to bring out my "Disco Sucks" t-shirt, which got a few laughs and a few scowls (exactly what I was shooting for.)

All I know is that it's gonna be a bit before I feel like climbing back into that DJ booth, that's for sure. One looooong night of spinning records. Well, CD's (records would have melted.) I now know what it feels like to sweat out your entire body weight. The whole afterhours at 2nd Ave., I was STILL drenched from DJ'ing outside. Nothing like a sweaty, stinky DJ to really drive the ladies wild, eh?

On a side note, I picked up one of these
personal cooling system thingers from Sharper Image. I went in there looking for one of those battery powered fans so as not to melt my equipment this weekend, and walked out of there impulse buying one of those personal cooling things. As high tech as it may look, it's actually pretty simple. You pour water into it, there's a sponge on the inside that soaks it up, then a little fan blows air through the sponge, making kind of a cool mist effect on your neck. As lo-tech as that sounds, it actually works and DOES make a nice little cooling effect on your neck. Of course, you wear it and look like you need a lift to the nearest Battlestar Galactica convention over in Nerdtown... but this weekend, fashion was NOT my top concern.

COLUMN: Texas, Pt. 2

Last time, in Shane's Column: A vacation to Dallas! The heat! The armadillos! The enchiladas! The lack of column space! And then... did shots ring out? Was our tale to be cut short by tragedy? Who killed Laura Palmer? Who shot J.R.? And will Ross ever kiss Rachel???

My attempt at a two-part cliffhanger probably failed egregiously, but I needed two columns worth of space to talk about Texas. Truth be told, I was NOT shot while in Dallas. Want to know why?

Because everyone in Texas is SOOO terrifyingly nice, that's why.

Honestly, I would be truly ashamed of myself if anyone on the Earth hurled the adjective 'rude' my way. I've never thought that people in the Midwest were impolite or uncouth or coarse as a rule. I've always thought Illinois was, on the whole, a nice place to live. Then I went to Texas and now I'm reconsidering.

Imagine this scenario. I'm in the car, driving into suburban Dallas. At this point, it's been a 14 hour journey. My mind is a mush of sleep deprivation, Sonic burgers, and astonishingly bad radio. The lights of a distant toll plaza tell me that my journey is near an end; the hotel lies just beyond that toll. My hotel... with comfy warm sheets... and those pillows that go "pooooosh" when you touch them... just want to sleep... to relaaa...

"HOWDY!" The voice hits me like a stealth fighter. "HOW Y'ALL DOIN?? LOOK AT THAT PLATE, YOU'RE FROM ILLINOIS? HERE ON VACATION OR BUSINESS? WELL, WELCOME TO THE FRIENDLIEST STATE IN THE COUNTRY! Y'ALL HAVE A GREAT TIME! THAT'LL BE 75 CENTS!"

My peace and tranquility had just been massacred by the Best Little Tollbooth in Texas. When you go to Chicago, the best you can hope for from a tolltaker is a "hmpf." If you get that "hmpf," you know that you've bonded with that Chicagoan. In Texas, it's apparantly impolite if you don't sit there idling in your car to have a good ol' chat about the weather.

These creepy pleasantries carried on the whole week I was there. The clerk at my hotel wanted to know what it was like to live along the Mississippi. The bartender at a club we went to told me randomly all about the place's history. I was going broke just from overtipping the wait staff everywhere we went. Even on the expressways, when cars would cut you off, they'd do it with a friendly wave as if to say, "Whoa, sorry 'bout that, cowboy!"

Then the unthinkable happened. While at a concert, I went to the restroom. I barely had a chance to do my duty when a slap on my shoulder leads to, "Hey there, pardner, whaddayathink of this band?"

Un-freakin'-believable. There are some things in life that man considers sacred (at least THIS man.) Urinal moments are one of those times. This is not a time for idle chit-chat; this is a time to awkwardly focus your eyes straight ahead while you, well, you know.

Suddenly, an event years prior made perfect sense. I was once visited by a girl from Texas who I'd met over the internet. And she gave me inordinate amounts of grief for what she called my "rude" behavior -- failing to open car doors, order meals for her, etc. Now, while I DO try to be the gentleman when applicable -- I'm not letting doors slam into the faces of my dates or anything -- forgive me for believing women of the world to be handi-capable enough to pull a car door open and know what they want to eat. At the time, I dismissed this girl as an internet loonie. Now, I simply realize, she's not crazy, she's just Texan.

As I left the state, I wondered how an entire populace could be so polite. Maybe they all feel so bad about it being 102 outside that they're just all sympathetic to one another. Could there be have been rude people that I just didn't meet? Then it hit me. I was in Texas -- down there, they obviously just EXECUTE all the rude people. All I know is that when I crossed the Illinois border on empty, stopped at a gas station, and heard, "Yo, dude, pre-pay," I finally felt home.

Feel the Disco Fury

So this weekend it's Travoltas madness in the District. Come swim through the 103 degree heat to hear your disco favorites for the billionth time.

Honestly, though, there's no denying it -- The Travoltas put on one hell of a great show. If you haven't been yet, you basically must not live in the Quad Cities. If you HAVE been, you know what I'm talking about.

Anyways, here's the thing:

I'M opening for them on Saturday. That's right, kids, join me as I become the Quad Cities' version of Disco Stu for one night and one night only -- this Saturday night, DJ'ing a set of all disco, funk, and horribly kitsch music -- opening for the legendary (at least legendary in Rock Island and small corners of Canada) Travoltas.

It shall prove to be a night of full, unbridled hedonistic disco madness. Either that or it'll just be hot, humid, and smelly. Either way, I go on around 8 and take DJ duties on the main stage up until the Travoltas take over around 10:30-ish or so. It's hip, it's happening... it's Ribco, baby. Be there.

COLUMN: Texas Pt. 1

Grassy knoll, baby!

I thought upon exiting junior high school that I'd be done writing the words "How I Spent My Summer Vacation." No such luck. You see, for the past few weeks, I've been wrestling with a mad case of cabin fever. My daily routine has been grinding against the core of my skull. When I caught myself in the shower the other day thinking, "Maaan. This shower is SO boring," it was time for action. Specifically, the action of packing up the car and getting the heck out of Dodge for a week.

My destination? Dallas, Texas. For a blue-state boy like me, this was akin to Superman deciding to holiday at Lex Luthor's house. Why I decided to visit the town where people wear their red necks like a badge of honor is beyond me. But you know what? Despite that blue-state part of me cringing about having to pay a total of $4.50 for the privilege of driving on something called "The George Bush Turnpike," I lived. I had fun. I (gulp) was really impressed.

Having never ventured in a Southwesterly direction before, I discovered several important truths during my trip. Among them:

- Perhaps in the future, I will not decide on a roadtrip destination whilst looking at a map of the continental United States small enough to fit on an 8.5"x11" sheet of paper. On that map, Texas was only about 2" away from here. In reality, Texas is at least 5.5" away from here.

- Armadillos are really, really weird looking. Especially when they're laying inside-out on the side of the interstate. Which they seem to do in Texas. A lot.

- True story: Somewhere in Oklahoma, I was talking on the cell phone when it went fuzzy and dead. Minutes later, I spotted a sign on a church that said, "Out here, Jesus is our wireless provider." Make of this what you will.

- Two weeks ago, I wrote a column about it being very, very hot outside in the Quad Cities. After 3 days in Texas, I am very, very sorry for those lies I was spreading. In Illinois, you go outside in the summer and you sweat. In Texas, you go outside and walk briskly for fear of your shoes melting to the sidewalk. Texans, in turn, make up for their absurd heat by keeping their air conditioning at frostbite levels inside all buildings. This makes the average temperature in Texas about 75 degrees -- 50 degrees inside, 100 degrees out.

- On Elm Street in Dealey Plaza, there's a big, blood-red X painted in the road at the exact spot where Kennedy was assassinated. The only thing creepier than this ghastly red X is the vast amount of conspiracy theory nutjobs lurking around the place, talking to tourists and handing out propaganda that would make Oliver Stone blush. I am, however, convinced of the second shooter theory after waiting for a red light, running out onto the X (hey, everybody was doing it,) aiming my camera at the sixth floor of the Book Depository... and seeing nothing but tree leaves and branches.

- If you live in Kansas, you are insane. Two hours on a Kansas interstate and I was flooring it just to get ANYWHERE else. Want to know what Kansas looks like? Take out a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. Got it? Good. Now, across that blank sheet of paper, draw a horizontal line from left to right. Now sit back and behold the majestic Kansas skyscape. I urge you now, all of you, to give what you can to a relief fund. If we raise enough money, perhaps we can buy Kansas a hill, or at the very least a tree or two.

- I used to think Tex-Mex food in the Quad Cities was pretty good. I have now been to the promised land, I have eaten of the enchilada, and I know now the error of my ways. In a town where it's too hot to do anything but sit and eat, they DO know their food.

There was one other important difference between Dallas and the Quad Cities... but that needs a column of its own, so that'll be next week. Hmm... I've never written a two-parter before, I guess I'll need to end this one with a cliffhanger, eh? DID I GET SHOT WHILE I WAS IN DALLAS? IF SO, WHO SHOT ME? WAS IT OSWALD? WAS IT J.R.? ZZ TOP, PERHAPS? All this and more, next Texas time, next Texas column.

Dingo Breakin Electric Taco Boogaloo 2 (or something)

Okay, I've got to break in and be a critic for a second.

Imagine this scenario: Let's pretend that one of your closer friends on Planet Earth is an acclaimed area writer. Now pretend that aforementioned friend has written a multimedia sketch comedy show that's being presented at Comedy Sports in downtown Rock Island this weekend.

Now imagine that this friend has involved the co-writing talents of several area writers, some of whom you reeeally like, some of whom you're not such a big fan of, and one of which you've DATED somewhere in your sordid past.

Pretending is fun, isn't it? Let's pretend that you've had reservations about seeing this show, because you're questioning whether the group of writers in question can pull it off. You're rooting for the home team to win of course, but still a bit edgy as to whether you're going to find yourself wincing through the show.

Then let's pretend that you pick up a copy of the River Cities Reader and see a review of the show's first weekend that includes the phrase "infantile at best, repellent at worst, and in all cases, profoundly unfunny." Let's pretend that the headline of the review uses the words "load of crap" and NOT in a good way.

Let's pretend that you, wanting to be the supportive friend, spend the day practicing your best "Gee, this was reeeally great!" face. Let's pretend that you begrudgingly head to the show tonight expecting the VERY worst.

Then let's cut to reality -- tonight I went to My Verona's production of "Dingo Boogaloo 2: Taco's Revenge" at Comedy Sports.

AND IT WAS GREAT.

Surprisingly great. Laugh out loud great. And any reviewer (Hi, Mike Schultz!) who didn't appreciate the show for what it was needs to get his head (Hi, Mike Schultz' head!) examined.

Listen. Here's the facts. Yep, Sean Leary (editor of The Dingo magazine and main writer of "Dingo Boogaloo") is a friend and co-worker of mine. And yeah, as such, I suppose you, as a normal and sane person who doesn't take no guff from nobody, would immediately yell "BIAS!" and point your grubby little finger at me and not take any stock in anything I spew out about it.

And you, my friends, would be wrong. Let me be perfectly frank here: I went to the show tonight really expecting not-so-good things. I got suckered in by the bad press the show's received in a couple area newspapers (but NOT, proudly, by the home team Dispatch/Argus reporter, who ALSO agrees with me that it's a belly full of kooky fun.) I was really thinking tonight would be awkward.

And it wasn't. Once again, Sean's triumphed, and My Verona is now 3 for 3 on reeally cool performances.

"Dingo Boogaloo" is a series of sketch comedy bits intricately woven together into a makeshift performance. And (gasp) it has NAUGHTY words in it. Some of the material is a bit BLUE. You don't want to take little Susie to this show, lest you end up like a certain unnamed country DJ in town. But folks, let's face it, we live in a blue world these days. Turn on your TV. Watch "South Park" and "Family Guy" and "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" and "The Daily Show" and hell, watch "Friends." Then fall over laughing, as you should. If you can take those shows for the absurd fun that they are, then you can take "Boogaloo."

Yes, the show is occasionally puerile, juvenile, and other words that end in -ile. But its also occasionally genius. Mixed in with the pee-pee and poo-poo jokes is a hardlined skewering of pop culture and the occasional not-so-subtle social commentary that makes me stand up and throw the devil horns.

I'll be honest, if I had gone tonight and the show sucked, you're absolutely right, I wouldn't put a bad review up on this blog because I'm friends with one of the writers and I've seen another one of 'em nekkid. (Not Sean, either, as much as you'd hope.) BUT... I wouldn't be waxing poetic about it either - I simply wouldn't have mentioned it. But the show WAS funny as all get out, and I reeeally enjoyed myself tonight. I went by myself, and usually when I go to a gig solo, it's bound to be a night of uncomfortable bad times for yours truly. Within 10 minutes of showing up, I'd totally forgotten that I was "ooh-lookit-the-weird-all-alone-kid." I was too engrossed in laughing my tail off.

And the crowd who was there tonight agreed wholeheartedly, as laughs and applause and cheers attested.

If you're one of the folks who have read the not-so-kind reviews from the first weekend... and wait, let me clear one thing up: Mike Schultz at the Reader is a GREAT guy. He and I went to college together. (He probably doesn't remember me, but I have vivid memories of him showing me "The Exorcist" my freshman year and teaching me where to freeze frame to see all the spooky subliminal stuff they threw in.) Mike's a fantastic writer, and most of his reviews are SPOT-ON. I have nothing but respect for the guy... but on this review, boy was he off the mark.

"Dingo Boogaloo" isn't Shakespeare. If you're a "proper" theatergoer, stay home. If you're offended by fart jokes (even though I don't think there WERE any,) stay home. If you have ever in your life thought to yourself, "Man, that Jerry Falwell raises some good points," stay home.

But if you're up for a raunchy laugh, go see the show this weekend. It's playing at Comedy Sports (next door to Circa 21) through Sunday, kids.

Possible Career Advancement Opportunity

Ever want to shoot your pregnant wife to cover up the affair you've had with an underage member of your church group? Ever felt the urge to shed blood in the name of Allah? Heck, havent you ever wanted to be shot with a soap pellet?

Your time is finally here.

COLUMN: Skybridge

(Okay, yeah, I got the idea for this column in the paper based on some earlier blogging I did on this site. Apologies if the material is a bit "familiar." I'm waiting for snide letters from Davenport city council members.)

Six million, eight hundred thousand dollars. Wow, that's a lot of money.

If I had that kind of cash, I'd buy myself a fancy home and fancy car. Maybe I'd even get one of those guitar-shaped swimming pools. Granted, I don't know how to swim, but that's OK. With that kinda bread, I could hire Michael Phelps to teach me.

With $6,800,000, I could throw money around left and right. I could do something completely crazy. I even could build a block-long bridge that connects nothing to nothing.

Too bad the city of Davenport beat me to it.

Unless you're blind, you've seen it. The new crown jewel of Davenport -- the River Music Skybridge -- opened a few weeks ago. And yes, at a budget of $6.8 million, it's EXACTLY what Davenport needs.

Impoverished neighborhoods in desperate need of grants and revitalization? Pshaw, I say to you! A school system always in need of better funding and higher standards of quality? Don't be ridiculous! A levee to stop the entire downtown from flooding every five years? That's commie talk, mister.

No, we've spent countless man-hours assessing the REAL problem facing the citizens of Davenport, and that problem, obviously, is the pedestrian crosswalks of River Drive.

These menacing downtown intersections have plagued us as a people for far too long. Thank God the city finally has come up with an easy-to-achieve solution.

That's right, no longer will you have to wait those interminable 30 seconds for the light to change to cross the street. No longer will you experience that aching neck pain as you first look left and then right before proceeding through the crosswalk. (After all, it is SO hard to find a chiropractor in this town!)

Yes, thanks to modern technology, the solution to crossing River Drive now is as easy as going a block out of your way, scaling four flights of stairs, walking across a psychedelic nightmare, then back down four flights of stairs. Just like that, you have defeated the crosswalk menace.

Perhaps I'm being too hard on the Skybridge. As a rule, I like shiny new stuff.

Some of my friends are into antiques and old, cumbersome Victorian homes and such. Not me; I want angular, post-modern, technologically-evolved buildings that make me go "oooh." And you've got to give Davenport kudos for making that happen with their River Renaissance project.

No longer does the downtown look like some dilapidated Mark Twainian pipe dream. The addition of the Skybridge, Figge Art Center, and even last decade's River Center have given Davenport the kind of downtown I WANT to see on a postcard.

None of this, however, explains the purpose of the Skybridge. The thing is impressive looking, sure, but it doesn't change the fact that it connects NOTHING to NOTHING.

A cool pedestrian bridge like that should lead from one important tourist-trap destination to another. Instead, it leads from a stairwell to a stairwell, and that seems kinda pointless.

Of course, not pointless enough to stop me and my friends from going last week to walk the Skybridge. That was when the REAL shock and awe hit. If the outside of the bridge isn't weird and modern enough looking for you, wait till you check out the inside.

A rainbow of colored lights swoosh and whirl as you stagger across the bridge in a futuristic, psychedelic haze -- it's 2005: A Tacky Odyssey, right in your own back yard.

The 10-year-old in me LOVES it. The view from the Skybridge is awesome, and the light show on the inside was so impressive, in a juvenile way, that all I could muster was a nervous "hehehehe" all the way across.

But is that "hehehehe" worth $6.8 million? The 10-year-old in me says an enthusiastic "yes"; while the 34-year-old in me would like to comment, but he's too busy shaking his head in disbelief.

...Home.

Sorry for the lack of blogging this week... have been on vacation for a week and am completely wrecked as a result. Why is it that I enjoy doing such crazy stuff on vacations sometime that I feel like I need a vacation after returning FROM vacation? Ah well, live and learn... I'm sure next week's column will detail my activities in full.

COLUMN: Hot

Hmm ... this is NOT making sense to me. I need to scan the headlines for a sec. Let's see here. Supreme Court something or other ... BTK killer ... Wimbledon ... Nope. Absolutely no news stories at all on the earth moving closer to the sun.

I'm pretty sure it has, though. I don't own a thermometer, but my guess is that over the past couple of weeks, the daily high temperature has been, oh, if I had to ballpark it I'd say around 243 degrees or so. You know, I haven't seen too many of those famed black squirrels running around Rock Island lately. My guess is that they've all melted.

The point is, it's been REALLY hot out lately, and not your everyday kind of hot at that. This has been, to quote Neil Simon, Africa hot. When I'm walking a half a block to my car and breaking out in a sweat, it's hot. Well, or maybe I'm just THAT out of shape.

What happened to spring though? Seriously, it lasts for a week anymore. It's 20 degrees below zero, then you blink and it's 100. If push comes to shove, I most definitely prefer being cold than hot. When it's cold outside, you can put on a jacket. When it's hot, you just plain suffer.

Nowhere is this more evident than within the vibrant climatic atmospherics of my apartment. I live in a pretty big apartment complex. One floor below me lives a colorful old guy known to us simply as "Benny." He's a great guy, but ol' Benny keeps his apartment at around 102 degrees year round. In the winter, this is a GOOD thing -- I never have to run my heat. But in the summer, when Benny turns my apartment into his own personal crockpot, it means I have to have my air conditioner on 24 hours a day to keep up.

My air conditioner has two settings -- "ON" and "OFF." If I try to shut the air off, it's 95 within two hours. Instead, I keep it on all summer long, thus turning it into non-stop jacket weather in my apartment. Again, though, it's better than heat.

I found this out a couple weeks ago when my air conditioner decided to konk out on me. I called our maintenance folks, who gave me a one-week ETA on repair. I thought I could make it.

"You're a man," said the voice that pops up in my head only in times like this. "You don't need any air conditioning, you baby." Did Rambo have air conditioning when he blew up that town? I think not. Did Bruce Willis ever make "Die Hard Yet Climate Controlled"? That'd be a no. Did The Terminator say "I'll be back ... once I've cooled down a bit"?

I could do it. I could tough it out. And I did ... for approximately 22 hours. Then I called them back and whined until they sent someone straight out. Lo and behold, our maintenance guy showed up and the two of us along with a friend of mine grabbed a working unit out of an empty apartment.

Now imagine this scenario: The three of us are pulling my old, broken air conditioner out of the wall. Suddenly, I hear a noise. Make that several noises. I hear someone say something that can't be repeated in a family newspaper. I look up in just enough time to see an honest-to-gosh SWARM of bumblebees fly into my apartment. I couldn't quite understand their grievances, but my guess was that we had just leveled their condo and they were a bit unhappy.

I spend one calculated second examining the situation. Weighing my options, I proceed with the best and most rational choice, which involves making a noise like "eep," dropping everything (including the air conditioner, onto the floor, with a thud) and fleeing out the door while yelling what I'm pretty sure was "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Although it could have possibly been "Iiiiieeeeeeeee!"

Eventually, while I supervised from several rooms away, my friend and the maintenance guy shooed all the bees out.

The moral of the story is quite simple: Summer is evil, and I need to move to Iceland. Unless there are Icelandic bees, in which case I simply need to move to the icemaker inside my refrigerator. There'd be no heat, no bees, an abundant supply of leftovers, and, most importantly, I could finally find out if the little light stays on when the door's closed.