COLUMN: Ethics

Sometimes doing the right thing stinks.

As a general rule, my moral compass usually swings in the direction of being a namby-pamby do-gooder. "Bravo," you say. "That's the proper way to live, Shane."

Whatever. Frankly, I'm beginning to think that “doing the right thing” might be a touch over-rated.

Let me explain. A few months ago, I wrote a column in which I name-dropped a local business. I can barely recall the column, but I DO know it wasn't an intentional endorsement on my part. While it's true that I definitely respect this establishment and shop there frequently, I wasn't trying to advertise the joint. I was just telling a story, and that story happened to involve this particular place.

In other words, it wasn't a big deal, which is why I was taken aback when the manager of said business called the other day. It turns out they really liked the piece I wrote, so much so, that they offered me a boatload (OK, maybe just a carload) of free merchandise as a thank-you ... with the unspoken understanding that perhaps I might feel inclined to name-drop the store again in a future column.

I was stunned. My mouth said, "I'll have to get back to you," but I couldn't tell you the part of my brain that was speaking. Wait, no, actually I CAN tell you. It was the part of my brain that likes STUFF. And especially FREE STUFF.

I complain all the time in these pages about my loveless, tedious bachelor status, but there really is one pretty good perk to it all. While you, Random Mature Person, probably have to spend your hard-earned money on houses and kids and having a life, I get to blow my limited income on gadgets, gizmos and assorted useless junk.

You might be saving for college funds or mini-vans. I, on the other hand, went to Toys-R-Us and bought all the Lost action figures this week. (Only because chicks dig guys with action figures, of course. That and the little Locke dude comes with a plastic machete, and that's pretty sweet.)

I digress. Suffice to say, I'm shallow enough to really like STUFF. And this guy was offering a whole BUNCHA stuff! All I had to do was compromise my journalistic integrity and plug his store a few times. How hard could that be? Why hadn't I realized this before?

Could it be that my weekly drivel actually can INFLUENCE consumers? Could businesses really be affected by insignificant little ME name-dropping them in a column? And most importantly, could I thusly use my column to become a corporate shill in order for every local business under the sun to call me and give me free stuff?

This brings me to my next point, which is that Harris Pizza really IS the finest pizza in the world. The secret is their hand-tossed dough, you know. I go there frequently in my trusty Volkswagen New Beetle. Volkswagen: We Build Excitement. Or is that Pontiac? Who cares. All I know is that my newfound journalistic ethics can be summed up in one word: Fahrvergnugen.

Now gimme free stuff. Just kidding. Except that part about Harris -- it really IS the best pizza ever, even IF I have to pay for it.

Sigh. If only it were that easy. We can't accept gifts. It's company policy. Plus it's just plain wrong. The second I take the free stuff, I'm basically working for that company. Or what if I start endorsing Company X and then Company Y calls in all mad? It's just a can of worms I'd better not open.

But that little devil guy on my shoulder can sure be loud. After I got off the phone, I waited 10 minutes and then told my boss, just to ensure that I wouldn't be tempted to call the manager back and claim my booty. The I-LOVE-STUFF part of my brain can rationalize nearly anything given enough time.

But I rose above it. Once again I get to be the boring good guy without the apartment full of free stuff. How lame. So dear readers, it's your job to watch this space and make sure I don't fall into the evil trap of endorsements and journalistic payola. I vow to do my best, or my name isn't Shane Brown, The Official Humor Columnist of NASCAR. And if you're planning on bribing me in the future, you'd better bring your VISA card, because this year Shane Brown doesn't take American Express!

COLUMN: Directions

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I like the Quad-Cities. We're big-city enough to keep me occupied, and we're small-town enough to avoid hour-long commutes to work.

That said, though, there's one thing about the Quad-Cities that often brings a psychotic twitch to my right eyelid: out-of-town visitors.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I'm one of those sittin'-on-a-porch, suckin'-on-some-hay, "we don't cotton to strangers in these here parts, boy" types. I like it when friends from out of town come to visit.

The problem is simply GETTING THEM HERE.

There is nowhere on Earth more difficult to give driving directions to than the Q-Cs. Seriously. Right now there are probably Unabomber types living in shacks in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness who have an easier time giving their friends directions than I do.

Recently, a buddy from high school whom I hadn't seen in forever came up for a visit. Now, this guy's always been a little directionally challenged. My directions literally had to begin: "Exit your driveway, turn left."

But I'm a smart guy. I should be able to give no-nonsense, effective directions from Galesburg to here, right? But as I talked, I realized just how inane I was sounding:

"OK, so get on I-74, umm, west. You'll actually be going due north, but it's 74 west, OK? Then, an hour later, you'll want to exit onto, umm, I-74 west. Yeah, I know. Just do it.

"So you got off of 74 onto 74, right? Then go until you see the exit for ... (sigh) I-74. Yes. Yes. Take 74 to 74 to 74. To the left. Take it back now, y'all. Five hops this time. Five hops this time. Cha-cha now, y'all, and you're here."

The Quad-Cities is not made for the directionally disabled. First, you've got to circumnavigate that interstate loop. Then, once you get into town (any town), you've got to deal with the street names.

I've lived here for 20 years now, and I'm still not used to numbered streets. See, I come from Galesburg, where we have the logic and the sense to give our streets actual NAMES, not just numbers.

"But, Shane," you say, "numbered streets are so efficient! At any point, you'll know exactly how many blocks it is to where you need to be!"

That may be, unless you're like me and forget which street you're looking for in the first place because you can't remember whether it's 32nd or 35th or 38th, because they all sound the same. "I just knew it had a 3 in it. Maybe." And since that's not confusing enough, you've got streets like "38th Avenue Court A West" or whatever, which makes sense to the guy who programs OnStar and that's about it.

On weekends, I DJ at a club on 2nd Avenue in Rock Island. The only reason I know this is because the club is NAMED 2nd Ave. Otherwise, I'd just go, "You know. That one place. By the river. Kinda."

When I start getting cocky and swear I've got the numbers figured out, I drive from Rock Island to Moline and all the numbers inexplicably change. Fourteenth Avenue in Rock Island becomes 16th Avenue in Moline. And then, of course, 12th Avenue in Moline somehow turns into 30th Avenue in East Moline, and, hey, there's that twitch!

City leaders need to have some kind of peace accord -- perhaps Jesse Jackson could moderate -- wherein we simply make all street names between towns the same. "Heck, no!" say city leaders. "That'd take all the challenge out of day-to-day driving."

Look at Rock Island. City leaders recently discovered that one of their roads had a real name: Blackhawk. And Blackhawk Road took you from one end of town to the other, efficiently. That's a dangerous level of intelligence and logic, and it required a quick remedy. That's why, at great expense, to maintain the status quo of confusion, they have now taken Blackhawk Road and rerouted it to Milan. Whew! Thank you, Rock Island, I can sleep easier knowing that there's no longer a logical way to get from Point A to Point B.

Milan? Really? Do people, umm, WANT to go there? Now, no offense to you fine Milanians reading this now; I'm sure your town's lovely, but as far as I'm concerned, the day Showcase Cinemas closed was the day my Milan travels came to an abrupt end. But now Blackhawk Road wants to take me there. Unless, of course, I exit ... onto Blackhawk Road.

Grrr. Twitch.

I just need to come to terms with the fact that the Quad-Cities is a little backward in some areas. Don't tell me I'm wrong; there's a reason why the world's most famous north-south river decides to go east-west here. We're not normal.

And I wouldn't want it any other way.

COLUMN: Talent

Otherwise known as The Most Controversial Column ever. Boy, is this a quick lesson on how one can TOTALLY botch something up. What's that you're thinking? That I've been over-run with hate mail from angry "Grease" fans? No such luck.

Instead, I've been getting mail from folks a little ticked off about my flippant usage of the word "crazy" in this column... and that, by this example, I must have very little empathy for those stricken or affected by mental illness.

Yikes. Obviously not my intention.

My first draft of this column was actually even worse. In that original column, I wanted to celebrate some of the colorful characters we've got here in the QCA -- from the guy who always asks you for exactly $.07 to the gentlemen known around Rock Island as "The Professor." IN NO WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM was I trying to make fun of these people... rather, to celebrate their impact on ALL of our lives.

The whole thing goes back about a year. There's a group on Myspace devoted to Quad Citizens... and a thread started on that message board about some of the more "eccentric" folks in town. I was honestly worried -- the last thing I wanted to read was a bunch of kids pointing and laughing at folks who are unfortunate and potentially unbalanced.

But the Myspace thread DIDN'T become a mockery of these folks... but rather a celebration. It was honestly pretty cool to see all these kids posting about these folks... because in their words, you could tell that they CARED. I mean, miracles don't happen, it's not like they actively assisting these people... but still, rather than mock, they revered. And, in a generation like ours, genuine feelings of compassion and sympathy don't show up too often. When it did on this thread, without any hint of name-calling or anything, I was touched. I really was.

So basically I wanted to do the same thing in the column. To tip my hat towards the eccentric characters that help define our community. To respect those folk out there who never get any credit. And, at the same time, point out the great double standard that, while our society frowns on making fun of eccentric (and, let's be honest, mentally ill) folks out there... we can always tune our dials to the Fox network and see similar eccentric folk being ruthlessly mocked by talent shows like "American Idol." It just upsets me. Period.

So I set out to write the epic column to celebrate our colorful cast of characters in town while simulataneously taking American Idol to task.

I failed. Egregiously.

My first draft of the column was summarily rejected by my editors for being "insensitive" (the exact thing I was trying to avoid.) But upon re-reading it, I realized that, yeah, it was crass beyond belief.

So I reworded it. And turned it in like you'll read below. And I still received a letter (a very SINCERE letter, not a bitch-fest or anything) from a local mental health volunteer who was upset at the piece. And I can't say I blame 'em. It was thoughtless journalism at its finest.

So... to anyone else who might take offense at this column, know that it wasn't intentional. Know that, were I a better writer, I could have picked my words a tad better. But hopefully cut through my awful writing and flippant usage of the word "crazy" and appreciate the point of the column, which is to point and laugh at "American Idol." Thanks for the understanding on this one, gang.

How did you spend your Sunday night? I could have been working on The Great American Novel. I could have been giving my time to charity. I could have been flirting with girls. Yet I, in my infinite wisdom, had a better idea.

That's right -- I watched the debut episode of "Grease: You're the One That I Want," otherwise known as Ninety Minutes I'll Never Get Back Ever Again.

What is it about oddballs that folks find so entertaining? I've never understood it. Heck, if I felt that way, I'd be a lot happier here in the Quad Cities. Let's admit it -- we've got our fair share of colorful characters around town.

Just because somebody's different, does that mean it's our duty to point and laugh? OF COURSE NOT. Why? Because making fun of people is ethically, morally, and intrinsically wrong, that's why. No matter how much the little devil guy on your right shoulder wants to go, "Whoa! Lookit THAT dude!", there's the little angel guy on your other shoulder letting you know that
ALL people are God's creatures and should be treated with as much dignity as you can afford.

So we've established that making fun of people is NOT COOL, right? So why is it that we shouldn't crack up at a guy wandering the streets talking to himself, but it's perfectly okay to bust out laughing at some nimrod auditioning for a talent show whose voice sounds like a cat being force-fed Pepto-Bismol?

If I had a nickel for every time someone's said to me, "I love 'American Idol,' but I only watch the first couple episodes with all the idiots auditioning," I'd have at least 90 cents, and hey, that's enough for one of those cinnamon rolls out of the vend-o-mat in the break room. Shows like
"American Idol," "Grease," "America's Got Talent," etc. have made cash cows out of horses asses.

It all started with the Godfather of Crazy: our boy William Hung. "Idol" auditions were tedious to watch until Willy came in with his whole She-Bang and changed television history. Now, instead of hoping to hear the next Kelly Clarkson, viewers are tuning in these talent shows to see the next trainwreck nutjob.

I haven't quite figured these people out, though they definitely fall into one of two camps. There are the people who are, in my opinion, authentic loons. The ones who come to these auditions thinking they're a step away from fame when they're in fact an octave away from making ears bleed. These are the true whackos, and it should be immoral to give them airtime, let
alone suffer through it.

Then there are the other folk. The ones who watched William Hung and realized that if they came out to the audition and acted as loony as possible, they could have a shot at freakshow stardom. These are the ones I REALLY worry about. I mean, from what I've seen, these auditions are a beast. "Idol" makes you wait in line for DAYS. Could you imagine being so
attention-starved that you'd be willing to stand around for 24+ hours just so you can make an spectacle out of yourself for 10 seconds on TV?

Where's the "fun" in that? What compels someone to want to look like a nimrod on national TV? And what does your 15 minutes of fame get you in the end? Maybe somebody on the street a month later going, "Hey, aren't you that bonehead who can't sing? The one who sucks?" Can THAT sort of interaction possibly be worth the effort?

The ones I feel most sorry for are the judges. After realizing that weirdos = ratings, the producers of these talent shows are letting more and more attention-seeking mouthheads into the top auditions. Every time I see somebody walk into an audition with the whole "whoa-look-at-me-I'm-craaazy" schtick, I hope and yearn for Randy Jackson to just step up and slug 'em in
the face.

Being an idiot can be fun sometimes, I'll admit it. Heck, I've even sung karaoke before, and let's just say no record reps were pulling out business cards. But being forced to WATCH someone trying to be fun by trying to be an idiot is just trying on my patience. Maybe I'm talent-showed-out. Maybe I really WILL find something better to do. All I know is that I'm skipping "Grease" AND "Idol" this year until both the real AND fake crazies are weeded out.

I get enough insanity in my life -- after all, I get C-Span.

COLUMN: Hi-Def

I came to grips with yet another painful truth about my life this weekend. For the past two years, it's caused me to slowly descend down the shame spiral until I finally took a deep breath and confronted the ugly reality: I was living my life in lo-definition.

I really like television. More specifically, I really liked MY television. It was a 38" Toshiba that had served me well the past decade. It was the television that was with me when "Cheers" served its last beer, when the Soup Nazi served his last bowl. The TV that was there when Ross dated Rachel, dumped Rachel, dated Julie, married Emily, divorced Emily, married Rachel, dated Charlie, and kissed Rachel. That thing and I had a special, irreplaceable bond.

Until, of course, I walked into Best Buy and saw my first hi-definition television. That's when I realized my beloved TV was a hunk of junk that was an insult to all who watched it. Suddenly I was incomplete as a human being. Episodes of "Lost" seemed irrelevant unless I could actually see the individual arm hairs of the Others in crystalline hi-def clarity. Al Roker can't properly give me my morning weather in the confines of a mere 38 pathetic inches. I had suffered in my lo-definition existence long enough; it was time for an upgrade.

So when the parents asked the inevitable, "So, what do you want for Christmas?" question this year, I replied simply: COLD HARD CASH -- which I then took and put with some cold hard cash of my own. Then I took a deep breath, secured my wallet, and walked into American TV on a mission.

I thought picking out a new TV would be a snap. Well, close -- it almost made my BRAIN snap.

The first step is figuring out what kind of TV to get. Naive little me just thought the answer to that question was "hi-def." Not so easy. There's plasma, there's LCD, there's DLP, there's boxes filled with magical pixies that just draw really fast pictures on the screen. Well, maybe not, but that made as much sense to me as the salesman's explanations of all the others.

After a while, though, it started to come together. Plasma, I learned, was out for me. You're not supposed to play video games on plasma TV's because it can cause screen burn. Besides, the word "plasma" makes me think that my television is actually ALIVE, and hey, there's enough stuff growing in my apartment as is.

That left LCD (which hangs on the wall) or DLP (which is basically a kazillion mirrors powered by the world's most impressive flashlight.) After lengthy debate, I opted DLP for one simple reason: BIG. DLP sets come in larger sizes for less money.

If I'm spending an obnoxious amount of money on a TV, I want that TV to be a behemoth. I want jaws to drop. I want streams of drool to run from the corners of my friends' mouths. Some people want to invest in home theatre; I want my home to BE a theatre. That's why I walked in to American and immediately centered myself in front of the biggest thing they had: some 80+ inch Enormo-tron.

Happily, my salesman was a realist and politely explained to me that, in my tiny apartment, an 80 inch TV would basically make me blind and sterile, not to mention a potential hazard for nearby low-flying aircraft. As much as I hated to admit it, there IS such a thing as overkill, and sitting 9 feet away from a 7 foot TV is just not a prudent move. He suggested a 42". We compromised and I bought a 56" Toshiba.

In the store, sitting on the Wall 'o TV's, a 56" unit looked pretty conservative and thrifty. In my apartment, it looks like a slightly undersized drive-in theatre. My place is officially pimped out. I feel like charging admission and selling popcorn.

Of course, getting the thing set up was no easy task. Again, one would think that this kind of investment would result in the magical TV pixies moving my entire apartment around for me, but no deal. My old entertainment center only fits a 38" TV, so it had to be moved to the bedroom (resulting in the exciting discovery of an oatmeal creme pie from the Mesozoic Era underneath! Score!) Of course, to get it in the bedroom, my chest had to be moved to where my nightstand table was. And the nightstand table had to be moved to, well, the dumpster.

So now my apartment lies in ruin. Everything's moved around and nothing fits. The cats are completely confused. I may have to sleep standing up from here on out, but at least I can do it HI-DEFINITION. Now all I have to do is figure out how to work the remote and turn the stupid thing on...

COLUMN: Best 'o 2006

I fear change. I always have. Maybe that's why I never left the Quad Cities after I graduated college. Maybe that's why I'm still in the same apartment complex that I moved into my senior year at Augie. I find comfort in the consistent; serenity in the same. That's why I'm all in favor of holiday traditions.

Maybe your family opens one gift early. Maybe you take a pre-Christmas drive to check out the houses with the best lights. Me? I've only got ONE tradition: every year, on Christmas Eve, I spend the day going through the past year's CD's to come up with my definitive list of the Top 10 Albums of the Year. (It's a music nerd thing, indulge me.)

#10 - GOMEZ - "How We Operate" - I've mentioned before how much I hate hippie rock. Gomez is the exception. This UK band has been releasing album after album of laid-back groove rock for almost a decade now, and "How We Operate" is the stand-out of the bunch. Working with an outside producer for the first time, the result is a new-found cohesiveness among the batch of tunes, and a jam record with melody, fun, and earthy spirituality.

Gomez - See the World (click below for video)

#9 - CAMERA OBSCURA - "Let's Get Out of This Country" - The Glasgow-based Camera Obscura are one of those bands who've shown potential for greatness in the past, but it's finally realized with this, their third record. Pop music so gentle you fear a breeze could blow it away, this album excels from their others in tunesmanship alone.

Camera Obscura - "Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken" (click below for video)

#8 - THE 1900's - "Plume Delivery EP" - Speaking of bands with potential, the Chicago-based 1900's have only offered one debut EP and are already at the forefront of many a critic's minds. It might only be 6 tracks long, but this one EP packs more of a whallop than most band's entire discographies. Hazy psychedelic folk-rock that isn't just a carbon-copy of the 60's, the 1900's bring beautiful harmonies together with loosely orchestrated strings and organs.

#7 - THE RAPTURE - "Pieces of the People We Love" - The only band that might actually take the "MORE COWBELL!" mantra seriously, The Rapture have spent their career putting their NYC-fueled punk funk signature on top of, yes, cowbell-laden dance grooves. The new record is more of the same, and hey, why wreck a good thing? Luke Jenner's shrill vocals might be a deal-breaker for the more timid, but you just can't help but shake a booty or two to this one.

The Rapture - Whoo Alright Yeah Uh Huh (click below for video)

#6 - CHRASH - "Audio Feng Shui" - Anyone reading this who's older than 25 hopefully remembers Tripmaster Monkey, one of the few QC bands to ever earn national exposure, and deservedly so. A decade later, former Tripmaster frontman Chris Bernat has again delivered a record worthy of the same acclaim. Finally transforming his ever-changing solo project into a proper band, the results are evident in the new-found strength of quirky songwriting and production. Released on the QC's own Futureappletree label.

#5 - SPANK ROCK - "YoYoYoYoYo" - The best thing to happen to hip-hop in years, Baltimore's Spank Rock takes underground rap and makes it fun again. Packed with low-budget, speaker-bending bass thumps and the kind of lyrics you simply can't go near in a family newspaper (suffice to say our boy Spank likes the ladies, a lot -- graphically,) this record truly represents the spirit, drive, & energy that made hip-hop so captivating in the first place. Play LOUD.

Spank Rock - Rick Rubin (click below for video)

#4 - BELLE & SEBASTIAN - "The Life Pursuit" - Belle and Sebastian are quite possibly the wussiest band in the world. It's hard to find a B&S review that doesn't use words like "twee," "fey," or "precious" when trying to describe the Scottish group's polite brand of art school pop music. The rules are simple: you either love Belle & Sebastian or you make fun of them. That said, "The Life Pursuit" finds the group expanding their repertoire into mildly glam rock territory, and ends up being their most exciting effort in years.

Belle & Sebastian - White Collar Boy (click for video)

#3 - THE GUILLEMOTS - "Through the Windowpane" - It seems like every year, a band comes along that surprises the heck out of me. The Guillemots feature an English singer, a Brazilian guitarist, a Scottish drummer, and a Canadian bassist. Their music is equally multi-tiered and confusing, yet somehow coalesces into a true pop masterpiece. Unorthodox instrumentation, stellar vocals, and magnificent tunes all add up to the most impressive debut record of the year.

Guillemots - Trains to Brazil (click below for video)

#2 - OF MONTREAL - "Hissing Fauna, You Are The Destroyer" - Okay, I'm cheating here. This one doesn't come out until January, but their label was kind enough to furnish a copy back in September, and it's barely left my CD player since. Perfectly balancing unabashedly fun, over-the-top glam showmanship with lyrics that paint a haunted picture of 30-something married life, it's a dance album with smarts -- disco you could write a dissertation on. Shy of putting a gun to your head and forcing you to a record store, I don't know what else I can do to get you to support this gift of a band.

Of Montreal - Wraith Pinned to the Mist (an old song, but hey, this record's too new to have a video yet!)

#1 - THE BROTHER KITE - "Waiting for the Time To Be Right" - It's as if someone entered my brain, carbon-copied my musical tastes, and figured out a way to assimilate them all onto one record. This virtually unknown band from Rhode Island have basically made Shane: The Album. Fuzzed-out jangly guitars conspire with Beach-Boys-esque blissed-out vocal harmonies, plus the kind of truly epic hooks that make neck hairs stand on end. In short, it's everything I've ever wanted out of music. But don't take MY word for it, go to www.myspace.com/thebrotherkite and listen for yourself.

The Brother Kite - "You're Not The Only One" (the poppiest tune on the record - click for video)

COLUMN: Shout-Outs!

Deeeeck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la laaa, la la l...

Whaa? What are you doing here? It's Christmas weekend, go open a present or something. Leave me alone.

Excuse me? You need a column? THIS week? Forget it, bub, I'm knee-deep in ham and like an hour into "A Christmas Story." For the fifth time today. I can't write a column.

Umm... "not an option?" I "HAVE" to write a column? "Disappoint my fans?" What fans? Jimmy down at the gas station? The girl who sends me the naked Polaroids? Frankly, I've got better thi--

Okay, okay. Fine. Sheesh. I suppose there's one thing I've needed to do. Actually, Christmas IS about more than stuffing your face and opening presents. It's about appreciating those around you who bring you happiness and warm fuzzies. With that in mind, indulge me in some holiday thanks to:

• MOM & DAD, the greatest support staff a guy could ask for. Oh, and since she won't get this mailed to her 'til after the holidays, I can break the surprise from last week's column: I bought my mom an iPod for Christmas. And then I opened it up before I wrapped it and loaded it up with ASTONISHINGLY bad music that my mother somehow finds enjoyable: Michael Buble, Celine Dion, Barbara Streisand, etc. I can't believe any of these terrifying vocalists spent time on my hard drive. Which brings me to:

• MY CO-WORKERS, for also listening to all this unlistenable junk, thereby allowing me to borrow -- ahem, sorry, PURCHASE* (*procure in a perfectly legal, non-copyright violating manner) -- all of this aforementioned terrifying music.

• BILL GATES, for installing a volume control on my computer, thus saving my ears from the evils of Celine Dion. Now give me some money. Please.

• MY BOSSES -- Barb, Kelly, Nick, Mike, & Joe -- for filling my heart with sunshine. And because I'm a huge suck-up.

• CHRIS GREENE, my "work wife," for baking me homemade lasagna and meatloaf and chicken enchiladas in the work Christmas gift exchange. Onion-free, no less. (My onion hatred knows no limits, thereby making it a challenge to eat 80% of Earth's home-cooked meals.)

• MYSPACE.COM, for providing an answer to the epic question, "I'm soooo bored. What can I doooo?" Friend me at www.myspace.com/excellentshane.

• BRUCE CAULKINS, my best friend from high school. We'd lost contact back in 1993-ish, and found each other on Myspace earlier this year. And it's like we never stopped talking.

• J.J. ABRAMS & DAMON LINDELOF, for creating "Lost" and giving me a reason to make it through the week. Now enough pussy-footing around. Who the heck are the Others? Tell me. TELL ME!

• SEAN LEARY, for being the most creative person I know and the greatest human being to bounce ideas off of. "You should try to submit some columns," he said to me years ago. "But they'll probably turn you down," he also said. It's okay, man, I've learned how to selectively listen.

• JASON SCHLAUTMAN, for being my best friend for 18 years running. It's a tough job, folks, to ENJOY hanging out with someone as inept at basic life skills as I am. I'm pretty sure he's changed more tires on MY car than his own.

• MRS. KATIE HOLMES CRUISE, for giving me WAY too much column fodder this year. Don't worry, someday you'll escape his evil clutches, and when that happens, I'll be right here.

• NATHAN WILLIAMS, the only human being who can go to lunch with me every day and then suffer a bullet wound to the skull every night. Usually from my sniper rifle. Man, I love playing "Call of Duty" on X-Box Live.

• CO-OP RECORDS, for giving me the incentive to get up, drag my sorry butt to work, and earn a living. Were it not for my music addiction, I'd be living in a box somewhere.

• LINNEA CROWTHER. One day, I'll wake up and realize that we ARE soulmates. Until then, our Friday lunches are becoming the stuff of legend. Mark my words, someday soon you'll see her name on the spine of a best-selling children's book. When that moment comes, buy it. Even if you don't have kids.

• HARMONY FOLEY. For being my newfound favorite person in the world. Of course, I have to say "world" because she's been in Beijing, China for the past half year. There's a column and explanation on this one coming, gang. Suffice to say I'm a happy guy for the time being.

• TERRY TILKA, RYAN MCKEE, THE ENTIRE STAFF, & ALL THE REGULARS AT 2nd AVE. in the Rock Island District, for making me feel 9 feet tall every weekend. Of course, that might be due to the DJ booth being 3 feet in the air. Still, there's no better side gig than making you people dance. (But can we pick a different song? I'm starting to grow reeeally tired of bringing sexy back night after night.)

• ALL OF YOU, for strangely giving a rat's posterior about what a geeky, awkward, chubby social misfit has to say week after week. All I've got to say THIS week, though, is have a Merry Christmanukkwanzaafestivus. Have a great holiday, gang.

COLUMN: Fa La La Ho Ho Ho

WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS TO ME:
A Holiday Essay By Shane

• LIES, DECEPTION & TRICKERY. OK, sure, it might not sound like the holliest or jolliest of Christmas tidings, but in MY family, it's an essential part of the holidays.

"So what did you get me for Christmas?" my mom usually begins asking in early December.

"Bwaa ha ha," I reply. "I got you a sumthin'."

"What kind of sumthin'?"

"A sumthin' you'll like."

"So there's just ONE sumthin'?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Might be a bunch of sumthin's."

"Oh, and I wanted to ask you one other thing," she'll say, deftly changing the subject.

"What's that?"

"What did you get me for Christmas?"

Yes, nothing really brings home the holiday spirit quite like a month of mind games over what we buy one another. Some holidays, I'm not altogether happy with what I find for the parents.

This time, though, I've found the perfect gift for my mom. I'd love to tell you about it, but she has a mail-order subscription to the paper (the woman would pin up every column I write if only she had a refrigerator door big enough,) so I can't divulge. Sorry.

But I will say that it's a sumthin.' That may or may not involve several other sumthin's. And Mom, you'll like it. Bwaa ha ha.

It's not as though I'm the only evil one in the family. One year, every time I'd ask what I was getting for Christmas, my folks would reply, "A box of rocks if you're not careful."

Well, Christmas morning rolls around, and I wake up to find one huge present under the tree. I decimate the wrapping to find ... a box of rocks. Very heavy rocks.

Of course, at the bottom of the box was a gift certificate to feed my ever-growing music habit, but still, I learned from an early age never to underestimate the power of The Parents.

• MENTAL ANGUISH. This involves shopping for my dad, who is, without doubt, the hardest person to buy for in the entire world. Shopping for my dad usually involves walking into stores like Lowe's and Menard's, which for someone like me is like visiting a foreign country.

When I ask my dad what he'd like for Christmas, the response is usually, "Product #XJ792A1" from some bizarre woodworking/handicraft/things-I-know-nothing-about catalog o' the moment. I suppose it's fun to get what you WANT for Christmas, but shouldn't there be some element of surprise?

Not necessarily, as my parents proved to me one year in college. They showed up unexpectedly at my dorm room door and took me on a massive Christmas shopping spree.

We drove from store to store and I was literally like the gulls from "Finding Nemo": "Mine! Mine! Mine!" It was the best time ever ... until the END of the trip, when they dropped me off at the dorm.

I went to open the trunk full o' booty to find my folks going, "Nope. Christmas is two weeks away -- we've got wrapping to do!" And then they drove off, leaving me empty-handed and anxious. Patience is a virtue, my fanny. It's torture.

• FREAKISHLY AWFUL DISCO MUSIC. As a card-carrying music nerd extraordinaire, I'm required to possess an eclectic collection of Christmas music. My all-time favorite dates back to high school.

My friend Bruce and I were thumbing through the bargain bin at Musicland when we found it. An album cover featuring a scantily-clad babe in a Santa hat holding an electric guitar, and no credited performer. The title? "Christmas Party Dancing."

It was an immediate must-own. On the disc was a treasure trove of nightmarishly awful disco versions of your holiday faves. "I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" starts with a "Ho ho ho" before a chorus of disco babes yell, "HO MAMA!"

In short, it's the tackiest thing ever. And for the last decade, I've tortured all of my friends with it annually. My goal is to put it on EVERYONE's list of "What Christmas Means To Me." If you ever see it, buy it at all costs (especially when that cost is probably gonna be less than $5!) Speaking of music:

• THE TRANS-SIBERIAN ORCHESTRA. Only because they're the SECOND tackiest thing on Earth. What becomes of these poor people once the holidays are done? In December, they can sell out the Mark.

But come Jan. 1, they disappear back into the night, taking their long hair and freaky holiday diddies on the lonely road back to Trans-Siberia, where I imagine they share a house with Mannheim Steamroller and play cards until Thanksgiving when they can be relevant once again.

• WARM FUZZIES. No matter what, Christmas is still the best time of the year. Twinkling lights, warm cookies and smiles on faces.

It's all so corny I have no recourse but to fall into its trap and say things I'd NEVER say in normal circumstances: I wish ALL of you a happy holiday. Give to charity. Watch the smiles on kids' faces. Hug your families. Then figure out what Christmas means to YOU.

COLUMN: Taco Bell

Dear Nobel Prize Committee: I'd like the Peace prize, the Science prize, and the rest on a gift certificate.

That's right, I have made a Discovery of Great Importance. That's in caps because one day it will be in textbooks as the event -- no, the Event -- that changed our way of life.

You see, as a humor columnist, it's my mission to keep track of all things bizarre, surreal and funny. Being the anti-social nerd that I am, I'm more of a human observer than a human, umm, do-er. So while you go about living your happy life, I'm the guy with the notebook making fun of your happy life. Make sense?

Well, my non-stop research has finally paid off. I'm proud to announce that I have officially discovered the epicenter -- the home, the hub, the Big Bad Momma -- of all things hysterically surreal and funny.

I speak, of course, about the Taco Bell drive-thru.

I can tease Taco Bell, I really can. I have that right, since I'm pretty sure that I'm personally responsible for 10 percent of their annual sales. I eat at Taco Bell a LOT. And I'll continue to eat at Taco Bell a lot. But, without fail, I do it with a smile on my face, because Taco Bell invariably makes me laugh.

Let's start with the basic premise: the menu. Taco Bell, as yummy as it is, boils down to seven ingredients: Meat, beans, rice, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese and guacamole. And practically everything on their menu is nothing but those seven ingredients either held, fried, or melted together in new and exciting ways.

I like to imagine the Taco Bell Research and Development Dept. as one guy named Fred who, every time Taco Bell needs a new menu item, spins a wheel telling him what to do with the seven ingredients. "Oookay, we're gonna take some (SPIN) meat and put it in a tortilla with some (SPIN) beans and rice ... then let's deep fry it and wrap it in a pita with some (SPIN) guac ... then we throw it a bowl with (SPIN) lettuce & tomato and then melt (SPIN) cheese over it. We'll call it ... THE GORDLUPARITO! No, wait, let's toss on some sour cream and make it the GORDLUPARITO SUPREME!"

Of course, we true Taco Bell connoisseurs know that it doesn't matter how they put the seven ingredients together, just so long as they fill the bag with packets of that magic sauce. Yes, the taco sauce at the Bell is truly a food group of its own. Heck, one Fourthmeal alone can provide you with your daily recommended allowance of Mild, Hot, AND Fire. And conveniently, each packet contains the perfect amount of sauce for exactly: two-thirds of a taco. This results in the coordination-a-palooza wherein I attempt to hold a half-eaten taco while simultaneously tearing open a new sauce packet AND defending my spicy treasure trove from my taco-smitten cats.

But the greatest part about Taco Bell will always be the drive-thru. Yes, nothing says "Feed My Hunger" quite like rolling down your window to the pre-recorded slurred mumblings of a disgruntled employee: "Thankyouforcrossingtheborderwouldyouliketotryournew cheezygorditaorderwhenyoureready."

But that was then, this is now. Somehow, Taco Bell has managed to make their drive-thru experience even WEIRDER. There's a new corporate directive, and I found out about it when I pulled up the other day to hear THIS:

"Hi. How are you?"

That's the new Taco Bell greeting. Simple, to the point, and incredibly off-putting. Umm, how am I? Impatient, unamused, and hungry is how I am. Do I need to answer? Is Taco Bell now the fast food establishment that CARES? Look, I've seen a LOT of fast-food windows in my day, and never before have any of them asked of my personal welfare. In an appropriately weird way, I was touched.

"Umm," I replied. "Well, let's see. I've got kind of a plugged nose, I'm only tracking at 60 percent of my sales goal at work, and I won't even get into the girlfriend issues. So overall, not so hot. How are YOU?"

Silence. A whole lot of silence. And then?

"Could you repeat your order, sir?"

Sigh. "Number 3 with a Pepsi," I said dejectedly. The Taco Bell didn't REALLY care how I was. The Taco Bell just wanted my money. But, really, that's OK, because I just wanted its tacos.

It's a symbiotic relationship that I'm OK with. Me, give money; you, give tacos. And as long as THAT relationship stays intact, I'll put up with the seven ingredients, the woefully undersized sauce packets, and even the nosy personal inquiries.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a border to run to.

COLUMN: Sickly

Ah, yes. The holiday season is upon us already. Once again, chestnuts roast on open fires while Jack Frost shovels snot out of my nose.

That's right, we're just an eyeblink past Thanksgiving and I've already caught the inaugural holiday cold. Forgive me if I'm not my usual jovial self this week -- I fear I'm a bit brain-addled. Do you see that picture of me that runs with the column? Just imagine that, but with a Vicks inhaler stuck up each nostril. Yes, there's nothing like a little phlegm to really boost the sex appeal.

The other day, I was talking to someone who had a nasty cold. In fact, that's where I probably caught this beastly one from. Anyways, that person -- and you know people like this, you might even be one -- said to me, "I never take any medicine when I get sick."

This person clearly is insane. I, on the other hand, am SO sane that I'm crazy. My bathroom cabinet rivals some of the best medical facilities on Earth. You name the malady: if there's an over-the-counter cure for it, I own it.

Don't believe me? Fact: Among the items in my medicine cabinet, you can find a tube of Preparation H, a bottle of saline solution, and some Primatene Mist. Another fact: I have never had hemmorhoids, contact lenses, or asthsma in my life. But heck, just like the Boy Scouts, always be prepared, I say.

My cold-fighting regimen begins with the dreaded Tickle. The second that the back of my throat itches, I'm off to the health food store. This should be a column of its own, as the sight of me in one of those places is about as natural-looking as me in Victoria's Secret. Shane and health food simply do NOT get along; but Shane and amazing herbal hocum-pocum is a relationship to behold.

I've never been one to fall prey to scams. I'm smart enough to know that I can't make a million dollars overnight in real estate like the infomercials tell me. I know that dialing 1-900-whatever will NOT give me an accurate psychic reading. I know that no pill on Earth will make me lose weight as long as I sit on a couch all day.

That said, I will tell you with the utmost of confidence that most of the colds I start to catch can be warded off by quickly taking a tablespoon of Elderberry Syrup. This probably has as much scientific backing as alien abduction, but it completely works. Trust me.

When I was a kid, my mom had a subscription to Prevention magazine. Prevention is like Scientific American for the hippie herbalist sect. If there's a weed growing in your backyard that has the off-chance of curing leprosy, you'll read about it in Prevention. In fact, I imagine the writing staff of Prevention to be folks who just wander around in the woods, sticking random bits of nature into their mouth to see if suddenly their ills are remedied.

Some of it is proven science - just ask the ladies at Heritage Natural Foods, where a simple question about homeopathic medicine can result in a junior alchemy lesson. Some of it I raise a wary eyebrow to. Beware the logic that runs like this: "I've eaten dog poo every day my entire life, and I've never developed psoriasis. Ergo, eating dog poo prevents psoriasis!" Needless to say, thoughts along this line leave a bad taste in my mouth.

But medicine doesn't just exist to remove my symptoms; it's there to make me feel pro-active. Sucking on a zinc lozenge might not have any effect on my stupid cold, but at least it makes me feel like I'm fighting it. Were it not for herbal whatzits, I'd just sit there and be miserable.

Actually, though, zinc is the ONE thing I won't do; after you take one of those lozenges, everything you eat for the next day tastes decidedly zinc-y. Eww. Instead, this time I'm trying the zinc nasal spray, which you shoot into your plugged nose to make it feel... more plugged, I guess. But at least I'm being pro-active.

This particular illness, however, the herbals didn't cut it. The cold rained down like, umm, cold rain (hey, YOU try to think up similes when you're sick.) So now I'm pulling out the big guns. Advil. Sudafed. Syrups that end in "-tussin." And that stuff tastes so gross, it HAS to work.

Yet right now all I want to do is suck down some chicken-noodle soup and snuggle under a blanket with my cats and some really bad TV. And hey, I called in sick today, so I can do just that.

Ho ho stupid ho.

COLUMN: Crush

I'm officially depressed.

Sometimes it's just frustrating to read the newspaper. I mean, I TRY to be your worthy and loyal humor columnist, but it's hard when I'm surrounded in our publications by awful, awful news. In fact, the top story of last week was so unsettling that I'm still a bit shook up. I mean, it's a meeting of two world powers that's bound to impact our society dramatically for years to come.

I speak, of course, about the unholy union of Tom Cruise to my beloved Katie Holmes. Or Kate Cruise. Or whatever abomination she is now. And I can no longer deny the pathetic truth: my odds of hooking up with her are dropping by the minute.

For what it's worth, I thought it was pretty clear that I had called "dibs" on Katie long ago. Did Tom pay his dues? Did Tom sit through all 6 seasons of Dawson's Creek even though it was clearly written for people half our age? Yes, THESE are the kinds of sacrifices that I've made for my obsession.

But it was all for naught; the dream is over. My precious Katie has been driven from me by the one man better at lip-synching to Bob Seger in his underwear than myself. I have no choice but to wish them the best and hope that they live Scientologically ever after.

This DOES mean one thing, though. I have to have at least ONE unhealthy celebrity crush... but I need some help figuring out who gets to be the new recipient of my wanton lust. Let's examine the leading contenders:


• SCARLETT JOHANSSON - Well, she's cute, she's blonde, and she digs Woody Allen. Hmm. I could see this working. Then again, every magazine in the world is dubbing her "Sexiest Woman Alive" or whatever. This means the competition could be fairly high. And the moment I declare my obsession for her will probably be the moment she gets swept off her feet by Jake Gyllenhall or Matthew McConaghey or that kid who plays Harry Potter. I don't know if I could go through the pain again.


• THORA BIRCH - I'll admit it, she was WAY cuter than Scarlett in that "Ghost World" movie. But that might have been the last movie she's made, and that was half a decade ago. I'm starting to fear she's dropped off the planet.


• KATE HUDSON - She just got divorced from the Black Crowes dude. But they were together for a looong time (in celebrity marriage terms,) and that must mean one thing: she has a high tolerance for bad hippie music. I'm sorry, but even if I was dating the hottest girl on the planet, if she tried sticking a Phish disc into my CD player, I'm walkin'.


• HAYDEN PANETTIERE - Otherwise known as Claire The Cheerleader from "Heroes." Cute and blonde: there's a plus. And she's always in the gossip pages because she parties it up with the Lohans and Hiltons of the world, so she might go for a weekend club DJ like me. Just ONE teeny problem: so she's 16. Umm, yeah. Ask me again in 2008.


• TAYLOR SWIFT - I saw her sing the national anthem on TV the other day and I was smitten. There's only one problem with liking a country artist: she's a country artist. Eww. With the proper musical influence, though, I could cure her of that afflication... Wait, sorry, what's that? SHE'S 16, TOO? You've got to be kidding me. Doesn't she sing about dancing all night to Tim McGraw in a little black dress? SIXTEEN? Man, maybe my problem is that I'm just apparantly sleazy.

• BRITNEY SPEARS - Because if there's one person out there who apparantly digs sleazy guys, it's her. And gosh knows, I've been looking for a good way to kickstart my aspiring rap career. If K-Fed can sell 2,800 albums worldwide with songs like "Dance With A Pimp," I'm sure I can move at least 100 copies of "I'll Show You A Humor Column (Baby.)"


• ANGELINA JOLIE - She looks like she could beat me up, and let's be honest, that's kinda sexy. But she also likes to hang out in Africa. Know what? It's HOT in Africa. If I'm going to hook up with a rich celebrity, I'd prefer to go the mansions- and-manservants route, thanks. (Perhaps me and K-Fed have more in common than I thought.) Plus there's the whole Brad Pitt thing. To lose to Tom Cruise and then have to face Brad Pitt would be unthinkable. No, I need someone a little more -- umm, how do I say it? -- DESPERATE. Someone I actually might have a shot with. That's why I've made my decision, and am proud to announce my new celebrity crush:


BEA ARTHUR. That's right. She's golden, mature, and she's MINE. So BACK OFF, Gyllenhall. Hands off, McConaghey. This is one crush you will not steal from me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some "Golden Girls" reruns to attend to...

Oop, Dang It.

I KNEW there was something I was forgetting last week... and it was to upload my column to the blog! Hopefully I'll get a chance later today.

(I'll be honest. I usually upload my columns from work. I use my first break at work every Tuesday morn to give my column a final once-over before I send it to press, and then I hop onto my blog and upload it. But now my bosses at the day job have asked me to stop accessing my blog on THEIR time. Granted, it's a total process of, oh, about 30 seconds per week, but still... it's a fair request, and I'll abide by their rules, as my column has always been a touchy subject around the ol' workplace. See, too many people are concerned that I'll be writing columns willy-nilly on THEIR dime, when -- no offense -- I couldn't think of a LESS creative place on Earth to write than my crazy, messy desk at the day job. No, in order for me to get column crazy, I need MY home computer. MY desk. MY Slinky that I play with voraciously as I write. Ergo, I just need to change my habits and upload my columns from my apartment before I go in every week. Apologies while my blog runs a little behind - I've always been resistant to change, now's no exception!)

My Five Minutes of Fame

Okay, so this is kinda cool.

You guys familiar with the band OASIS?

Well, this week they just released a greatest hits album called "Stop the Clocks" or something like that. You can't escape the ads for it on TV right now.

Anyways, there's a limited edition version of the disc that comes with a bonus DVD. And on that DVD, there's a clip of the band doing "Fade Away" live in concert.

And very visible in the front row center is yours truly.


I'll autograph your copies upon request.

COLUMN: Me = Geek.

I've always been fascinated by the "cult of celebrity." You know, the poor schmucks who wait for hours to get an autograph or say a few meaningless words to another schmuck who just happened to have enough talent or fate to merit 15 minutes in the spotlight.

I'm fascinated because I'm one of those schmucks. (Hint: Not one of the famous ones.)

That's right, your holier-than-thou columnist is one of those types who gets flustered and tongue-tied around celebrities and then goes and brags about it for weeks afterwards. It's something I can't help, even though I realize just how inane it is. I can be bragging about meeting someone famous, leap out of my body, listen to myself talking, and think, "Wow. What a loser." But is that enough to shut me up? Nooooo. I'll keep right on yapping and dropping names willy-nilly.

I spent a great deal of my formative years as a semi-professional band stalker. There wasn't a concert that I went to that didn't involve some kind of effort to meet the group. This was usually always a challenge -- you might find this surprising, but it turns out that a lot of bands DON'T want a backstage visit from a chubby, tongue-tied music nerd of the male persuasion.

Yet, my friends and I tried -- and often succeeded -- at the unannounced meet-n-greet. We knew all the right loading doors to loiter around. We knew the right hotels that booking agents preferred. It was SCIENCE. And it paid off.

Minnie Driver? Met her. Lara Flynn Boyle? Totally. Duran Duran? You know it. The Barenaked Ladies? Twice. Oasis? Got to see their egos first-hand. SEE? I'm totally doing it AGAIN. Stop me, someone, seriously.

And you know what the one thing all these celebrities had in common was? THEY ALL HATED US.

I could have the most eloquent questions imaginable for these people. I could have a game plan in my head to totally WOW these celebrities with my extensive knowledge of music theory and the sort of deep appreciation for their art that no mere mortal fan would possess.

Yet, given the chance to actually speak to them, it usually devolves to something like, "Ummmm. Hi. BIG fan."

Case in point: Flashback 1994-ish. An outdoor music festival hits Chicago featuring, among other bands, The Stone Roses. Now, you might not have even heard of the Stone Roses, but they were THE band to shape my musical development in college. Suffice to say, meeting the Roses for me would be on par with, say, meeting The Beatles might be for you.

So we went to the show with a mission and a gameplan. It was me, my old college roommate, his then-wife Kari, and our friend Stuart.

After the band got done playing, we made our move. Kari went up to the backstage gate, flashed a phony press pass at the guard, and just sauntered right on in, leaving us to wait outside, gobsmacked. Ten minutes pass and Kari emerges with some random roadie, beaming and going, "C'mon, guys, wanna say hi to the Roses?"

Holy jeez. This was it. The gods had smiled upon us, and I was about to meet my favorite musicians.

What we didn't know is that, after sneaking inside and somehow finding the band's dressing room, Kari then told them that her friends were outside and really wanted to meet them. What she FAILED to tell them is that we were a bunch of chubby, nerdy DUDES.

Five minutes later, we're backstage and the look on the band's faces said it all -- namely, "Hey, you're not a bunch of cute girls." There I was, face to face with the band that had seen me through my darkest days of college. I wanted to tell them everything, I wanted to ask them everything.

What I believe I said was, "Ummm... h-hey."

The awkward silence in the room was deafening. It took brave Stuart to break the ice.

"Sooo... did you guys fly in for the show?"

"Uh, yeah," say the Stone Roses. Good start. Conversation. Soon we will be close friends of the band. They will respect us as huge fans, ask us for advice, thank us on liner notes, and possibly write a song about us one day. All we had to do was NOT say something stupid.

"Man," replies Stuart, not NOT saying something stupid, "I'd hate to fly with all those terrorists and bombs and stuff."

Sigh. Maybe there was still hope.

"So what's the best part about America?" asks Ian Brown. THE Ian Brown. Lead singer of THE Stone Roses.

"I dunno," says my old roommate, apparantly feeling threatened. "What's so stinkin' hot about England?"

Five minutes later, we were summarily dispatched from the room. Close personal friends of the Stone Roses we were NOT. In fact, mere weeks later the band split up -- I like to think that they realized that, after meeting fans like us, all hope was lost.

I'm a decade older now but still can't grow up. I still watch E!, I still visit gossip websites, and I still get flustered when I meet somebody's who been on TV. All I know is that, if one day I should write the Great American Novel and become a literary figurehead, I'll be extra nice to any nerdy fans who come up to me all tongue-tied. Well, provided they're cute and female.

Will You Survive?

I'm column-less this week, folks.

It's been a weird month in Shaneland.

(1) My mom could have died from an intestinal blockage and was in the hospital for just over a week.

(2) At the same time, my dad caught that tummy rotovirus thingajig going around.

(3) The family dog developed pancreatitis.

(4) I developed one big, bad mutha of a cold.

So. It was a couple weeks of worry, limited sleep, and multiple voyages to hospitals and what-not in the far-off land of Galesburg. So I needed a week off to recharge. Hope that's cool.

I'll be back next week with a shiny new column, though.

Do Your Civic Doodie

Vote or Die.
Choose or Lose.
Make A Difference.
Other Impressive Catchphrases.

I'll spare the lectures. Just go vote. Unless you're voting for the wrong candidate -- in which case, stay home. ;)

I'm a humor columnist, right? By that argument, it's not my place to bring politics into the forum. We have paid professionals to do that sorta stuff.

Hrrm. Then AGAIN, my column DOES frequently run on the Viewpoints page of the Leader. By THAT argument, I could in fact have the right to tell you to cast your votes today for Hare, Boland, Jacobs, Blagojevich, Braley, Culver, Huff, and Wright.

I'd better play it safe and not say anything at all...

COLUMN: Shaq Ball

Here at the newspapers, our motto is "Always Be Prepared."

Well, it would be if those stinkin' Boy Scouts hadn't laid claim to it first. I think our motto's actually something about customers always being right or first or something. Actually, I have no clue what our motto is. But it SHOULD reference preparedness in some way.

After 9/11, we installed security doors all over the place. When the anthrax scare hit, we opened our mail at a separate location. Point is, by golly, we're just about ready for anything. Just about.

When I opened my newspaper Monday morning, I wasn't expecting to hear about our office being attacked by Bambi of the Damned. If you didn't hear, a deer -- obviously suicidal over the news of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes setting a wedding date -- took a kamikaze dive through the front window of our Moline office and caused mass higgeldy-piggeldy until the poor thing had to be euthanized.

So a moment of silence, please, for the late, dear deer. It gave its life so that we, as a people, could finally unite as one and get new carpeting in our lobby.

The shocking thing is, that's NOT the weirdest thing I've read about this week.

Did you hear about the botched police raid in Virginia last month? Apparently a task force was cracking down on kiddie porn, and the cops had a good lead on some random sleazoid pervert. Armed with a search warrant and posse of crime fighters, they burst through the door of the suspect's house and held the occupants while seizing a truck full of computers, cameras and DVDs.

Mission accomplished, right? Problem was, they got the wrong house. Turns out they'd gotten the IP address of the suspect wrong, so they stormed into a random guy's house and ransacked it. Weird? Sure. Weird enough? Heck no.

Here's the brilliant part: Assisting in the raid was none other than Deputy Shaquille O'Neal. Yes, THAT Shaq.

Turns out Shaq fancies himself a bit of a lawman, and wants to pursue a career in police work after his retirement from the NBA. So the Bedford, Va. police made the Miami Heat center a deputy and took him along on the botched raid.

Now imagine you're sitting down for breakfast with your family when suddenly -- BOOM SHAQ-A-LA-KA! -- a team of uniformed police AND basketball superstar Shaquille O'Neal kick your door down and ransacks your house. This, friends, is one of the few times in life where you would be justified to make a mess in your pants. At the very least, I would be assuming that someone laced my Frosted Flakes.

Sorry, Shaq, but do you really think you'll have a fruitful career in law enforcement? As WHAT exactly? A 7-foot-1, 325 lbs. undercover cop? I get this vision in my head of Shaq running around with a bad wig on, expecting no one to recognize him.

"Sure, man, I'll sell you the heroin, but has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Shaquille O'Neal?"

"Uhh, nope."

"I tell you what, here's a ball. If you're NOT Shaq, I need you to make at least five of the next 10 free throws."

"Kazaam! Foiled again!"

Or Shaq as a traffic cop? Look, if I knew that Shaquille O'Neal was setting up speed traps, I'd be whipping u-turns and going 100 miles an hour all over town just in hopes of getting pulled over by him.

"I just need to write you this ticket, sir."

"Not a problem, Officer Shaq. Hey, could you make that out 'To Shane'?"

Admittedly, it WOULD be intimidating to look out the driver's window to an officer's KNEE. And having Shaq on patrol would definitely make episodes of "Cops" a lot more fun to watch. After all, this is a guy who sleeps in a 10-foot bed adorned with a giant Superman logo (not to mention the one that's tattooed on his bicep.)

So maybe we should invite Officer O'Neal to join the Q-C boys in blue. After all, we ARE the 87th most dangerous city in the U.S. now. Something tells me having Shaq on guard might make that number drop a tad. At the very least, he would've done one heck of a number on that deer (though, it must be said, the deer probably had a better free throw shot).

COLUMN: Magic 8-Ball

There are many reasons why working here at the newspaper is great. Some of my co-workers like the hours. Others like the sense of community around here. Me? I'm in it for the toys.

Once upon a time, man invented plastic. This was a bad move, because the day before, man invented the Marketing Executive. It's no secret that the brains of Marketing Executives are wired in exciting and altogether different ways than the average citizen. For instance, look around your home and focus on any item -- a clock, a spoon, a piece of lint. The average person thinks something like, "Hey, a spoon. That'll be handy for eating."

A Marketing Executive looks at the same spoon and goes, "Hmm. Not bad. Just add a corporate logo, the words 'limited edition,' and an attached coupon for 20% off an oil change, and now we're talkin'!" Then he orders a demographic survey while bravely eating soup with his hands.

The end result becomes the Useless Promotional Gift. If there's an item that can be made with plastic, there's a dude in Marketing who's already figured out a way to stamp a logo on it and give it away at a trade show. I celebrate this way of thinking, which is why my desk has become a certified museum of Useless Promotional Gifts.

Except for one small portion of my work desk that actually facilitates work (and certain managers here even question that portion's existence,) every square inch of my desk is taken up by some useless piece of plastic junk. Promotional frisbees? Got 'em. Miniature pool table? You betcha. Enough tiny basketballs and hoops to start my own league? You know it. I love useless junk, and the tackier the better.

And happily, one of the area leaders of Useless Promotional Gifts is our very company, which fills me with warm fuzzies just thinking about it. I recall once we gave away Dispatch/Argus/Leader promotional BANDAGE HOLDERS. How genius is that! I mean, I've occasionally associated work with pain, but I didn't know we could actually CELEBRATE it. And now, much to my excitement, we've topped ourselves.

You see, we're kicking off a new campaign here at the papers, and to get all of us excited about it, we had a little employee shindig last week where we officially raised the bar when it comes to Useless Promotional Gifts. That's right, I'm now the proud owner of a commemorative promotional Dispatch/Argus/Leader/ADextra/QCOnline MAGIC 8-BALL!

Because, really, what says "building company pride" quite like an orb of dark magic that foretells the future? Potential heresies aside, though, not only does this Magic 8-Ball build my company pride, it also writes this column for me! That's right, now that I'm in possession of this great power, as a public service to you, I present... THE FUTURE!

Q: Straight to the nitty-gritty - who's gonna win, Hare or Zinga?
MAGIC 8-BALL SAYS: "So it shall be." Crud, that's right. I can only ask yes-no questions. Looks like we have to wait 'til election day.

Q: Okay, then. Will Davenport ever do away with the traffic cameras?
MAGIC 8-BALL SAYS: "Very likely." Yeah! We're on a roll now, might as well risk it all.

Q: Will Katie Holmes ever leave that dorkus Tom Cruise?
MAGIC 8-BALL SAYS: "You can count on it." Magic 8-Ball, you and I are going to be good friends.

Q: Will she then fall for moi?
MAGIC 8-BALL SAYS: "Cannot foretell now." That's okay, I'm sure it's an eventual yes.

Q: Will Earth eventually be overrun by a race of hyper-intelligent, poncho-clad bananas from Neptune, enslaving all of humanity with a cunning combination of telekenesis and strategically placed peels?
MAGIC 8-BALL SAYS: "Definitely yes."

Well, there ya go. Can't win 'em all, I guess. Have fun being mind-melted by plantains with poor fashion taste. Me, I'll be off pursuing Katie. But hey, look on the bright side -- at least when you're fleeing in terror from your potassium-laden destiny, feel free to speed all you want in Davenport.

COLUMN: Negative Ads

My favorite source for the news of the day has got to be newspapers. This may or may not have something to do with the fact that I work for one. It may or may not also involve my editors stringing me from my toes if I were to say something different. Regardless, I think we do a pretty good job bringing you the top stories of the day.

Or so I thought.

See, I've been watching a lot of TV lately. After all, it IS the new fall season, and as much as I love our newspaper, it doesn't routinely feature Evangeline Lilly, or Jenna Fischer, or any of America's Next Top Models...

Or that one girl on "Heroes" who I'd like to mention but know that even though she's been photographed partying with Paris Hilton, in reality she's only 17 and ergo that would be WRONG, Shane. Very, very wrong.

Anyways, thanks to my sad obsession with hot TV celebrities, I learned about a new threat we all must fear. And it's a threat our newspaper sadly seems to overlook. It turns out that there are two very, very dangerous men roaming about the Iowa countryside. And If it wasn't for a helpful barrage of non-stop TV ads, I never would have known about this threat to our way of life.

Funnily enough, both of these apparant harbingers of doom are running for Congress.

NOTHING on Earth so efficiently drives me crazy quite like negative campaign ads -- and this election year, we're setting a new precedent for the things. I'm referring in particular to the race for Iowa's 1st District between Mike Whalen and Bruce Braley.

I should barely care about this race. I don't live in Iowa; these guys don't represent ME. No offense, but the only thing I care about when it comes to Iowa politics is making sure someone's there to tell future viable Presidential candidates that it's not the best idea to yell "Wheeeeargh!" when making their Iowa concession speeches.

Yet, night after night, I have to suffer through the mindless back and forth mudslinging going on by these guys and the random PAC's that support them. I have yet to hear an ad that talks about which candidate is GOOD for Iowa. I only know why they're both BAD. The respective arguments of these ads go something like this:

• Mike Whalen has a whole lot of money. This is apparently a bad thing, as guys with lots of money are apparently greedy and evil. Frankly, I think the fact that Whalen built a restaurant empire out of nothing speaks to his initiative. And hey, Whalen's Heart of America owns Johnny's Italian Steakhouse, and have you guys tried the Filet Trio over there? Anybody responsible for THAT foodgasm going into my mouth is an okay guy in my book.

• Braley, meanwhile, has "been labelled a 'peace candidate' by the Communist Party!" First off, doesn't it take a crowd to have a "party"? Isn't it more like the Communist Brunch these days? No offense to you aspiring socialists out there, but isn't today's Communist Party nothing more than a few overly-idealistic college kids and that same guy who runs for President every 4 years? Who cares who the Communist Party sorta-endorses? And, Commies aside, what's so wrong with being a "peace candidate"? Would you rather be the "Warmonger candidate?"

Is this what today's politics has come to? Hoping that controversial groups DON'T support you? What's next? In two more years, what will we be seeing? "Hi, my name is Larry. I'm a convicted pedophile and arsonist, and I'm here to tell you that Jim Schtick is my choice for Congress. Yes, on behalf of all the arsonistic pedophiles nationwide, I can safely say that Jim Schtick is our man! (Paid for by the League of People Who Think Jim Schtick is a Doodiehead.)"

How about trying something different, folks? How about telling us who TO vote for, rather than who NOT to vote for? Campaigns should be about the issues and concerns of constituents. In fairness, both candidates' websites address and answer these negative ads, but still, this campaign has managed to turn "blue vs. red" into the Greenbacks vs. the Red Menace. It's all pretty silly, but then again, I've never claimed politics weren't funny.

I'm just waiting for one of the OTHER guys in the hunt for that Congressional seat to run an ad claiming that a newspaper column has just linked both Whalen AND Braley to arson and pedophiles. Then my editors probably WILL string me from my toes. And then, heck, nobody wins.

COLUMN: Renaissance

Ooh, you picked a good week to read my column. That's right, lucky reader, this week you get to gain valuable behind-the-scenes insight. People often ask me (between autographs, of course) how I choose a column topic each week.

Truth be told, it's a highly scientific process involving two important steps:

(1) I sit around for a week, and
(2) Hope that something dumb and funny happens.

This is a proven method for success (I'm just a magnet for stupidity.) Every once in a while, though, the clock starts ticking and the stupid stuff just doesn't happen. Last week, in fact, I went five whole days without anything idiotic going on around me. I was starting to sweat. Would I have nothing to write about this week? Then my prayers were answered:

A renaissance fair was a-comin' to town. The gods were on my side.

After all, what could be funnier than a pack of grown adults putting on fake suits of armor and fake fighting each other with fake swords until one of them fake dies? It's Instant Comedy: Just Add Dorks. This is the humor columnist's Mecca.

Now, no offense to you Renaissance Fair-loving folks. To each their own, I say, and if your idea of fun is wearing tights, using the word "m'lady" as a pickup line, and chugging a mug of Schlitz -- sorry, I mean, MEAD -- then hey, more power to ya.

Me? I'm ENOUGH of a nerd as is -- I don't need to display it publically. Frankly, I believe God created puberty for a reason, and that reason is to give us an exact timeframe in which to pack up our Dungeons & Dragons modules. As difficult as it was to accept back in 8th grade, I had to come to grips with the harsh truth that most girls don't actually care that you're a 12th Level Paladin who successfully defeated the dread Troll King of G'narloff Spire.

So I was pumped. Granted, I didn't want to go on an all-out assault against the Renaissance masses. After all, these people are kindred spirits - we nerds can smell our own. I like my video games and my computer, and yes, I spend my days posting on "Lost" message boards and the like. I'm a dork through-and-through, so I wasn't going to devote an entire column ridiculing the Renaissance folk.

Still, I could poke fun a little, right? Right?

That was the exact moment when technology decided to declare war on me. Let's recap:

• A taillight goes out on my car. Which is courteously pointed out to me by a police officer and a written warning.

• I get home to find my air conditioner going "KA-CHUNK! KA-CHUNK!" I'm no expert, but I'm guessing that's not good.

• My universal remote control goes out -- but that's okay, because so did the TV in my bedroom.

• To top it all off, I turn on my computer to do pre-work on this column... to find out it's hosed. My primary hard drive is toast, along with all of my software and about 175 GB of music for my weekend DJ gig.

Look, I know that random bad things happen from time to time. But never like this. Never all at once. I'd like to play a video game, but I'm afraid to touch any more technology. I'm living in fear of my toaster exploding. This is no mere run of bad luck. Nope, this must be MAGICK.

My guess is an Elf Mage, with a Hex of Mechanical Failure +2, and I missed my saving throw. I thought I could make fun of the Renaissance Fair without harm, but NAY! A seer must have gazed into a mystic crystal to become learned of my plot, and hence crafted a stealth attack to thwart the scribing of thine column.

Thy moral of thy story: Mock ye not the Renaissance Fair, lest ye be cursed. Oh, and if ye happenth to possess a 250GB Western Digital hardeth drive, thou art encouraged to send it hastily my way.

Vengeance, however, is mine. My column may have been thwarted, but I was happy to turn on the news last night and see live coverage from the Renaissance Fair. In the foreground, medieval dorks were frolicking about as you'd expect. But in the background? Cars whizzing by, one of which was clearly blaring a diddy from that minstrel bard of yore, Sir Snoop of Dogg.

STOP THE PRESSES! I can't even make a Snoop Dogg joke without the wrath of the Renaissance warriors! I woke up the morning after writing this column to find my car dead in the parking lot. Won't turn over, won't move. I have mocked the Renaissance Fair and its denizens for the last time. You are all wonderful, powerful human beings and I beseech you to leave me and my technology alone. I shall ne'er speak ill of you again. Just remember: when I call you "dorks," it's with the utmost respect.

COLUMN: Plane-o-phobia

0114420880933852. When your caller ID shows THAT, you pick up the phone. That HAS to be an important call. Or at least an interesting one.

I was hoping it was Harmony, my friend who's spending half a year in Beijing. Instead, it was the voice of an old friend with an interesting proposition.

It was, in fact, the ex-wife of my old college roommate. After their strangely amicable divorce, Kari had followed her dream -- oh, who are we kidding, she followed MY dream -- and moved to England to become a music writer. While we still sent the occasional e-mail, our communications had slowed over the years and the miles, so it was fantastic to hear her voice.

It turns out that her boyfriend of a couple years, a Welshman named Maughan (which, disappointingly, does NOT rhyme with "noggin,") popped the question -- they're getting hitched in February. Not only was Kari calling to tell me the great news, she was calling to see if I'd DJ the wedding.

IN LONDON. On the Tower Bridge, no less.

Wow. I've always wanted to go to England. Between the history, the culture, and the nightlife, it's my dream vacation, honestly. And to get to show off my DJ skills to an entirely different country? That's pretty cool. Plus Kari's in the music business, so the guest list at this little shindig might be pretty impressive. I want to do it. I want to do it BAD.

There's just ONE problem. England is, most decidedly, difficult to drive to.

When I was a kid, our family flew down to Disney World. I don't remember much about the flight, I just remember thinking how cool it was to be in an airplane.

Flash forward some 20 years, and the paper decides to send me out to a conference in Boulder, Colorado. Awesome! I hadn't been on a plane in FOREVER, and to be handed a free trip to Colorado for a week? Shoot, sign me up!

I got to the airport one excited globetrotter. Ticket in hand, I proceeded through the terminal with a spring in my step. Then I boarded the plane.

"That's funny," I thought to myself, "this sure seems small." When I was a kid, I remembered planes being huge on the inside. You know, like the planes you see in the movies. THIS plane, on the other hand, was a winged school bus. It was kinda dirty. It smelled a little funky. People were crammed in like sardines. Then we pulled down the runway.

Ten seconds after liftoff, I thought I was dying. I could see my heartbeat as my shirt fluttered faster and faster. My knuckles were white as snow. Breath came shallow. "Swell," I said to myself, "You really ARE a weenie."

Turns out I have a horrific fear of flying. It was news to me, honestly. I thought flying would be fun. Then I looked DOWN and saw clouds, and about saw my breakfast on my lap. Far below the clouds was Earth, a patchwork of fields and colors... and all I could do was wonder which one of those little squares would be the softest to crash-land in.

We arrived in St. Louis and I barely had time to make my connecting flight to Colorado. By now, I was noticably shaking. The last thing I wanted to do was go up AGAIN -- but then again, being stuck in St. Louis and having to tell my boss that I was too afwaid of da big bad pwane didn't sound like a better fate. So I sucked it up and boarded the connecting flight. And who of course sits down next to me but THE HOTTEST GIRL THAT HAS EVER LIVED.

This was fate. This was karma. This girl was my soulmate. Or at least she was until I reached for the barf bag. Try as hard as I could, there was NO way to be cool. I had to fess up to her that I was terrified, and she did her best to placate me the rest of the way. Air travel is for the deranged and fearless. I am a rational human being, and rational human beings accept that people aren't expected to float at 40,000 feet in the air.

Yeah, I know, cars are far deadlier. But, at least in a car, MY hands are on the wheel. My fate is LITERALLY in my hands. In a plane, my fate is in Capt. Doug's hands. Or Al the engine mechanic. Or Phil the shoe bomber. Too many variables, people, that's all I'm saying.

So instead I've been doing a lot of pacing. I really want to go to England come February, I really do. But can I do it without tossing my Transatlantic cookies? Maybe they can knock me out just like Mr. T in the A-Team and presto, I'm in London. My friends say I should do it, and that movies and music can distract me. Well, unless that movie is "Harry Potter & the Plane That Always Lands Safely," I'm still gonna be a basket case. I've got a couple weeks to decide, and until then, I keep repeating Kari's mantra to me:

"British chicks dig guys with American accents."

COLUMN: Bedbugs

Okay, so we've all watched shows like "Dateline NBC" and "48 Hours." As a result, we all know that every item in our household is, in fact, a ticking time bomb of danger that could, quite suddenly and without warning, kill us painfully. We all know that every square foot of our kitchens can be put under a microscope to reveal a world of parasites, bacteria, and legions of micro-ickies that could, quite suddenly and without warning, kill us painfully. We all know that every guy who uses the internet, is, in fact, a child predator who could, quite suddenly and without warning, gross us out bigtime.

Not even our own publications are immune to a touch of sensationalism now and again. Thanks squarely to articles in our papers, I am now completely afraid to go outside in the summer. Once upon a time, I lived a blissful life of ignorance -- before discovering that every innocent mosquito buzzing about is, in fact, a carrier of deadly West Nile whatzit that could, quite suddenly and without warning, make me act like a ninny anytime I hear buzzing around my ear.

Now, thanks to four articles that we've run in our papers thus far in 2006, we can welcome a new addition to my closet of paranoid fears and neuroses. Scoot aside, identity theft. Make way, tainted spinach. Don't crowd, contagious anthrax. Say howdy to our newest paranoid fear: THE BEDBUG!

Prior to this year, I didn't even know there WERE such things as bedbugs. I thought it was just a little nursery rhyme fun: "Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite!" Little did I know this phrase was less happy ode and more fearful prayer. Turns out that bedbugs are quite real, and the little suckers are supposedly making a comeback. Once upon a time, the bedbug menace barely existed thanks to our insecticide buddy, DDT. But, wouldn't ya know, it turned out that DDT can, quite suddenly and without warning, kill us painfully. Sigh. So bye-bye, DDT; hello, bedbugs.

Great. Like I had an easy time going to sleep in the first place. Now I get to lay there and feel phantom bedbugs crawling all over me, causing me at least once a night to leap out of bed, pull the covers back, and REALLY tick off my cats.

Good news, though! The last article I saw said that if you suspect that your home might have bedbugs, "Don't panic!" In fact, all you have to do is look for tell-tale "tiny blood spatters on your sheets!" Neat!

Let me ask you this: If finding tiny blood spatters on your sheets is NOT a good time to panic, WHEN EXACTLY IS? Frankly, any type of living situation that requires one to routinely check for your life essence leaking onto your bedsheets is, decidedly, a panic-able situation in my book. Plus, my sheets are black. When I was shopping for bedding, the ability to see things-that-go-suck-in-the-night wasn't exactly a priority.

And every article basically says the same thing: if you've got bedbugs, it's pretty much game over. The little vampires hide in mattresses and wood cracks and fabric and then wait til you're asleep before coming out to the blood buffet. You can't kill them unless you can find them, and you pretty much can't find them no matter how hard you look. To the bedbug, we're a human Ponderosa, and it apparantly doesn't matter if you slather yourself in Deep Beds Off.

"Do your research!" the article instructs. "Talk to (or hire) a professional pest-control worker." Do my research? Do my research WHERE? 'Cause let me tell you, the day I wake up and see tiny blood spatters on my sheets is the last day I wake up in THAT apartment. And I won't be happy with a pest-control worker, no siree. I would need the entire Orkin Army showing up en masse with enough ammo to suddenly and without warning kill every bedbug painfully within a radius of five square miles.

So, hurrah! Bedbugs are real, and it is our duty as media-watching citizens to be very, very afraid. So what's next? What other seemingly fictitious evils are next in line to spring into reality? Let me guess -- there really ARE boogeymen living in our closets? The Grinch really MIGHT steal Christmas? Eggs & ham might suddenly turn green? If that's the case, let me be the first to go on record: I would be afraid in a box. I would be afraid with a fox. I don't want bedbugs in my house, I freak out enough when I see a mouse. I do not like this paranoid fear, and I wish that it would
disappear.

COLUMN: Cowboys

It's times like this -- the creative, laid-back moments when I sit down to write each week's column -- that my thoughts naturally turn toward one thing: world domination.

I've made no secrets of my eventual goal to conquer and rule you all with my cold, iron heart and rapier wit, so it shouldn't come as a shock to you. The only real shock is in how stinkin' long it seems to be taking. Frankly, I was kind of hoping that you readers would have all become my Horde of Evil Minions by now. I don't get what the hold-up is.

Regardless, it WILL someday happen. So in my position as the future ruler of all mankind, mankind often asks me, "Gee, Shane, if you could change ONE thing in the world, what would it be?"

Hmmm. Would I fix the political climate of the Middle East? Well, I suppose. (I actually have a plan for this. It's a work in progress, but it starts by kicking EVERYONE out of Israel and turning the whole area into a global state park. No one owns it, no one lays claim to it, but everybody can visit as long as you play nice. Park closes at dusk. Camping with permit only.)

Maybe I'd fix global warming. (Again, a solid plan exists, involving the 7-11 Corp. and a Slushee machine the size of Greenland. Soon, Al Gore will have his icebergs back, and this time they'll be a delightful cherry flavor!)

But these issues, critical as they may be, are on the backburner. Because, first and foremost, if I ran the world, I'd need to change one thing straight away -- an issue that has plagued our fragile world for far too long.

I'm speaking, of course, about guys who dress like cowboys.

This month I've been to a fair share of weddings, birthdays and formal dinners. (One of my female co-workers tells me this is because "autumn is the new spring!" I am extraordinarily happy to NOT know what that means.) At every one of these functions, without fail, there's some dude dressed up like a cowboy.

You know the look. Big ol' cowboy hat, a bolo tie (usually in torquoise,) shiny leather boots, and a button-up shirt that has at least a 60 percent chance of incorporating some element of the American flag. This fancy get-up is supposed to blend right into the normal, sane world of suits and dresses. It is supposed to be formal wear. It is in no way, shape, or form supposed to be what it truly is: a poorly timed Halloween costume.

Why is this "cowboyism" socially acceptable? Are there any other occupations that I can play dress-up and go out in public as? Could I show up at a wedding dressed as a pirate? Wander into the Outing Club in a crisp set of medical scrubs? Yet, bizarrely, I can show up in a 10-gallon hat and expect to not get laughed onto the first stagecoach outta Dodge.

Do these people not own mirrors?

The way I see it, there are TWO acceptable scenarios for showing up at a formal party dressed up like Roy Rogers:

1. You are paid to entertain children with lasso tricks and balloon animals.

2. There is an emergency situation at the party involving cattle that need to, in some form or another, be wrangled. Nothing ruins a good wedding reception quite like a stampede. If, as a seasoned and professional cowboy, you sense at least a 75 percent chance of bovine interruption in what otherwise would be a pleasant soiree, then -- and ONLY then -- should you be allowed to step into crisis mode and don the appropriate cattle-handling wardrobe.

Look, I'm no expert in the ways of the cowboy. However, I have seen my fair share of Westerns, so let me tell you one universal truth I've picked up about the cowboy way: Cowboys are, as a general rule, quite dirty people.

The cowboys I'm familiar with have no time to freshly iron their shirts. They don't have the means to glue shiny stuff onto their belt buckles in the shape of Texas. The cowboys I remember don't do brunch. They're a tad bit too busy having gunfights, hitching horses, and taking care of an assortment of "no-good varmints." They are covered in dust and mud, and they most likely smell of horses. What's scary is that there must be a surplus of guys out there who think this is COOL.

This, friends, is the crisis I would handle if I ruled the world.

Hmmm. But honestly, do I want to rule a world that deems it socially acceptable to emulate Brooks and/or Dunn in public settings? Do I want evil minions capable of performing the Boot-Scootin' Boogie?

As much as it hurts my achy-breaky heart, perhaps I need a rethink. Or at least a dress code next time I throw a shindig.