COLUMN: Dreams

As the owner of a fairly uneventful and boring life, it's good to have a sub-conscious that keeps things interesting.

I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis. There are some seriously accredited psychologist types out there convinced that dreams can be the key to unlocking one's hidden innermost thoughts and desires. Of course, in order to accomplish said unlocking, you usually need to buy the seriously accredited and seriously overpriced book that can tell you, without hesitation, that the dream you had last week about the giant killer platypus is, actually, a sign that you dwell on your emotions too much.

Think I'm kidding? That really IS what dreaming of a platypus is supposed to mean. I looked it up on the Web. Me, I can barely think of what a platypus LOOKS like, let alone cast one in a starring role in my midnight hallucinations. Like I said, I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis, because it's one of the silliest and most pointless sciences out there.

The same website that tells us of the emotion-dwelling platypus also shares that dreaming of mashed potatoes is simply your subconscious expressing concern over financial matters. Me, I just thought it was my subconscious getting hungry. Apparantly not. Truth be told, I hit that website up because I need answers to the recurring dream I'VE been having for the last week:

In this dream, I still live in my apartment, except it now has a second bedroom, and I find myself with a fictional roommate named Tony. In some of the dreams, Tony is a guy; in others, Tony is a girl. But Tony is always named Tony, and weirder still, Tony is always a contestant on my least favorite TV show EVER, "Dancing With The Stars."

I accompany Tony to a taping of the show, and all goes well until Tony realizes that he/she has left the required costume at home, and I am sent on an errand to retrieve it. And invariably, when I re-enter the apartment, John Ratzenberger is stealing my TV.

Yes, THAT John Ratzenerger -- Cliffy from "Cheers" and one of the stars of this season's "Dancing With the Stars." Stealing my TV. This begs several questions, among them:

• Why John Ratzenberger?

• Doesn't he have a TV of his own?

• If he's ON "Dancing With the Stars," and if I've just left a taping of the show, shouldn't he be there?

• What HAVE I been eating before bed, and isn't it time to stop it?

But those questions can wait, because now I have a robbery to foil. As I enter the apartment and startle John Ratzenberger, he, naturally, drops the TV and engages me in melee combat.

You might have seen John Ratzenberger on "Cheers" or doing the cha-cha on "Dancing With the Stars," but what you might not know is that, at least in MY dreams, he's also quite adept at hand-to-hand combat -- and proceeds to mercilessly pummel me until I invariably wake up in a cold sweat. The end. Analyze THAT.

The first time I had this dream, I laughed. A lot. The SECOND time I had this dream, I was less amused. By the THIRD time, I was questioning my sanity. However, it must be said that my subconscious DOES like to even the odds a little bit. In the third dream, I once again catch him stealing the TV, and he once again rushes at me. HOWEVER this time, I calmly reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of NUNCHUCKS -- as though it's perfectly natural for me to wander around at all times with ninja weaponry in my pockets -- and we proceed to beat EACH OTHER mercilessly until I wake up.

Now, my extensive background training in martial arts consists of exactly: one day in college, when my friend and I decided it would be good fun to waste a gym credit on a Tae Kwon Do class. Or maybe it was Kuk Sool Won. Truth is, it was so long ago, it could have been anything, but from what I recall, it was really called Intro to Vomit 101. We showed up on the first day of class after an ill-advised long night at the frat house. All I remember is the instructor making us do a flip of some kind, me landing Homer Simpson-style (Tae-Kwon-D'oh!), and I was outta there within 5 minutes.

Yet this five minutes of ninja training was enough to at least give Cliff Clavin a taste of his own medicine in my dream, so there's something to be said for those 5 minutes, apparantly. I can now defend myself against subconscious evil-doers.

The whole thing scares me a bit, though. Mostly in the realization that part of my subconscious is SO impacted by "Dancing With the Stars" -- THE worst show on television since the one where people battled each other with giant Q-Tips -- that it's now invading my dreams. If you've got ANY clue how to analyze this one, I'm all ears. Personally, I'm hoping this column will exorcise this dream from my inner psyche. If not, your faithful columnist may seek professional help.

Sucks to be Imus

I never thought I'd feel bad for Don Imus.

If you've been under a rock, here's the story thus far: The other day, Don Imus, one of the true legends of syndicated radio, whose show is not just aired nationwide but also broadcast on MSNBC TV every morning, made a colossal screw up.

During a riff while he and his sportscaster were talking about the Rutgers-Tennessee women's basketball final, Imus was trying to make a point about how -- well, heck, let's just say it -- how butch & bad-a** the Rutgers team looked compared to the more, err, lady-like Tennessee Lady Vols. Imus picked the wrong words to use.

"Those are some nappy-headed ho's."

Famous last words, indeed. LAST words because Imus is presently being crucified by every African-American rights group on planet Earth. LAST words because Imus just got suspended for 2 weeks.

And -- I can't believe I'm saying this, because I really, really, REALLY can't stand Imus -- but I'm taking his side on this one.

I'm taking his side not in saying that there was nothing wrong with his choice of words, because there certainly WAS. There are some things that we pigmentally-challenged of the world simply can't say -- the "n" word obviously being the Big Bad Daddy of them all -- and calling ANYONE "nappy-headed", let alone an innocent girl's basketball team, is pretty offensive.

But now you've got Al Sharpton demanding that Imus be fired for his blatantly racist attack... and that's a joke.

Folks, Imus wasn't being racist, and he wasn't making an attack, other than making fun of how macho and athletic the Rutgers team was. The problem, I think, is simply that Imus is an old, out-of-touch dude.

He was trying to be cute on the air. You could tell. He was trying to adapt street lingo in order to seem a little bit cooler when talking about basketball.

It was a case of simple ignorance, not unlike something I saw on TV the other day. It was the story of some black student who took great offense when one of his white teachers called him THE N-WORD. Whoa. Big no-no on that guy's part.

But then they let the teacher on to defend himself. And this teacher proceeded to attempt to explain that he didn't say the dreaded N-word... but instead said the word "nigga," which the teacher took to be a common colloquialization of less offense, used in the same context as I would if I were to call you "dude" or "brother."

Of course, the teacher looked even more and more like a jackass every time he used the "nigga" variant on the show - it was one of the most cringe-worthy things I had ever seen.

But the point is: the teacher really didn't think he was doing anything wrong. Not because he was racist -- a dictionary doesn't make you racist -- but because he was so chronically un-hip that he didn't even register the offensive context of the word.

Deplorable? Heck yes. Stupid? Arguably. But RACIST? Naw.

I've never understood racism. Not even slightly. And I'm HORRIBLY aghast and offended when a white person within earshot cracks a racist joke. But... at the same time... I'm equally offended when Al Sharpton and his cronies assume that every white guy on the planet is out to oppress the black race.

Mr. Imus works in radio. Radio requires you to think on your feet, and think fast. For years and years, Imus has existed on the air without offending anyone more than your token shock-jock does. But now, after one poor vocabulary choice, you're demanding that his career be ruined? RIDICULOUS.

Look, I feel for Imus. I was once kinda sorta in his shoes. No, I've never said anything (to my knowledge) that someone took to be racist. But one time, I DID speak before thinking on the radio.

It was back in Galesburg, when I used to work for a Top 40 station, Q-93. It was a Saturday morning, the 4th of July in fact. The year prior, Galesburg's 4th of July celebrations were marred by the death of a girl. I can't remember now what even happened - if she drowned or was murdered or her body washed up onshore or what - but it was a Big News Story the year before.

So a year later, I'm on the air and riffing with our morning news girl. "How's your 4th of July, Shane?" she asked.

"Pretty good," I said, "so far, nobody's dead for a change."

Which is probably quite innocent for someone like Imus or Howard Stern. And I thought then (and still do today) that it was kinda funny. But in a small town like Galesburg, and on a cheezy Top 40 station that pretty much everybody in town listened to, it's probably not best to make a flippant comment about tragedy.

The news girl did her job and quickly got us off-topic, and never said anything to me about it. When I got home, my mom (who had been listening) asked if I still had a job. Until that moment, I didn't even realize that what I'd said might have offended some people.

Happily, no one ever said a THING to me about it. I bet my bosses were dead asleep - it WAS a Saturday and it was like 8 a.m. But -- as hokey and innocent as it sounds -- I bet if my bosses WERE listening, or if anyone had called in and complained, I might HAVE been fired.

The point is this: it's easy to slip up and say the wrong thing in radio. And once it's out there, it's out there. It's not like my column where I can hit the backspace key and no one realizes what an idiot I really AM.

Imus wasn't trying to be racist. He was trying to be cool. He failed miserably at both. But he shouldn't be fired, and I bet even ol' Al Sharpton believes that, too. But Sharpton will use ANY vehicle to bring the black struggle to the headlines, and it doesn't matter how many innocents are left in his wake.

You know who I'm starting to gain a newfound respect for? WHITE RAPPERS. Seriously. Imagine how tough it must be for dudes like Paul Wall & Bubba Sparxxx who have to do raps -- a lot of them freestyle and off the top of their heads -- that appeal to black culture WITHOUT accidentally slipping up and offending somebody. Honestly, in this crazy P.C. world, it's gotta be tough.

It's one thing to be racist, and altogether another thing to SCREW UP ROYALLY and say something stupid. THAT'S Imus' crime. Don't slaughter the guy for it. He's apologizing left and right. We need to forgive him and move on.

COLUMN: Stiff Neck

My life has sadly turned into a routine: Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat until dead.

Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. Sometimes I squeeze "play with cats" or "defeat alien menace on PS3" in there. I'm becoming a tad over-complacent with reality lately. I need to spice things up a bit. Kick caution to the wind. Do the Dew.

I decided to start this little rebellious phase with an interesting proposition: What would happen if I were to accidentally fall asleep NOT on the bed (no, no -- beds are for boring, normal people), but instead accidentally fall asleep on my couch with my head tilted at approximately a 90 degree angle to the rest of my body?

Answer: Nothing good.

Yes, it's always a true joy when your first conscious thought of the day is "OW!" I'm pretty sure that while I was asleep, a team of highly skilled ninjas had broken into my apartment and tied every muscle in my neck into a Windsor knot.

You would think that a smart brain would have the sense to wake itself up in the middle of the night and go, "Umm, hey, just so you know, you're doing some serious damage to your neck laying like this." My brain? Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Until, that is, I woke up with the mobility of a statue.

Now, I've had stiff necks in the past, but this one was epic. I tried my usual Shane-tested method: pop a couple Advil and get under a hot shower. But an hour later, I was at work and still stiff as a board, and a painful board at that. I begged a massage out of one of my co-workers, but somehow that just made it worse. I had no choice but to shift into Phase 2 of my coping mechanism:

WHINE. Incessantly. All day long. "Wow, does my neck hurt!" "I'm not kidding, my neck sure does hurt!" "Necks are WEIRD, aren't they?" "Ow!"

By the end of the day, I could at least take comfort in knowing that I wasn't the only one who had to work all day with a pain in the neck. Yet as much as my co-workers wanted to kill me, they also offered a slew of advice. It went a little like this:

"Put ice on it!" "No, use heat!" "No, use ice!" "Heat!" "Ice!" "Less filling!" "Tastes great!"

I wanted an answer, so I called one of those nurse helplines to solve the heat/cold dilemma. "You could try either way and see what works best," the nurse said. Hrm, helpful. Of course, she DID add to the fun of the afternoon by reminding me that stiff necks are often an early sign of meningitis. Now THERE'S something to tell a neurotic like me. Within an hour, I was pretty sure I was developing both sensitivity to light and lockjaw. Were it not for the sanity of my co-workers, I would have talked my way into meningitis within an hour.

Instead, one of my co-workers said the words I knew were coming but dreaded to hear regardless:

"You should go see a chiro."

Gulp. I've gotta be honest on this one, folks: Chiropractors scare the bejeebies out of me.

And yes, I realize that them's fightin' words in the ol' QCA. Chiropractic medicine was INVENTED here, and if you don't believe me, you can drive to downtown Davenport and see the sign on the sidewalk commemorating the spot of the world's first chiropractic adjustment. I know what a fantastic legacy ol' Doc Palmer brought to Davenport, but whenever I see that sign, I can't help but envision a cloak-clad Doc Palmer sneaking up on some hapless pedestrian on that street corner, grabbing them from the back, and -- CRACK! -- science is born.

Thanks to Palmer College, every third person roaming the Quad City streets is a licensed chiropractor. And before each one of you writes in to chew me out, let me be clear: I believe in chiropractic medicine. I really do. I just also happen to believe that it's not for me.

There's just something a little barbaric about the whole process. I don't care if there are X-rays and textbooks and years of science to support it -- at the end of the day, it's still someone grabbing your spine and going CRACK. Well, no thanks. It's just a tad too violent for me. I get nauseous when I accidentally crack a knuckle; if my whole back got popped, it'd be last train to Pukesville for THIS wussyboy.

But the stiff neck I had last week made me finally walk through the doors of the chiro across the street from work. And he was nice, and he understood my terror. He told me what to do (ice, not heat.) He sold me a bottle of Biofreeze, which is basically menthol at a heavenly nuclear dosage. He showed me exercises to do. And he didn't try to sneak up behind me and crack my back, not even once.

Within a couple days, I could move my neck. Within a week, the pain was gone. Finally I could get back to what I do best: Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Things That Make Me A Happy Shane

(1) You know it's my pick for the funniest place on Earth: TACO BELL. Once again, the Bell never fails to make me smile, visit after visit. I just noticed tonight when I breezed thru for some tacos that the poor folks working the drive-thru aren't just employees... they aren't crew members... they aren't Sandwich Artists... According to the name-tag on the dude working the drive-thru tonight, they are...

FOOD CHAMPIONS!

That's right, I was waited on tonight by DOUG, FOOD CHAMPION.

I wanna be a champion of food!

Taco Bell, I don't wanna make fun of you incessantly because I love your tacos. But you just make it sooooo darn easy.

(2) If anybody's in the neighborhood of the Mother Hubbard's Cupboard on 18th Ave. in Rock Island over by Longview Park, check out the front counter. They're now selling stylish DO-RAGS at the counter. Classy, eh? But it gets better. When you think do-rags, you usually think: Gangsta. Thug. Rebel. Dangerous. If I was running Acme Do-Rag Inc., I'd probably try and capitalize on that theme for marketing purposes, right? At least to a tactful degree. Well then, explain to me WHY the do-rags on sale at MoHu's come with the picture they do on the cover. I can't... words just can't describe it, you've gotta stop in and see it for yourself. But the dude on the front of the package looks like... ummm... he's really excited because tickets for Cher just went on sale. Or perhaps he's auditioning for La Cage Aux Falles. It is, without doubt, THE most inappropriate picture imaginable to sell do-rags to wayward Rock Islanders. You've just got to see it.

ADDENDUM: In fact, here it is:

It makes me want to write a musical, "I've Got a Spanky New Du-Rag!"

No column this week.

Heya guys... just wanted to let ya know in case you were missing my incredibly down-trodden face in the paper this week... I took this weekend off from the column for a battery recharge. In the past 2 weeks I've had to deal with a nasty cold, a crippling stiff neck, and the passing of my grandmother, so it's been a bit hairy lately. Don't worry, tho -- I'll be back next week, and if anything amusing happens between now & then, I'll post it here...

COLUMN: Concert Idiots

For once, it was a news story I could really get into. Last weekend, singer-songwriter John Prine played a show at the Adler that was marred by violence. In the crowd, a guy was watching the gig when, from the row behind him, a female fan began singing along to the concert. After allegedly confronting the fan, he then did the unthinkable: he allegedly socked her in her alleged eye. And now he's in alleged trouble bigtime.

The public response, via our newspaper's blog and elsewhere, was swift and shameful. But nowhere in the public outcry was the true villain of the story exposed: John Prine. That's right, if we can blame suicides on the music of Judas Priest and school shootings on Marilyn Manson, then let me be the first to claim the obvious truth that JOHN PRINE DRIVES PEOPLE TO VIOLENCE.

Don't believe me? Have a gander at some of John Prine's twisted, evil lyrics: "Father forgive us for what we must do, you forgive us, we'll forgive you, we'll forgive each other 'til we both turn blue, then we'll just whistle and go fishing in heaven." I ask you, Quad Cities, is that the folk-like whimsy of a gentle bard or the ramblings of a lunatic hell-bent on anarchic savagery??

Eh? Oh -- it IS folk-like whimsy, sorry. Okay, so maybe John Prine's not at fault (though, sorry John Prine fans: If I were trapped at one of his concerts, I'd likely want to hurt somebody, too.) And yes, violence is perfectly unacceptable unless you're in a ring and we're paying you to be violent. And hitting a woman is unspeakably awful and a horrific crime. But I've gotta be honest with you guys on this one: While this guy's actions were reprehensible, I can kinda sorta understand the emotions at play.

I'm a huge music nerd. As such, I've been to hundreds and hundreds of concerts. And in this capacity as a self-proclaimed expert, I can thusly share with you Shane's Theory of Concert Relativity: For every amount of love I hold for whoever's on stage, there will be an equal and opposite hatred for someone in the crowd making an arse of themselves.

Look around you now: odds are good that someone in your field of vision right now holds a secret identity of a Concert Idiot. They might look mild-mannered now, but they're just 3 adult beverages and 1 funky bassline away from irritating anyone within a 20' radius. Odds are good they'll fall into one of these categories:

• THE AMERICAN IDOL AUDITIONER: To them, it's not a concert, it's just one big ol' karaoke jam session with some other guy hogging the mic. No worries, they can freakishly sing louder than the P.A. system. And usually straight in your ear. Who cares if the words are right, just as long as everything they sing is as off-key as possible.

• THE DRUNKEN FRAT-BOY: You could be listening to the gutteral chants of Tibetan monks, and there he'll be, precariously holding at least 3 of the World's Fullest Beers while high-fiving his buddies and occasionally yelling out "Freebird!" (despite the fact that he's at least 10 years too young to even know what "freebird" means, other than maybe it's something like "Free Tibet.")

• THE HIPPIE DANCER: Again, you could be at ANY show, even a symphony orchestra -- but if there's a drummer involved, somewhere in the crowd is a girl in a sundress who may or may be not be named Moonchild willing to jump into the aisle and do a shuffle that's part Chief Illiniwek, part astral projection, completely nowhere on beat, and an elbow that WILL make direct contact with one of your kidneys by night's end.

• THE CLOSE, PERSONAL FRIEND OF THE BAND: You're in the front row of a packed concert. Onstage is a musician deep in the middle of a heart-felt song. Why, what better time to attempt small talk? "Duuuuuuuude," they will shout to the stage, "Yooou rooooock!" Or, to show that they are, in fact, the band's #1 fan, they will use the greatest weapon in their arsenal: Yelling out the band member's first names as though they have developed a close relationship with the artist somewhere between lights-out and the first encore.

True story: Once I went to a show by the Welsh band Super Furry Animals. You've never heard of them, but you should.

(In fact, here's one of their videos:)

Anyways, we were positioned in the front row at the guitarist's feet when suddenly, the mild-mannered kid next to me starts idiotically screaming what sounds like, "Shawwwn! Shawwwn! Shawwwn!" to no avail.

"Dude, why won't he look at me?" he asked the air.

"Because," I explained in my brain, "in Welsh, the name C-I-A-N is pronounced 'Key-an.'" But it was okay, I let the idiot keep on yelling out a random name to a rather befuddled Welshman.

Moral of the story is: Concert Idiots need to be thwarted at all costs. Well, not via the public shame and disgraceful lunacy of socking someone -- especially a girl -- in the eye. Still, though, the evil part of me -- heck, the ROCK N ROLL part of me -- relishes the fact that, despite this guy's awful and inane actions, maybe more than one person learned a lesson that night.

New Stuff, Bad Stuff, Good Stuff

Tonight was an interesting evening in Pop Culture Land.

(1) The debut of "Andy Barker, P.I." on NBC. What could be better than a show not just exec produced but also WRITTEN by Conan O'Brien AND starring former Conan sidekick Andy Richter? Well, pretty much ANYTHING. What a HUUUUUUGE disappointment, especially since I'd been hearing good buzz about the show. But everything was formulaic, the jokes were super thin, and the potential is baaaad. After the show, the exec producers did a live blog on the NBC website -- and when I stopped by, it was comment after comment about how awful the show was. I'm not a huuuge fan of "30 Rock," but this show makes me miss it.

(2) The debut of the new Jeff Goldblum show on NBC. What could be more irritating than Jeff Goldblum -- perhaps the hammiest actor on the planet -- as a detective who hallucinates conversations with murder victims? Well, pretty much ANYTHING. I was NOT expecting this show to be good. Hell, I wasn't even expecting to WATCH it. But it came on after the Richter thing... I was bored... and by the second commercial break, I was captivated. GREAT writing, MILES better than I had expected. Future episodes might be suckfests, but I'm intrigued enough to keep watchin'.

(3) Phil Hare on Colbert. I knew there was a reason I voted for the guy. Classy move, a fun and funny distraction, and it's good to know at least one local politico isn't above making fun of himself a little bit.

(4) If you want to see something TRULY brilliant, check out the videos on this page: http://www.watchme.tv/search/?tg=3267. When one of my favorite bands, Of Montreal, played Chicago almost a decade ago, they brought with them a band "assigned" to open for them on a recent Japanese tour. That band was ELEKIBASS. And that night, Elekibass stole the show out from under Of Montreal. Imagine a cross between "Sgt. Pepper"-era Beatles and the soundtrack of the Muppet Movie, all performed by a Japanese band with a VERY thin grasp of the English language who had never stepped foot on American soil before. Between every song, the band would pull out cameras, take pics of the crowd, and yell things like, "We Elekibass LOVE you to rock!" In short, it was one of the most brilliant things I'd ever seen. And, while Elekibass remain virtual unknowns in the States AND in Japan, I've followed their career with interest (or as much interest as you can develop while trying to surf Japanese websites.) When the band mounted a small U.S. tour on their own a few years ago, I was instrumental in bringing them to Ribco... and while the crowd that night was thin, people STILL come up and tell me how much fun they had that night.

Anyways, this past month, almost a decade after it first happened, Of Montreal brought Elekibass back over from Japan to open for a few shows in the Deep South. And this time, Elekibass came over with video cameras in tow and filmed a boatload of short movies of performances & life on the road. It's one of the coolest things I've seen in a loooong while and perfectly captures what made me fall in love with the group... http://www.watchme.tv/search/?tg=3267 to get to their videos (and yes, the site's in Japanese, just start clickin' on the thumbnails and you'll figure it out.)

COLUMN: The Ice Storm

Diary of An Ice Storm

Once Upon A Not-So-Distant Saturday:

Noon-ish: Yawn, it's too early. I'm going back to bed.

1-ish: That's better. Our trusty weatherguys have called for an 80% chance of the end of the world today, but so far it looks alright. Well, it's sleeting a little, but hey, sleet's just rain having a bad day. I'm a macho dude. It can sleet all it wants.

2-ish: The alien menace proves to be no challenge for me and my carpal-tunnel-hindered wrists of fury. It's a good afternoon on the X-Box. I wish I could play all day, but I've got a trivia night fundraiser to dominate tonight.

3-ish: I don't have a trivia night fundraiser to dominate tonight. It's been cancelled due to the weather. That's funny, everything just looks a little wet outside. Those over-reacting weenies. Now I need to find something to do until I have to DJ at the club later tonight.

4-ish: I don't have to DJ at the club later tonight. It's been cancelled, too. Maybe I need to take a look-see outside.

4:15-ish: I take a step outside... and promptly fall down. It's icy out. REAL icy. The kind of icy you only see in comic books where some nefarious supervillain has a machine that controls the weather. Sadly, I see no Superman. I'm starting to be VERY glad that I've got a frozen pizza in my fridge.

4:45-ish: I'm even happier now that the frozen pizza is out of the fridge and in my belly. The TV says that basically anything going on anywhere has been cancelled. And the cancellation scrawl is ruining my otherwise hi-def picture. Sheesh. The news is talking about people losing power. I crank my heat up to max in case it happens here.

5:30-ish: I'm sooooo bored. Can I get out and go anywhere? I walk/skate out to my apartment's steep uphill Driveway o' Doom. There's no way anyone's getting up it. And I'm not risking my neck going down it.

6:00-ish: I call up friend Jason. "Sure, man, come on over. The driveway? It'll be fiiine."

6:30-ish: It is not fine. Jason calls from his cellphone. From his car. From my driveway. Which he is now sideways on. I walk/skate out to help. I help by getting into the passenger seat and laughing uproariously when we ditch the car over and over again.

7:00-ish: We give up and park Jason's car 3 blocks away and hike back to my apartment complex. Whew. At least I won't be bored tonight. I've got a friend over and a video game aching to be played. Life is sweet. Time for a little

BZZZF!

7:01-ish. It is dark. Real dark. Someone asks if I've got any candles. I sure hope it's Jason.

8-ish. Milton Bradley describes the game of Rack-o as "keen competition for 2-4 players." As Jason and I struggle to play via candlelight, it doesn't seem so keen.

9-ish. Jason asks that I not write a newspaper column about two macho single guys spending a Saturday night playing Rack-o by candlelight. I tell him not to worry, I wouldn't dream of it.

10-ish. Jason leaves. More specifically, Jason leaves me in the dark. And boooored. Strangely, it's not much different than playing Rack-o.

10:01-ish. REEEEEEALY bored. And really quiet. I can hear my cats breathing.

11:30-ish. Bored enough to watch the entire third season of "The Office" on my miraculously fully-charged iPod, it turns out. The upstairs neighbors are celebrating the blackout by -- whoa, Shane, it's a family newspaper -- jumping up and down on their bed really fast over and over again. Ha ha, those silly neighbors and their jumping!

Midnight-ish. I return from navigating to the bathroom to find my cat. More specifically, to find my cat ON FIRE. Apparantly, she thought that the three molten candles on the table might want to be her friends. She was wrong, and now has the scorch marks on her side to prove it. She's fine, but the whole place smells of burnt cat.

1:00-ish. How did human beings survive without power? No TV... no internet... no surround sound stereo. My life has no meaning. I fear I may be losing my mind.

2:00-ish. All dark and no light makes shane a dull boy. All dark and no light makes Shane a dull boy. All dark and no light makes Shane a dull...

8:00-ish-a.m. Happily I must have fallen asleep before I could go into a murderous rampage. Unhappily, I'm still without power, and now its cold in here. Grr. And brr. Grr-brr.

Noon-ish. Enough's enough. I pick up the phone and call the power company. Some dude named Tim answers. Tim does NOT sound well. Tim sounds like he's about 3 calls away from going postal. Tim tells me he has no idea how long it'll be, then reads me some corporate-written speech about work crews doing the best they can yada yada. I feel bad for Tim. Rather than thanking him, I instead compliment him on doing a good job under pressure. Tim brightens up. I may have just saved the lives of countless call center employees.

My power eventually came back on Sunday night just in time for the Oscars. And yeah, I know that a lot of other people had it MUCH worse than I did, so I'm grateful for only being powerless for a day. I guess I just didn't know how literal the word "powerless" would be.

I Loves A Good Headline

So was I the only one who thought something different when I saw THIS headline on QCOnline today?

B&B moving into former Milan Hy-Vee

I would TOTALLY go to a bed & breakfast that was once a Hy-Vee.

COLUMN: Illiniwek

Yay! I did it! I think, for the very first time EVER, one of my columns made the "most commented story" over the weekend on QCOnline. And it was a column that came with a heck of a fight...

See, I've got a size limit that I have to work within every week. Many of the full-time writers get the benefit of using software at work wherein you type in your story, hit a button, and -- presto -- it tells you the exact # of column inches your piece is taking up. Well, for somebody like me who simply writes on the side, I don't have the privilege of knowing my column's size in inches while I'm writing it -- but I do know to aim for around 800 words, and that usually gets me in the neighborhood.

Problem is, I don't have any software at home that counts words. I don't use Microsoft Word at home -- I use the crappy word processor on Microsoft Works (I realize Works is antiquated, but years ago I started my music inventory on a Works database, so when I got my new computer a couple years back, I opted for Works over Word in order to NOT re-do my music inventory!)

Anyways, sorry to babble. Point is, I have NO way of judging my column length other than simply eyeballing it every week. And sometimes, when I get on a roll, my eyeballing sucks and I wax poetic for paragraphs on end.

THAT'S why I somehow managed to go almost 200 words over my limit this week. Add to that concerns by some editors that my column might unintentionally offend, and... long story short... my column got munched by the copy editors this week.

Which is why I love this blog... because I can give you the column here the way it was intended: long -- and maybe unintentionally offensive. Regardless, enjoy......

When I was DJ'ing parties back in the post-college daze, I used to play a song called "Killing in the Name Of" by the band Rage Against the Machine. Rage was a fairly earnest band, so the song was probably about some random heart-breaking socio-political cause of the moment.

Sadly, we didn't learn about a cause, because thanks to the band's excruciatingly indescipherable delivery, all we ever heard was, "Shout-y! Angry yell-y shout-y! Screeeeeam!"

Until, that is, the last minute of the song. That's when you could understand ONE line -- "F*** you! I won't do what you tell me!" -- which repeats over and over again at the song's conclusion. This was the inevitable cue for even the most middle-class, non-threatening, trouble-free dudes in the bar to suddenly start high-fiving strangers, pouncing around angrily, and screaming along as though it were the most essential act of rebellion in their entire lives.

Me? I'd just sit in the DJ booth and laugh. "I won't do what you tell me!" Who's supposed to be the 'you'? The girlfriend? Mommy and daddy? Your boss at the pizza joint? Why the angst, Rebel Rebel? What are you raging against? Curfew? Was Kwik Shop out of Diet Coke?

I have ALWAYS found humor in people getting unnecessarily riled up... and that's why this has been a banner week for me.

What's been getting people in a needless tizzy these days? Iraq? Nope. Global warming? No, sir. It's not even bald Britney or the many daddies of Dannilynn. No, the thing that's been taking front page in our news lately, the item that's caused mild-mannered couch potatos to stand up and scream heresy... is some kid named Dan.

Dan lost his job the other day... and it seems like half the world is up in arms over it. Now, I won't pretend that it isn't sad when someone becomes unemployed. It's a bummer. But it shouldn't be the sort of thing to cause literally HUNDREDS of comments on our newspaper blog. But Dan's different.

You see, it was Dan's job to paint his face and dance around at U of I games. You might know Dan as the last Chief Illiniwek.

I don't get the big deal about the university's decision to oblige the NCAA's request to do away with the mascot. To me, it's just common sense. Native Americans and others have taken offense to the college's use of a Native mascot, and I can't blame 'em.

People opposed to the Chief throw around words like racism and hatred. I'm not opening that can of worms. But just imagine it like this:

Let's say that the Galesburg Silver Streaks suddenly decided to change their name to the Galesburg Fightin' Rock Islanders. And they had a mascot who came out at halftime dressed in a John Deere outfit and danced around with a Harris Pizza in one hand and Whitey's ice cream in the other. Would you get slightly miffed at the stereotype? I would (even though I often do the pizza-n-ice-cream dance in the privacy of my kitchen.)

"But Shane," you say, "Chief Illiniwek celebrates the Native American culture! Our man Dan had to study with elders to replicate the historical war dance of the Illini!"

So what. It comes down to perception. Sure, there might be some people watching the game going, "Wow, what a respectful tradition." But let's be honest -- there's probably a lot MORE people watching the game going, "Hehehe. Lookit the funny Injun dancin'!" And that's just patentedly offensive.

Yet when Chief Illiniwek came out and did his last dance the other day, cameras showed people WEEPING in the stands. WEEPING. I don't get it. It's a MASCOT. I thought the mascot's official job was to annoy the crowd so much that they forget how many irritating delays there are in a game. And maybe, if you're lucky, you'll get a free t-shirt out of the deal.

Besides, mascots should be cute and fuzzy and kid-appropriate. No offense, Chief Illiniwek, but if I were a little kid at an Illini game, you would CREEP ME OUT with your stern face and your war dance. I guess I've just never paid appreciation towards the mascot. I've been too busy, umm, watching the game.

I'll admit it -- it's always a sticky situation when it comes to being politically correct. No matter what you do, there's likely to be someone out there who gets offended by it. If you came out with a hamster for a mascot, there'd be some offended guy whose great-great-grandpappy was tragically killed by a pack of roving hamsters. Heck, my column last week was an innocuous little piece on Valentine's Day and I had a guy send me an e-mail calling me a... storage device for a feminine hygiene product. To each their own offenses, I guess.

So I say if U of I is THAT peeved about losing their cherished yet offensive mascot, here's what they should do. I propose that NEXT year they roll out their NEW mascot: Bob the Non-Threatening Politically Correct Amorphous Grey Blob.

Literally roll him out at halftime, dump him at center court, and let him just sit there and maybe hop once or twice. Then just roll him off again, with maybe a photo op for the kiddies or some miniature souvenir amorphous grey blobs to take home. Let's see someone get offended by THAT.

In the meantime, I hope we as a people can move on. I hope the Native Americans can take a little more pride in our great state college. I hope the fans of Chief Illiniwek can come to terms with the reality of the situation. I hope Dan finds a new job. And most of all, I hope the Illini can survive March Madness in the post-Dee Brown era.

Random Thoughts

It's moments like this when I come home from the DJ gig in the wee hours o' the morn that random stuff pops thru my head... and hey, what's a blog good for if not random thoughts?

That said...

(1) RIP to the Coffee Artist Cafe in downtown Moline, who announced their closing earlier tonight on Myspace. I've known Mona for a few years, and she's one of the most earnest people out there. They made a heck of a go at it, and the place will be sorely missed. They're carrying on as a catering service and mobile coffee bar, so if anyone's in need, I encourage you to look 'em up.

(2) Republican bloggers (and I know you're out there) -- can YOU guys even stand Ann Coulter? I've long subscribed to the notion that she is, in fact, the Antichrist... but even for her, MAN did she ever cross the line the other day when she inferred John Edwards to be a "faggot" (her words, not mine) at a speech that was carried on C-Span. Talk about a low class bigot. She's first against the wall when the revolution comes.

(3) SECOND against the wall will be the Evangelicals responsible for "Jesus Camp." I finally watched the much-discussed documentary last night... and it's absolutely stomach-turning. What they're doing isn't empowering, it isn't teaching, it isn't guiding... it's BRAINWASHING, pure and simple. They shouldn't just be ashamed for what they're doing to these kids, they should be JAILED. I'm all for freedom of religion -- and even if I don't buy in to your particular belief system, I RESPECT it -- but when you're taking kids not yet old enough to think for themselves and ingraining them SO heavily with fear and blind righteousness instead of spirituality and choice, you're just SICK. Go watch the movie yourselves and tell me that you don't sit there open-mouthed in horror.

(4) For those of you that ARE religious, do me a favor and say a little prayer today for my grandma down in Florida, whose 101 years of living life to the fullest are finally catching up to her. It's not lookin' so good at the moment... but I can find peace in the knowledge that, until just days ago, the woman lived on her own, walked daily, and did things at 100 that I probably won't be able to at 50. How did she celebrate her 100th birthday? Hanging out with dolphins at Sea World. That's pretty cool.

(5) Stranger Than Fiction is one of the best movies I've seen in a loooong time. After finally catching it on DVD this week, it simply made me feel awful that I didn't see it when it was in theatres. It's a truly inspirational flick.

And now to what should prove to be nightmarishly awful 4 a.m. channel flipping. Have a great weekend, all.

Screw Safety, I Want My MTV (or something)

Okay, so here's the most shallow beef I've had in a loooooooong time.

So we all know the weather's not been the hottest lately, right? Ice is everywhere, rivers are flooding, people are displaced, without power, cold, etc. I know and respect folks' plights, really, I do.

THAT SAID...

The most annoying thing in the world is trying to watch hi-def TV during all this. Why? Because every time I'm sitting there, watching my 1080 pixels of greatness, that's when the local TV channels will decide to run some random weather warning or cancellation scroll across the screen... and when that happens -- WHAM! -- the picture drops down to lo-def.

And sometimes it STAYS that way for a looong time, even after the scroll disappears, until maybe some hapless board operator looks down and goes, "Oh s***!" and hits the hi-def button.

Sorry for the completely selfish rant. But I'm really irritated right now -- I'm trying to get my weekly "Lost" mojo on and, thanks to something flooding on US 150 right now, the picture keeps going lo-def, hi-def, lo-def, hi-def.

Like everyone in Illinois, I can't wait til good weather arrives. Like no one else, I can't wait because I'll finally be able to watch TV in peace.

COLUMN: Funny Valentine

"Romance Ain't Easy," the song goes. And now I've got proof. I've (gulp) met a girl. And, of course, since fate hates me, it couldn't have happened at a worse possible time.

A mutual friend had been trying to set the two of us up for ages, but me being the world class chicken that I am, I balked at every opportunity. Finally my friend had enough of me hemming and hawing around, so she brought this girl down to the club I spin at. And you know what? She's great. She jumped into the DJ booth and requested the Dave Clark Five. I mean, how cool is THAT? She's funny, she's cute, AND a fellow music nerd to boot.

Only one small problem: By the time I finally met her, she had already moved to Chicago and was just back in town visiting. Worse yet, she was literally hours away from moving again... this time to CHINA, where she had an amazing opportunity to teach for half a year. This wasn't just bad timing, Fate was Ashton Kutcher and I was getting Punk'd.

So basically we've spent the past 6 months e-flirting and running through phone cards like mad. Last month, she finally got back to Chicago, and we're just taking it slow and seeing what happens. Neither one of us is in the market for a white picket fence or china patterns. She's got a life, I've got a life, and we're okay with that. All I know is that when our schedules jive and we DO get to hang out, we have a GREAT time together, and what else can a person ask for?

Well, Fate, I'll tell you what else I can ask for: that all of this DIDN'T go down in February, because nothing can wreck a fledling pseudo-relationship quite like the happy nightmare of Valentine's Day.

So what does one DO in a scenario like this? I didn't want to ignore the holiday completely, but this was a hairy situation. I mean, red roses would be COMPLETELY out of the question, right? Roses say, "Yo, baby, I loves you" in a deep Barry White voice kinda way. Roses say commitment. Roses say relationship. I needed something that said, "Hey, I kinda dig you and stuff."

Ergo, I opted for tulips. Not exactly a brainstorm, but a fairly respectable flower nonetheless. In fairness, I won't say WHICH floral delivery website I went to, but let's just pretend they're called something like, oh, Freaking Terrible Deliveries. And, in the sake of saving ink, let's just abbreviate it to FTD.com.

Everything went smooth at first. I found a nice arrangement and placed the order. Then? Nothing. The website froze. No denial, no confirmation, just... nothing. Swell.

Finally, I reset my computer and tried it again. Same thing happened. Their website locked up my browser with no explanation and no flowers. I went to bed and vowed to try it again the next day.

The next morning was Valentine's Eve. I fell out of bed, stumbled to my computer, and opened my e-mail.

"Your order has been confirmed."
"Your order has been confirmed."
"Your order has been confirmed."
"Your order has been confirmed."

FOUR? Noooooooo! One order says I'm a caring and cool dude. FOUR orders says "Howdy, I'm Shane, I'll be your psycho for the afternoon! Please be my creepy Valentine!" This couldn't happen. I had to call right away and cancel the duplicate orders.

"Thanks for calling FTD," the recording said. "Due to the unusually busy time of the year, no one is available to assist you. Please try your call later." Click.

WHAT? It's the busiest week of the year for floral delivery, so let's respond by GIVING UP? You don't hire more staff? Are all of the Happy Valentines of the world dependent on a haggard woman named Glenda, running one switchboard for the entire shebang?

I e-mailed FTD's customer service department with a plea. I was greeted with an auto-reply telling me that they'd take happily care of my problem... within 48 hours. So... that was it, then. It was a fun and flirtateous romp while it lasted, but this girl was hours away from Attack of the Room-o'-Tulips and I was on the fast train to Dumpsville. She might even be ALLERGIC to tulips for all I knew!

I had no options but to wait, teeth clenched, through Valentine's morning. Then I got an e-mail: "You got me flowers?!?!"

I had to do it. I called her up: "Flowers! They're so pretty! Thank you so much!"

"No problem," I said. "Umm, hey, just out of curiosity, how many flowers did I get you?"

Turns out that the folks at FTD.com must have gotten my desperation e-mail, as only ONE order showed up. Still, I had to come clean and make the awkward explanation, "Sooo... if you happen to get any, umm, MORE flowers today, it's, uh, NOT because I'm crazy, 'kay?"

Once I told the story, happily she laughed about it. She's got a great laugh. And as long as its still fun, we're gonna keep flirting away. So you know what, Fate, I WON this round. Sure, you're gonna come back next week and destroy my life as per usual, but this time, I kicked your butt. Maybe romance is easier than I thought, or maybe I just owe Fate a favor.

What kind of backwards reality are we in...

When Al Gore just got off the funniest bit of the night on the Oscars?

His candidacy-announcement-being-cut-off-by-Oscar-music schtick was hammy but had me crying with laughter.

I swear, I'd vote for the guy (AGAIN) if he ran. I've even still got my Gore/Lieberman water bottle (unopened, mind you) from their downtown Moline appearance. But, just for the record, I still hate Tipper.

COLUMN: Grammy

Bush is a big ol' doodiehead. Don't worry -- I'll explain that later. Put it aside for now, because this story begins not with a bang or a shockingly controversial statement, but instead with a simple revelation:

There are People... and then there are People Like Me.

Let's take the last two weeks for instance. You're probably a normal person, right? And as a normal person, odds are pretty good that you may have had some dough riding on the Super Bowl. And by "dough," of course, in no way, shape, or form am I referring to or condoning unlicensed, off-track cash wagering, as that would be illegal, naughty, and most inappropriate within the confines of a family newspaper. I'm instead referring to, umm, baked goods.

And hey, there's nothing wrong with a little good-natured cookie trading among friends, I say. And if you happen to be the sort of person who likes to sportingly swap cookies with your fellow fan, there's a good chance that the Bears made you toss your cookies somewhere around the 2nd quarter.

I, on the other hand, lost no cookies to the Bears. Or the Colts. Because I am not a normal person. I had no baked goods riding on the Super Bowl -- yet I just lost pretty much the entire Keebler Forest to Justin Timberlake.

Some people bet on the Super Bowl. I bet on the Grammy Awards. As I see it, that makes me pretty weird.

Every year, my friend Kerry hosts a Grammy party. The invite list is small and about as nerd-centric as you can get. Record store owners and employees, a few musicians, and some area journalists. We sit, we eat chili, we make crass jokes about Shakira and Lionel Richie. We laugh at the pitiful decisions of the Academy, and invariably each of us makes at least one ill-timed speech about "who shoulda won if the world had a clue." For a tried and true music geek like myself, it is nothing shy of Nerd-vana.

And of course, there is the friendly transfer of the aforementioned dough. Each of us fills out a ballot with every category, ponies up some dough, and whoever correctly picks the most winners beforehand gets the whole cookie pot. Many a Grammy party have I attended; never a pot have I taken home. But this was to be MY year.

Actually, no -- it was Justin Timberlake's year. I picked Justin to win nearly every category. Not because I like his music, which I don't. I picked Justin because you couldn't turn on a TV or radio this year without hearing the dude. Plus he DID bring sexy back, and that's gotta mean something, right? Right?

Wrong. No, my hopes and dreams for cookie pot domination were thwarted this year... by the Dixie Chicks. Grrr. That stupid band seemed to win every stupid award of the night. And why? Because of their talent? Their fantastic, critically acclaimed new album? Umm, folks, I didn't even know that the Dixie Chicks RELEASED an album this year. No, there was but one reason for the Dixie Chicks to win a truckload of Grammies:

REDEMPTION. Surely you know the story. The Dixie Chicks were country's hottest ticket, until the eve of the Iraqi conflict, when chief Chick Natalie Maines opened her mouth and spouted off against the war and President Bush. Faster than you can say "Yee-Haw," the red states mobilized. Songs were banned, records were burned, tours were re-routed. It was all but career suicide.

Lesser bands might have split under the pressure; the Dixie Chicks persevered with a new record, newfound respect, and now a boatload of Grammys for their trouble. But, in the humble opinion of THIS amateur musicologist, they were Grammys earned NOT by talent, but by their ability to stare adversity in the face and overcome it.

That's when it hit me. If the Dixie Chicks can stir up controversy and take home a pocketful of Grammys, I should be able to do the same thing and score at least a Pulitzer, eh? Hence my doodiehead comment above. It's a smart and calculated attempt to shock, awe, and become a Very Respected Journalist Dude. Any minute now. It's coming. Wait for it.

Hmm. Nothing so far. There must be a problem. The Dixie Chicks spoke out against the war at a controversial time. Now that it's been going on for a spell, and now that polls show a countrywide frustration with the lack of progress, going anti-war just isn't shocking enough. I'll leave politics to the more qualified. I guess I take it back: Bush isn't a big doodiehead. He's just, like, a medium one.

But I'm not giving up on my theory of making a shocking comment and taking it to the bank. I mean, those awards could fetch a pretty penny on eBay, no? I just have to find something more shocking to say than a left-wing take on Iraq. Hmm... hmmm...

Oh! Got it. Ready? Sitting down? Helloooo, Pulitzer:

Rex Grossman is an American hero, a fine quarterback, and one of the most cherished players in the game. Now please don't hit me. Send the awards to the usual address. Send the hate mail to Justin Timberlake.

COLUMN: Beetle

"Why do you drive a girly car?"

That's a sentence that sure gets the testosterone pumping, eh? Yes, nothing fills a guy with male pride quite like a complete stranger threatening their masculinity. But that's the very question I fielded at the gas station the other day.

It didn't floor me that a stranger came up and asked a question -- I'm used to getting questions about my car, such as: "What kind of engine's that thing got?" (Answer: A 4-cylinder. Beyond that, I'm clueless.) "Are you squished in there?" (Answer: In fact, it's the roomiest car I've ever had.) And, of course, the question that'll give it away: "Is the engine still in the back?" (Answer: Nope.)

That's right, I drive a New Beetle. Anybody wanna take a potshot or two? Call me a sissy? The floor is yours.

Actually, no, it's not. This is MY column, and around here, my car's still pretty cool. There was a time, in fact, when I had the coolest car on the block. Mine was one of the first five Bugs in town, and was quite the headturner when I went cruising around.

Only one problem -- I didn't so much know how to drive it at the time.

Back in 1998, my last car was hanging on by a thread. There was a reason we called it The ATE (All Terrain Escort.) In the hands of me and my friends, that car had taken some serious abuse. Snow drifts, corn fields, muddy roads -- it was less a car and more a very under-performing tractor. By the summer of '98, it had a cracked head gasket, a rusty frame, and a trunk full of Kool Aid that had spilled some 4 years prior. (Mr. Science fact: After 4 years, Kool-Aid turns black. And gummy.)

Anyways, it was time to buy a new car. So I did what you're supposed to. I compared models, shopped around, test drove, did my research, and then picked the car with the coolest TV ads. And I don't care what you say -- Beetles are sharp, awesome little cars.

So I went to Williams VW and got on the waiting list. Weeks passed. So many weeks, in fact, that Williams got bought out by Lujack's somewhere in the process. This was, of course, the perfect cue for my Escort to bite the dust, leaving me carless and yearning.

In the interim, my dad loaned me his work vehicle -- a 1976 Chevy Blazer. It ruled. Especially the parts of the car held together by pop rivets. What remained was a rusty home for wayward mice bravely masquerading as a vehicle. I called it "Slim Goodcar," because it, like its 1970's namesake, was see-through. "Ohhhh. So THAT'S how a car works!" Normally you can't see due to all that pesky, umm, CAR in the way. With the Blazer, the rusted-out holes provided a nifty education in auto mechanics. Well, that and it had a sweet 8-track player AND the "Best of Foghat."

Needless to say, I was in crisis mode. I needed a new car fast. That's when Lujack's called. I had ordered a black automatic. Weeeeell, there was still going to be a wait on that... BUT a white stick shift had shown up. Was I interested?

Well, let's see. Sounds great, but just one problem... I'd never driven a clutch before in my life.

"No problem," said my salesguy. "I'll teach you."

So I did it. My dream of a black automatic Beetle turned into the reality of a white 5-speed. And my salesman was true to his word. He spent two hours with me in a loaner car teaching me how to drive stick. And he did a great job.

I, on the other hand, sucked. Imagine me, cruising down the block in my fancy new car. Heads are spinning everywhere I go. Then, like the stud I am, I pull up to the intersection and eye the girlies in the car next to me. "Hey ladies," my eyes would say, "Check out my sweet --

KA-THUD THUD!

That would be Me the Stud, killing the car in the middle of the intersection and trying desperately to get in back in gear while half the Quad Cities drives by pointing and laughing. I was a FAST learner, because that kind of embarassment goes deep. Well, that and I preferred to have my new car with its clutch not on FIRE at the end of the day, thanks.

Anyways, when I got the car, it made my head swell with VW pride, and that balloon hadn't really burst until Random Guy and his "girlie car" comment. I hadn't ever really thought about it much, so I began an independent study.

Every time I passed another Beetle, I checked. And wouldn't you know it, every single other Beetle driver that you see in the QC these days is a woman. How did this happen? How did my sweet, sweet ride become a chickmobile? That's completely unfair stereotyping.

But you know what? I don't care. I still like my car, even if it DOES have an in-dash flower vase. The gloves are off. I'm planting the flag and I'm taking back the Beetle for all mankind. Not womankind. Well, you can have the pink ones, I guess. But I'm still driving my Bug with pride, and probably will until it joins the Escort in car heaven. Then I can find myself a truly macho car. In fact, I've been hearing good things about these Mini-Coopers...

Insight, Foresight, The Clock on the Wall Reads 3 Hours Past Midnite...

Okay. I'm bored. It's, like, 3:30 in the morning and I just got home from DJing to a near-empty club thanks to (a) snow-zilla, and (b) Augie finals next week. I'm not quite ready for bed yet, so mebbe it's time to use this blog AS a blog and just do a stream of consciousness post.

FIRST OFF... Why, why, WHY am I fascinated by celebrity? I should be above it. And I'm not saying that like I'm ego-boy columnist or something. I'm saying that I (hopefully) have a brain in my head... and that should mean that I should care less about Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Donald Trump, etc. Right? Wrong.

For some reason, I'm drawn to the gossip. I honestly think this stems from my childhood. My mom harbors the same bizarre fetish. My grandmother harbored it, too -- that's why every week, she went out and bought the Enquirer, Star, Weekly World News, etc. And after my grandma was done with 'em, my mom -- not wanting to be embarassed in a checkout lane -- would heist them back to our house. And when Mom got through with 'em? You guessed it -- straight to my bedroom.

This, I hope, is the reason why part of my daily ritual involves quick stops at TMZ.com and PerezHilton.com, two of the most voracious gossip sites on the internet.

So the subject of much concern in the world of celebrity gossip these days has been our girl Britney Spears. Since the "tragic" split with the K-Fed, our Brit's been keeping herself busy accidentally exposing her nether-regions in drunken hazes across America. Friends are publically calling for an intervention. The gossip rags are tired of putting her pics up 12 times a day. And even I have to wonder about the well-being of her two rather young kids.

And today was an exceptionally exciting day in Britney-Land. First came the word that Britney had checked into an undisclosed rehab facility (rumored to be the Caribbean facility founded by Eric Clapton.)

Then came the scandalous report that Brit had checked herself in, but ALSO checked herself out within 24 hours and headed home to Los Angeles. THEN came official denials of the whole sordid affair from the Spears publicity machine.

Well, tonight I get home and hit Matt Drudge's website (I'm a liberal, which means I should hate DrudgeReport.com -- but I'll be honest, it's the best way to get ALL the news headlines in a glance -- you've just got to weed through the conservative slant of it all.)

Anyways, I get home tonight and check Drudge. And what's the top news story? Iraq? The presidential race? Maybe even some Anna Nicole fodder? Nope.

Top story is Britney.... BALD.

That's right. Britney showed up at a tattoo parlor in Los Angeles tonight... bald as Telly Savales.

This will certainly NOT help her cred right now. Britney needs to have a serious sit-down with her Image Control Staff (and only someone like Britney likely actually HAS these sorts of people in her employ.)

I don't know how the next few days in Britney gossip-land are going to play out, but it's going to be interesting and quite likely scandalous and ugly. And I'm secretly excited about getting to see it all go down.

That said... here's my weird confession:

I think Bald Britney looks pretty hot. No, I don't know why.

I'm definitely an oddball, that's a given. And sure, I listen to some eclectic music and grew up surrounded by the kids they used to call "corn chips" -- big hair and/or no hair, punk rock, body-pierced, Cure-obsessed alterna-youth -- but I'm not the kind of guy who goes for freaky looking girls just because they're freaky looking. In fact, I'm kinda put off by girls with enormo tattoos and such.

I've never thought baldness on a girl was hot BEFORE this. Sinead O'Connor? Never did a thing for me. Natalie Portman, when she went bald for that one movie, looked downright yucky to me.
Britney, on the other hand? I dig the bald. I might be the only person on Earth who's gonna say that -- and that's okay, because that might be the ONLY way for Britney to even know I exist. Just suffice to say, toots -- I'm here for ya.

And here IS my apartment, which is the best part about tonight. I made it home.

I love the locale of my apartment, I really do. It's 2 minutes from the District, it's 7 minutes from the Dispatch office, I've got fast food options galore within blocks, it's my little slice of Rock Island Heaven. With only one problem:

The short driveway to my parking lot shoots uphill at about a 45 degree angle. This means that, if there's more than a couple inches of snow on the ground and the plows haven't come yet, I'm not getting home. And if I can't make it up the driveway, the nearest place to park is about 2.5 blocks away and a long walk down a snowy sidewalk to my place.

Happily, tonight's snow has been a lot more fluff than substance. Even though we definitely got a few inches, its the kind of snow that you can plow through fairly easily -- even in a Beetle. So I made it up the driveway tonight -- albeit losing half of the rubber from my tires in the process, coz I was spinning all over the place trying to get traction.

I'm coming to terms with the fact that I really don't like winter much. I mean, a nice snowfall is super picturesque and all, but it's the icy aftermath that I really despise. I have absolutely no coordination -- I learned to walk before I learned how to crawl. Some scientific minds think that kids who do this inadvertently stunt their coordination. I think it's more to do with the fact that I spent my formative years NOT outdoors playing football or shooting hoops, but rather indoors fighting ninjas, demon warriors, and large space-rock-weapons that yell "I am SiniStar!" before crushing you to death.

Anyways, as a result of me being a klutz, all I have to do is walk NEAR ice in order to perform a Three-Stooges-esque pratfall at least once a year. I have yet to make my painful pratfall this year, so every day is like sheer terror as I walk on ice just waiting to biff it.

But tonight I'm home. And right now, I need my couch and my cats and some horrifically bad 3:30 a.m. television. Have a great weekend, all -- even YOU, Bald Britney.

AHEM! Your attention please...

Sorry, that's not "The Complacency Chronicles." It's "THE AWARD-WINNING COMPLACENCY CHRONICLES," as voters in the River Cities' Reader annual Best of the Quad Cities poll voted us #2 Best Local Blog of 2006. World domination gets one step closer...

In all seriousness, though, if you took the time to vote for my blog, I'm humbled and grateful. Thanks, all. And, of course, if something should happen to The Air Strange (this year's winner), The Complacency Chronicles vows to wear the crown and complete all duties of Miss Best Local Blog 2006.

COLUMN: Fake Pee

Technology has caused me to devolve.

Ever since I got my hi-def TV at Christmas, I've become part of the furniture. All I want to do is sit... and stare. Outside my window, people whizz by. People with lives. People with an agenda. My agenda consists of making sure I don't lose the remote control within the cushions of my sofa.

I'm not a couch potato. I'm a couch rock. Potatoes have potential. They can grow into potato trees, or bushes, or whatever they do. I wouldn't know - the Home & Garden Network isn't available in hi-def yet. Which brings me to my one complaint about this captivating world of modern television:

The selection. As a good Mediacom junkie, I've got digital cable with all the 20-kajillion channels. But once you've had a taste of the good stuff - all 1080 pixels of hi-definition greatness - digital cable becomes child's play. The problem is, there are only TEN hi-definition channels to choose from. The 4 networks, ESPN, HBO, and some other random stuff. Mostly stuff I could care less about. But in hi-def, even the boring stuff is awfully pretty, which is why I keep on sitting and keep on staring.

And I'm getting smarter, too. See, one of the hi-def channels offered in town is Discovery HD. Finally, an excuse to become cultured! No more roller derbies or "Pants-Off Dance-Off" for me. Yes, thanks to Discovery HD and the knowledge that pours out of that channel, I'll soon be the hit at wine-tasting parties. I'll be the one providing the droll anecdotes at the Outing Club. I will become... learned. (The TWO-syllable kind of learned. Lear-ned. Fancy.)

With that ambition in mind, my friend Jason and I sat down the other night for a little high culture and historical analysis courtesy Discovery HD. The show? Well, I forget the title, but it was something akin to, "The 100 Most Awesomely Brilliant Scientific Discoveries of All Time, Ever."

This was it. The exact moment my sophistication would begin. I sat and pondered during the opening commercial. What would I soon be learning? What knowledge would this show impart on me? With what could I wow the folks at the water cooler tomorrow? The possibilities were limitless. The 100 greatest discoveries of all time? Nuclear fission! The theory of relativity! The wheel! I was at the edge of my educational seat.

Then the first discovery was unveiled. A scientific marvel beyond words. A discovery that would rock the foundations of our world. An advance in science that would certainly help out mankind... or at help fans of the Grateful Dead procure gainful employment for years to come.

That's right -- we tuned in just in time for the great scientific discovery of... synthetic urea. No joke. And in case you're slow, urea is a nice way of saying, umm, the letter after O. Stop giggling, this is science.

Stunningly, it turns out that in a lab back in the year 18-whenever, a scientist created synthetic, umm, urine. Even more stunningly, this is considered one of the 100 Most Awesomely Brilliant Scientific Discoveries of All Time, Ever. Apparantly it was the first time that a naturally existing substance had been created by Man. Call me crazy, but I'm a man, and all I need to create it is a tall glass of water and about an hour. But that's beside the point.

A discovery of this magnitude begs several questions, chief among them: Why? Why devote resources to the creation of THAT? Was there a shortage back then? Then I became lear-ned. It turns out that the discovery of said synthetic urea happened in the lab ACCIDENTALLY.

Accidentally? What were they TRYING to make? "Heeey, this isn't Mello-Yello!"

Still, we remained resolute in our quest for knowledge. Chuckles were stifled. We were now cultured, refined, distinguished gentlemen, and no synthetic urea would stop us, no sir.

Until, of course, the show revealed that the inventor of synthetic urea was one Dr. Gay Lussoc. And yes, the last name's pronounced as comically as you could possibly imagine. That's when I made my own Awesomely Brilliant Scientific Discovery: Snorting Pepsi out of your nose hurts. I started laughing. Jason started laughing. Class was over.

That's right. One guy's silly name turned us from cultured students to snickering 10-year-olds in a second flat. We laughed... and laughed... and then turned the channel to some movie with dudes shooting at other dudes.

So I am not lear-ned. I am, in fact, immature and goofy. And I'm kinda okay with that. Life's too short for refinement. As for Dr. Gay Lussoc, he went on to develop the system for measuring alcohol content in fluid that today we call "proof." Which kinda makes sense, because if I was going down in history as Gay Lussoc the Urine-Maker, I'd probably be hitting the bottle, too.

Taco Bell, I Love You So

Those of you who follow my blog know of my never-ending love affair with the Taco Bell drive-thru, perhaps the greatest source of comedy material on Earth. Just when I think they can't top themselves, they do it again.

I wheel into the drive-thru and am greeted with the now-customary yet still incredibly weird, "Hi. How are you?" (See my column from about a month ago.)

"Cold. Hungry. Disaffected." I replied.

Once again, I was met with eerie drive-thru silence. So I continued.

"#7... with a Pepsi." Or whatever the basic Taco Supreme combo is. I go there a lot, but I still don't know the orders by number yet, thank God.

Then, from the speaker box comes the twist:

"Sir, does the order look correct to you?"

Gasp. I looked all of a sudden. Lo and behold, the Taco Bell had installed one of those screens where you can see and proof your order as you place it. This was bad news on the comedy front. Could this be the end of Taco Bell drive-thru hilarity? A system to accurately check your order? The ability to confirm my order without comedy or chaos?

Then I looked at the screen. It read:

1 TSXMPC. $4.92

"SIR! Does the order look correct to you?"

Yes, yes, it did. And in case you were wondering, the TSXMPC's were delicious.

I love you, Taco Bell.

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...