COLUMN: Video Games vs. Real Life

Hey, what are you doing reading this? Don't you know?? The poor townsfolk of Bodhum are being exiled to Pulse! A fal'Cie was discovered, so the Sanctum sent the PSICOM to purge them to Pulse. Maybe a smart move, because we all know what happens when a fal'Cie starts turning people into l'Cie, right? Cocoon may NEVER be the same!

Hopefully you're one of the sane ones and have no clue what I'm talking about. There's several hundred folks in the Quad Cities who know all about the plight of the l'Cie. But they're not reading the paper. They're too busy playing Final Fantasy XIII. And after 13 installments, I'm starting to doubt the finality of these fantasies.

The Final Fantasy series is THE creme de la creme of console role-playing video games. There simply isn't a better-looking, more compelling game on Earth. Anyone with more than a passing interest in video games understands why doors get locked and calls go unanswered when Square Enix rolls out a new FF installment. I don't know anyone who says, "Wow, those games are really bad."

Correction: I DIDN'T know anyone who said that. Then I met my girlfriend Amy. Her exact words on Final Fantasy, though, came with a look of horror and intolerance: "My... brother... plays... those... games." I'm not a mind-reader or anything, but I'm starting to think she wasn't exactly making a GOOD comparison here.

I like the occasional video game, but I also like my life. Hence, I try to stay away from the long, epic RPG's that suck your soul away for days and weeks on end. But Final Fantasy XIII is too good NOT to play. Maybe having no life is the way to go...

TEN REASONS WHY VIDEO GAMES ARE BETTER THAN REAL LIFE:

(1) Let's say your entire future hinged upon a successful job interview. And let's say you enter that office and say something so horrifically stupid that you're led out of the interview by security and your life is ruined. If life were a video game, you could simply PAUSE your life and RESTART FROM LAST SAVE POINT and just try the interview over and over until you get the job. And if you mess up so bad that you fall over dead from embarassment? No worries -- you've got two extra lives.

(2) Life deserves cheat codes. You've lost your job and teeter on the brink of bankruptcy. In the real world, you could go live on the streets or spend years digging yourself out of debt. If life were a video game, you could simply go left-left-up-A-B-A-down-down and suddenly have unlimited money.

(3) In video games, you never have a bad hair day. You wake up a heaving carcass of sinewy muscles and brute strength. You are eternally awesome without ever walking into a gym.

(4) If life were a video game, you could find gold everywhere you looked. Smash a box? Gold. Jump on a toadstool? Gold. You would think all this loose change lying around would do some wonky things to inflationary rates, but the guy at the weapons shop ALWAYS charges the same for his wares.

(5) My friend Chris insists on me mentioning something about Hot Anime Babes, which I totally would -- if I didn't have a super-cute girlfriend who would punch me hard in the arm. Suffice to say that in the world of video games, no one punches you hard in the arm when you talk about Hot Anime Babes.

(6) More to the point, Hot Anime Babes do not chastise you about your quests or demand "snuggle time."

(7) Elves are awesome. They do NOT live at the North Pole or in a tree making Keebler cookies. They kick butt.

(8) Your universe is linear and your objective is clear. In the real world, my weekends are full of conversations like this: "So, what do you wanna do today?" "I dunno, what do YOU wanna do?" "I dunno, I asked first." In video games, you ALWAYS know what you want to do today: Jump the barrels. Defeat the monkey. Save the Princess.

(9) In real life, when I try to sing, I sound like a castrated cat. Yet out of the 4,900,000 people who play Rock Band, I am ranked on the scoreboards as the 12th greatest singer in the world. To compare, Rolling Stone recently released their list of the greatest vocalists in the world. Their pick for #12 was Little Richard. Hence, I am the Little Richard of cyberspace.

(10) In the world of video games, eternal life is always yours, and it doesn't even take an ounce of faith. Reincarnation just costs another quarter.

That said, I also came up with 5 reasons why the real world might be the better world of choice:

(1) While it's true that as a brave adventurer, you often are surrounded by one or more Hot Anime Babes, you never really get anywhere with them except a giggle and some speech about togetherness (*unless you're playing Grand Theft Auto, to which I utter a terse and G-rated "no comment.") Sometimes you don't even get that. You can play Donkey Kong until your fingers bleed and you NEVER rescue that stupid princess. I just watched a Donkey Kong documentary (I know, not really gaining any cool points with this column, am I?) and do you know how you "win" Donkey Kong? You reach a score level too high for the game to calculate and it FREEZES up on you. Not exactly a happy ending.

(2) There are far fewer Orcs in the real world. Orcs are bad news.

(3) You can sleep in the real world. This is a rarity in the land of video games ("PRESS (X) TO SNORE! TAP (Y) REPEATEDLY TO PERFORM BUTT-SCRATCH MANEUVER!")

(4) In all of my final fantasies, rock bands, and RPG's, I have yet to encounter a pizza-delivery guy. With the exception of the old Nintendo 64 game "Yo Noid," in which I believe you PLAY a pizza-delivery guy.

(5) You take considerably less damage sitting on your couch. Let's say you beat Final Fantasy. That's fine and good, but by THAT point, you've been slashed, gouged, maimed, and shot THOUSANDS of times. Surely this must result in some permanent scarring, a surplus of limps, and a likely burning sensation when you pee. Is it worth it?

Don't ask me - I'm putting the video game down. I've got a super-cute, NON-anime, flesh and blood girlfriend to go snuggle with.

COLUMN: Meditate

I know what you're thinking. Something seems different this week about your favorite newspaper columnist, am I right? Could it be that your loveable hero has suddenly become more relaxed and less stressed-out? More in-tune with the world? It's almost as if I spent the week diving into a blissful sea of pure consciousness and restful alertness.

The events of this week actually started several years ago, when some friends and I discovered that film director David Lynch was giving a lecture in Fairfield, Iowa. To say that I'm a huge fan of Lynch would be a massive understatement. I'm a nerd for his work, and to find out he was lurking around in central Iowa was pretty epic. I didn't even care what he was lecturing on, I just knew I had to be there. If that lecture had been on "How Best To Murder Puppies," I'd have been first in line with a schnauzer under each arm.

Happily for the midwestern puppy populace, Lynch's lecture instead was on a subject he's most passionate about: the benefits of Transcendental Meditation. The ancient Vedic practice of TM was revived in Western culture back in the 60's by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (famed for his encounters with The Beatles.) Years later, when the Maharishi decided to open a school for what he called "consciousness-based education," the Maharishi University of Management settled upon the former grounds of Parsons College in Fairfield, Iowa. Thanks to the school, Fairfield has turned into the Midwestern epicenter for new age philosophies and green living. Lynch is but one of the many people who practice Transcendental Meditation every day.

At that lecture, I ended up meeting David Lynch and it was the thrill of a lifetime. Years later, I travelled back to Fairfield to interview him for our paper. Since then, I've done a number of gripping and/or Pulitzer-worthy pieces on the weird little town of Fairfield and the practice of TM.

Too bad that I've never exactly bought into the whole thing.

Parts of the TM technique seem really cool. Folks who meditate on a regular basis lead heathier and happier lives, and the school's got statistics galore to back it up. Meditating relieves stress, lowers blood pressure, improves brain function, and encourages creativity. I buy into all that.

Then they kinda lose me a little. According to the principles of the practice, when you meditate, you descend into a form of pure consciousness that's known as the Unified Field -- the primordial ooze that makes up all of everything, the basic building block of existence. And when you tap into this Unified Field through meditation, you create waves of positivity that can have an effect on everyone and everything around you. Ergo, if I were to meditate right now, my cats might feel a little better. My neighbors might feel a little better. And, as the college suggests, if you were to take a group of meditators skilled enough and drop them into the Middle East, you might just attain world peace. This is the part of TM that the realist part of my brain calls advanced hocum-pocum.

Still, every time I visit Fairfield, the people there and at the College are just so stinkin' nice. Like, bordering-on-creepy nice. And everyone seems so earnest in their attempts to turn the town into this Utopian existence that I can't help but admire their efforts. So when the opportunity came to me to learn the practice of TM from an accredited teacher, I couldn't refuse. That's what I've been doing this past week: learning to meditate. If at any point in time this past week, you've felt happiness or enjoyment, clearly that was me sending positive ripples into your little niche of the Unified Field. You're welcome.

If there's one thing I've learned this week about myself, it's that I have a very difficult time trying to shut my brain off. Or turn my inner brain on. Or whatever I'm supposed to be doing (I still don't know for sure, I'm only halfway done with my classes as I type this.) I just know it's gonna take an awful lot of time and practice before I bask in the true bliss of pure consciousness.

I can't really tell you much about the actual TM practice. It's principles and technique are rather closely guarded, and they're not really keen on amateurs giving away trade secrets. I can tell you, though, that like many other forms of meditation, TM utilizes what's called a "mantra" - a noise without meaning. Your trainer gives you this mantra and you focus on it during your meditation.

I thought I would be really good at meditating. I mean, I practically do it every day in front of the television watching reruns of "Law and Order." My best mantra might as well be, "In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups..."

I'm not supposed to divulge the mantra given to me by my trainer, and I won't. But suffice to say, my noise without meaning sounds like a very similar noise belted out by Beyonce in the chorus to that song you couldn't escape from last year. So every time I try to repeat the mantra, I have to fight the Beyonce song from leaping into my head.

Here's how it's been going:

Mantra... mantra...
(Beyonce! Beyonce!)
mantra... mantra...
(get out of my head, dumb song)
mantra... mantra...
(ahh... that's better)
mantra...
(kind of relaxing)
mantra...
(I'm doing it, I'm totally meditating)
mantra...
(no you're not, because if you were truly transcending, you wouldn't be having this conversation with yourself)
mantra... mantra...
(IMAGE OF A DUCK FOR NO GOOD REASON)
mantra...
(why did I just think of a duck? Stop that.)
mantra... mantra...
(ahh...)
mantra... mantra...
("R-E-S-P-E-C-T! FIND OUT WHAT IT MEANS TO ME!")
(Aretha? What're YOU doing here? Get outta my brain!)
mantra...
("GET OUTTA MY BRAIN! GET INNNNTO MY CAR!")
(Billy Ocean? You're here, too?)

Etc., etc. My brain appears to be immune to internal relaxation. Still, I'm gonna give it a shot and see where it takes me. I'm all for anything that reduces stress. And in all honesty, as I was leaving class tonight, the world seemed a little more... visceral, I guess. Whether that's due to meditation or Sudafed or Billy Ocean, I dunno. The way I see it, it's a win-win: No longer will I be Shane-the-guy-who-zones-out-at-his-desk-sometimes, I am now Shane-the-master-of-pure-consciousness-and-transcendence. Your Unified Field can thank me later.

COLUMN: Juggalo

I can't believe I'm about to do this. Steady hands. Deep breaths. Positive thoughts. You've done worse, Shane. Focus.

I am about to -- (shudder) -- defend the honor of the Insane Clown Posse.

ABC News' Martin Bashir is one of my least favorite people ever. Some (aka ME) feel he is an over-the-top muck-raker with a habit of sensationalizing one-sided stories for mass consumption of shock and awe. He first came to prominence with his revelatory interview of Princess Diana of Wales, where he easily got his subject to open up about everything from bulemia to divorce. A good interview, yes, but there were rumblings at the time that Bashir had goaded Diana into such a confessional through faux friendship and ingratiating himself into the family.

After spending years trying to gain the reclusive singer's trust, it was Bashir's hour-long interview with Michael Jackson that got the attention of the world. It was the biggest, fastest celebrity flame-out in history. At the beginning of the program, you thought Michael Jackson was a wacky, eccentric, misunderstood pop star. By the time it was over, you were putting chain locks on your children's doors to keep Michael out. Jackson's camp at the time said that Bashir promised it would be Michael's chance to be heard and turn his life around. Instead it turned him into a suspected child molester and global joke, despite Jackson's wounded claims of "betrayal" and "deception" against Bashir.

Well, now it looks like Bashir's got a new victim in the form of a two-headed, face-painted juggernaut: The Insane Clown Posse.

It shouldn't have shocked me when I was channel-flipping the other night and caught the teaser: "Tonight on Nightline, Martin Bashir explores the underground world of HORRORCORE music. While groups like the Insane Clown Posse rap about acts of savagery and violence, some of their devoted fans are living them. Should these artists share in the blame?" For the next ten minutes, I watched as Bashir presented horrorcore as the biggest danger to hit the youth of America since mixing Pop Rocks with soda. I call hooey.

The Insane Clown Posse (ICP to their fans) are a DIY pop culture phenomenon and the perfect case study for any Marketing 101 class. The ICP duo began their career in the same Detroit rap scene that spawned Kid Rock and Eminem, but there's not much similar between them. Dressing in clown make-up and spitting lyrics that would make Freddie Krueger proud, the decidedly MTV-UNfriendly ICP shuffled from one record label to the next with mediocre sales while their contemporaries found global success.

Eventually, ICP shunned the mainstream altogether and set up shop for themselves, releasing records on their own label, Psychopathic. Somewhere along the way, it clicked. Gaining a reputation for their carnival-like concerts and absurdly violent lyrics (it's like listening to Alice Cooper rap the plotlines to every "Friday the 13th" movie,) the band quickly gained a wide underground network of fans known as Juggalos. Today, nearly every ICP album that's released sails effortlessly to the top of the charts without a lick of radio or TV airplay to support it.

Instead, the ICP marketing machine rolls forth a surplus of products aimed directly at the Juggalo fanbase. From albums and t-shirts to lighters and belt-buckles, if there's a way for Psychopathic to stick their Hatchet-Man logo on it, it's probably on sale to the Juggalo Nation. There are movies and DVD's and documentaries. Heck, they even have their own wrestling league. ICP knows how to make money and keep their fans happy.

They just don't know how to make good music. Sorry, Juggalo family, I'll defend you 'til I'm blue in the face, but I really can't stand ICP. It's puerile, poorly produced, thoughtless playground humor. There's not a music critic alive that's had much good to say about ICP, but that's part of the magic. Every time someone new comes along and hates them, the band gets to go, "SEE, Juggalos? They just don't understand what we're about!" Juggalo Nation draws together and unites as fans. More belt buckles are sold. Everyone wins.

ICP tends to connect with the outcasts and the misfits. Once upon a high school, I was an outcast and misfit myself. Back then, I sought solace with bands like Joy Division and The Cure (who are, in essence, the Depressed Clown Posse.) I forged friendships for life based primarily on shared music interests. We had a nickname back then, too - they called us "corn chips." (No, we don't know why.) But had the corn chips not stuck together, we probably would have been beat up consistently by the metalhead kids. I know the power that music holds.

What it DOESN'T hold, though, is the power to influence deranged action among the innocent, and that's where Bashir's story went. In short, some nutbag somewhere went on a killing spree and was photographed being arrested in an ICP t-shirt. Hence, the music MUST be to blame. I'll give ICP some credit. They consented to an interview and heroically stood up to Bashir's pointed questioning.

"How do you respond to a 21-year-old who kills a man in a gay bar with a hatchet and calls himself a Juggalo?"

"There's something wrong with that kid," replied the duo. "You better holla at his parents and see why they raised him all messed up."

Not English majors, then, the ICP - this is, after all, a band whose most Shakespearean moment to date is the line "We be underground famous/from Pluto to your anus." But I can't help but agree with them. There IS something wrong with that kid and somebody HAD better holla at his parents. Sadly, Martin, nutbags are everywhere. I'll guarantee that someone out there has had a murderous thought while listening to the Backstreet Boys. I can tell you in all honesty that Celine Dion's voice makes me think violent thoughts (mostly towards my radio.) Charles Manson, the grand high poobah of nutbags, thought that the Beatles were telling him to start a race war. Did we send a lynch mob after Ringo?

I just wanted to say it because no one else seems to want to in print: Parents, don't listen to the hype of sensationalist journalism, and don't fret if your kid's a Juggalo. He or she is just trying to fit in and find their niche. ICP are no more likely to cause killing sprees than your average slasher flick. The only thing horrifying about the Insane Clown Posse is their rhyming skill. If you've raised your kids right, have confidence in their actions and tastes - just maybe slip 'em a Radiohead record or something when they're not looking.

COLUMN: a-ha

I'm a child of the 80's. Well, kinda.

Technically, I was born in 1971, which by definition makes me a child of the 70's. But I've never really claimed that decade, nor am I in any real hurry to. Platform shoes, bellbottoms, and KC & the Sunshine Band? No thanks.

I recall embarassingly little of my first nine years of existence. I remember Barry Manilow and ABBA. The hostages in Iran. My mom taking me to my first R-rated movie: "Saturday Night Fever." The blizzard of 1978. Riding my Big Wheel. But mostly, I just remember spilling the Kool-Aid.

Why the Kool-Aid memory sticks with me, I don't know. I didn't even get in trouble for it. I accidentally spilled some Kool Aid, I felt bad about it, and my mom cleaned it up. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where my autobiography starts. It is my first discernable memory -- and honestly, the highlight of the 1970's as far as I'm concerned.

Instead, my formative years were spent squarely in the nurturing bosom of the 1980's, and I couldn't be happier about it. Come on, was there EVER a better decade? Well, okay, the Sixties were pretty rockin' and perhaps the focal point of 20th century creativity. But it seems like a prerequisite to that creativity was growing your hair out long and smelling kinda funky and walking through mud in bare feet. Besides, the Grateful Dead sucked - it's just that their songs were so long you forgot how much they sucked by the eighteenth minute. And the 60's had their share of war and death and upheaval and I'm kind of okay that I missed out on all that.

No, I'm perfectly fine with the 1980's, thanks much. We didn't have to worry about Vietnam or dodging the draft. We just had to worry about dodging those pesky barrels that Donkey Kong kept throwing at us. Think about it - what WASN'T awesome about the 80's? The fashion was so bad it was magical. The TV gave us talking cars and Mr. T, J.R. Ewing and Boss Hogg. The movies gave us E.T. and Indiana Jones and Porky's and, well, let's just say that BEING a teenager when John Hughes was making movies ABOUT teenagers was most fortuitous indeed. Before the 1980's, culture was just culture. It was MY decade that added the POP to culture.

But above all else, the 80's gave us music. I was in junior high when MTV suddenly appeared on the airwaves and pop music suddenly became the most important thing in my life. I would RACE home from school just to turn on MTV and let Martha Quinn tell me what was cool. The 60's can have their Hendrix and the 70's could keep their Zeppelin. I had important bands. Bands that knew how to whip it and whip it good. Bands that walked like Egyptians and woke us up before we go-go'd. Bands that relaxed and didn't do it, whatever the mythical "it" was in my 12-year-old brain. I might have been a nerdy kid, but in my heart, I knew I was cool, because I knew exactly what it sounded like when the doves cry.

The music of the 80's was a perfect slice of what it was like to live in that era. Most of the music doesn't translate well now, nor do I really want it to. A few years ago, I saw a reformed Flock of Seagulls play a tiny club in Rock Island -- and to see the essence of 80's cool as chubby, middle-aged, balding dudes now doing sub-par rock music was a bit disheartening (we stayed for a few songs and promptly ran, ran so far away.)

But for me, one band stood atop all others when it came to fantastic 80's music. They stormed the MTV charts with one video, one song, and one chorus that no one from my era will ever forget:

Taaaake ooooon meeeee (Take! On! Me!)
Taaaake meeeee onnnnn (Take! On! Me!)
I'll beeee gonnnne,
Inn-stay-ah QUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"

Okay, I might not have that last line right. Wait, lemme look it up. Ahh. It's "in a day or two." Still, he could have been singing "I've got to poo" and I'd still scream along.

a-ha (and yes, you're always supposed to spell it in all lower case) arrived in 1985 with synth flourishes, a singer with a glass-shattering falsetto, totally sweet animated videos, and awesome names like Magne Furuholmen and Pal Waaktaar. But as quick as they arrived in the States, their flame burned out almost immediately.

Why? Simple. a-ha had the misfortune of being pretty-boys. And before you could say "Pal Waaktaar" (however one says "Pal Waaktaar,") the band was plastered all over the covers of TigerBeat and marketed almost exclusively to 15-year-old girls. And, well, me.

But here's where I defend both my masculinity and my musical tastes: a-ha were a really good band. A band way ahead of the trend, ahead of the 80's, and way too extreme for the likes of the TigerBeat crowd. Thus, when their challenging and weird second album showed up in stores, no one bought it. Instead of "Take On Me," there were dark songs loosely involving a murder storyline. Not exactly what the teen scene wanted, so they moved on to the next flash-in-the-pan.

a-ha's second album, "Scoundrel Days," was my soundtrack to high school. Their third, "Stay On These Roads," saw me through the summer before college. Their fourth and fifth were vital additions to my growing CD library. After that, they got dropped by their American label, but it didn't stop them from releasing records to a still-vigilant European audience. I bet you didn't even know a-ha were still together today.

And this year, after releasing their NINTH studio album, they've decided to call it a day. A final tour, aptly named "Ending On A High Note," begins this week in South America and winds across the globe to a 3-day December finale in their native Norway.

This weekend, I scored tickets to their Chicago farewell show in May. To say I'm excited is putting it mildly. It will be the first time they've taken an American stage since 1986. With me will be my girlfriend (to prove that I have testosterone,) my friend Stuart (to prove that I'm not the last remaining male a-ha fan on the planet,) and a sea of whatever former 15-year-old TigerBeat readers have evolved into.

In all honesty, a-ha were only one-hit wonder prettyboys in the States. In Europe, they were (and are) a critically-acclaimed band. Contemporary artists like Radiohead and Coldplay cite a-ha among their major influences.

As for me, what can I say? I'm just a child of the 80's. Inn-stay-ah QUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Secret Column-Writing Backstage Reveal #1

COLUMN: Babysit

My girlfriend works her tail off every week teaching first grade at a Bettendorf private school. For this, she's awarded ALMOST enough money to live. She off-sets this a little by babysitting for extra cash several nights a week. She watches two girls, ages 5 and 6, who cling to her enormous family tree somehow by parental marriage (I always get confused when she tries to explain it.)

The two girls might just be the cutest, sweetest pair of siblings ever made. Think Rod & Todd Flanders from The Simpsons in human form and you'll be kinda close. The first time I ever met them, they both came running into my arms with huge bear hugs going, "WE MISSED YOU!" When I complimented one recently on her obvious haircut, the other pulled me aside a few minutes later, looked up at me with huge puppy-dog eyes, and said, "I gotted my hair cut, too." They can melt ANY heart with little more than a glance.

So I didn't think much of it the other day when my girlfriend said, "Hey, I didn't get a chance to go to the gym today. Would you mind watching the girls for an hour while I run over there?" Strangely, at the time, this sentence didn't come with a sound effect of "dun dun DUN!" It would have helped. It would have helped me say, "Actually, there aren't enough words in the English language to express how much I would, in fact, mind doing this."

Instead, what my mouth inexplicably said was, "sure." Weirder still, my brain MEANT to say "sure." What's so hard about watching a couple of adorable kids for an hour, right? My girlfriend does it all the time, so what's the big deal?

Not only am I a single guy with no offspring, I'm also an only child who grew up on an isolated 50-acre farm in the middle of nowhere with nary a kid for miles around. I haven't been around little kids since I WAS a little kid. This explained the lump in my throat when Amy said "bye" to head off 6 blocks away to the gym.

I was prepped and ready to mold young minds. I had seen Amy's babysitting prowess first-hand, and I thought I'd learned a lot: you had to be authoritarian, you had to set the rules, and you never ever wanted to be "IN BIG TROUBLE, MISSY!" But I also thought that if Amy played the strict card, I could play the nice guy card and still get the same result. I could be Totally Rad Uncle Shane, The Awesomest Babysitter In The Land.

Well, I learned some more things -- primarily that "Hannah Montana" is the most insipid program to ever grace our achy breaky airwaves. I know, I know -- it's a kid's show. But this thing makes Full House look like Masterpiece Theatre.

However, I also learned that Hannah Montana is the world's greatest babysitter. The girls were hyper and chatty and bouncy until I flipped that show on. Within 30 seconds, they had become full-on catatonic Hannah zombies, sitting in stony silence while Miley Cyrus hypnotized them into some kind of creepy, all-consuming Disney submission.

But then Hannah ended. Uh oh. As fun as watching The Disney Channel was, it was also elimination night over on "American Idol," so I thought I'd give it a shot. My channel change to Fox was met with exactly four minutes of complacency.

"Shaaaaane?" asked the six-year-old. "Can you put the TV back to the Disney please?"

"I will in a little bit," I replied. "Let's watch this for a while first. You girls like singing, right?"

"WE LOVE SINGING!"

In an eyeblink, they're running amok. While one demonstrated her ability to screech the Hannah Montana theme song, the other went straight to my box of video game equipment and pulled out a microphone from Guitar Hero.

This led to our own anarchic "American Idol" contest. Let's just say Simon would NOT have had good things to say about their performance, which seemed to fall in the realm of avant-garde jazz improv with the lyrics (I kid you not:) "American Idols, me and youuuu!/Diamonds On The Avenuuuuue!"

"Hey Shane?" said the 6 year old.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I'm hungry I'M HUNGRY TOO!" said the two-headed monster.

Okay, no problem, we've got a contingency plan in effect. Amy had laid out some cheese and crackers in the kitchen. My kitchen is exactly six footsteps away from my living room. In the twelve steps it took for me to get there and back, they had managed to find my box of cat toys and spread them allllll over the floor (the cats, meanwhile, had long since sought shelter in the bedroom.)

Now there's singing and squeaky toys and yelling and eating. Well, more like shoving cheese and crackers towards their mouth with total disregard as to whether or not their mouths were open at the time. This is my only explanation as to how 10% of the crackers ended up eaten and 90% turned to crumbs all over the floor.

"LET'S PLAY HOUSE!" one screamed without missing a beat.
"I'M THE MOMMY!" yelled one.
"I'M THE SISTER!" yelled the other. (Odd family.)

"Umm, what am I?" I sheepishly asked.

"You're the dog! Now BEG!"

House lasted five minutes, until Mommy and Sister got into a fight over who got to hold the Family Microphone. Tears were almost shed. I did the only thing I could: I changed the channel back to Disney. No Miley in sight. Curses!

Yelling. Singing. Dancing. A request for more water.

"Okay, I'll get you some mo--"

"GET OFF YOUR BOO-TAY AND GET IT FOR ME NOW!"

That was the moment that Totally Rad Uncle Shane died and was replaced by Mean Grumpy-Face Shane. Mean Grumpy-Face Shane said, "Okay, we need to SIT DOWN. NOW."

Soon, Amy came home. This might have been expedited by my text message which may or may not have involved immediate threats of amateur self-vasectomy. Amy walked in the door and sorted the situation immediately. I'm afraid we were all IN BIG TROUBLE, MISSY.

Final Score: Kids 1, Shane 0. But you can't just get on a bike and start riding, right? I just need practice. It could have been worse. I didn't need 911 or Poison Control. No bones or possessions were broken. The kids (and Amy) still like me. The cats may eventually forgive me. The training wheels are firmly in place. And now when Amy says she doesn't want to babysit, I officially feel really, really bad for her. Maybe that was the whole point.

COLUMN: Gym

A few weeks ago, I wrote a column about the nutjobs who think that the world in coming to an end in 2012. This is all based on a primitive calendar system developed by the ancient Mayan civilization -- a calendar system that inexplicably comes to an end in what we now call the year 2012. There's really no universally-accepted explanation as to WHY the ancient Mayan calendar had an endpoint, but some out there think the Mayans had some extra-terrestrial help in the building of their empire, and maybe these same extra-terrestrials clued the locals on to the End of Days. Why these all-knowing and all-seeing ET's didn't also say, "Oh, hey, and you might want to look out for the Spanish armada" is beyond me, but I digress.

Anyways, some folk (clinical term: nutbags) believe that we've got precious little time to enjoy our remaining Earthly delights (clinical term: Arby's.) A few weeks ago, I sort of ruthlessly mocked these folks in a column. Now I'm starting to realize that it takes a brave man to make fun of the Apocalypse. Folks, I'm here with some bad news. I'm afraid the end may be nigh. Behold, for I have borne witness to a clear sign of the End of Days. Locusts? Nope. Seas of blood? Not yet. It's worse:

I joined a gym.

If that's not a clear sign that the world as we know it's coming to a close, I don't know what is.

I wasn't trying to call forth the Four Horsemen, I promise you this. I was just trying to have a good Valentine's Day. See, Amy (the girlfriend) has been on an epic health kick of late. She's trying to shed a couple unwanted pounds, eat a little better, and adapt to an all-around healthier lifestyle. And the other day, I got the "...and I need your help to do it" speech.

Thanks to my mom, I'd already had practice being at the receiving end of this speech. When I was in junior high, my mom got on a similar health kick. She explained to my dad and I that she was making a huge lifestyle change, and asked that we be as supportive as possible. From us, she needed encouragement, incentive, cheering, cooperation, and love.

But what she failed to mention is that she also needed us to suffer through things like "celery casserole" (shudder) for dinner, as well as outright lies such as "if you cut squash up finely enough and bake it in the oven, it tastes JUST like a french fry!" (Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.)

Still, I wanted to support my mom, so I dealt with it. And in the end, my mom lost 95 lbs. and was nominated as Weight Watcher of the Year, a feat that still astonishes me to this day. So when Amy came at me with a similar speech, I was ready.

"I just need your encouragement," she said.

"Umm," I replied. "You GO, girl?" Not good enough, I'm afraid.

I want to be the supportive boyfriend, I really do, and I'll never knock anyone's efforts to become healthier. That said, as God is my witness, I will NEVER eat celery casserole again. Instead, I figured out the PERFECT way to be The Most Awesomest Boyfriend Ever.

For Valentine's Day, I presented her with a membership to the 24-hour gym that's near my apartment. But to make it super duper romantic, I got memberships for the BOTH of us. I just, umm, never realized a membership usually entails GOING.

But go I have, on several occasions now. I'm not just a gym member, I'm a gym participant. Maybe even a gym-nast. And after my first week foray of fitness, if I had to put my experience into one word, I guess that word would have to be:

OOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!

As I speak, my legs are two noodles held in place by taut rubber bands. Muscles I didn't even know I had are announcing their existence with painful confidence. If this is what physical fitness is about, I might be better off with my usual sedentary lifestyle and the sweet release of premature death. Why does "getting in shape" have to involve feeling like a truck just hit my shape?

It's a learning experience, and I've been learning a great deal about the gym, such as a few helpful definitions:

STATIONARY BIKE (n.) An ancient torture device. Built to provide you all the fun of biking without all that pesky travelling, sight-seeing, fresh air, and stopping to get in the way.

RESISTANCE LEVEL (n). A setting on aforementioned bike, created to finally answer the age-old question, "I wonder what it would be like to cycle through tapioca pudding?"

RECUMBENT BIKE (n). A scientific and engineering break-through in exercise biking, ushering in a new era of uncomfortability and awkwardness.

ELLIPTICAL MACHINE (n). I'm still not quite sure. I think it's an ancient Mayan nausea inducer.

I'm rapidly learning that there are Care Bears more manly than me. I know that I'm a wuss, okay, and I've pretty much been cool with it my whole life. But lately I've been crossing the line from wussy to outright FAT. At first, I thought I'd wait and make sure the AMA didn't announce that skinniness causes cancer and fat people had it right all along. But no luck. Contrary to my personal belief system, a pizza a day does NOT keep the doctor away.

In my late 20's, my metabolism started going down and my weight started going up. This was when my uncommon sense kicked in and I figured out the answer: Buy baggy clothes in bulk and ignore it 'til it goes away. But it's not going away. My clothes are now so baggy I've got shoulder hems precariously close to becoming elbow hems. I am Fatty McButterPants. And I'm going to stick to the workout regimen, because I'd sort of like to hang around for the next few decades.

Assuming, of course, that there ARE more decades in store for us. At the very least, I'll be in MUCH better shape to dodge the locusts, flying horsemen, and seas of fire.

Just Call Me the Jim Henson of Hip-Hop

The Dispatch/Argus just printed our biggest special section that we do all year: Progress. It's an annual special that we do every February that focuses on "good news" about the Quad Cities - from the people that live and work there to the places that make it a unique community. Progress runs in 3 parts across a month's worth of Sundays every February.

This year's theme? "QC @ Work." It's a special round-the-clock focus on everyday employees as they go about their work week.

The paper needed someone to focus on for the 2-3 a.m. hour, so they decided to follow me through a night in the DJ booth at 2nd Ave.

It's kind of a fun piece, and my friend Matt Veto did a good job putting it together.

That said, there's one BLINDING error that I have to point out. I have NEVER -- and I mean NEVER -- played "La Bamba" by Ritchie Valens (or, for that matter, Los Lobos) in a dance club in my life.

The song he's referring to in the article is a blend of Cassidy's "Drink N My 2 Step" and "Tequila," a 1958 instrumental by The Champs (that you might know better as the Pee Wee Herman dance song.) I wish I could tell you I pulled it off myself, but it's actually yet another great blend off the Crooklyn Clan website.

And the article claims I played "Row Row Row Your Boat"? Well, it's a 30-second drop into a transition mix of Lonely Island's "I'm On A Boat."

The article makes it sound like my "signature set" goes from "La Bamba" to "Row Row Row Your Boat," in which case PLEASE come slap the crap out of me.

Still, Matt's a sports guy and NOT a dance club guy, and I think he did a pretty fun job for the most part...


Musical puppeteer brings night to life
By Matt Veto, mveto@qconline.com

ROCK ISLAND, 2 a.m. -- At the center of Shane Brown's attention is a two-disc mixer, the tool this musical puppeteer uses to control the grooving marionettes who continue to pour into the club as adjacent bars close for the night.

In a 25-by-4-foot corner of the 2nd Avenue night club, Mr. Brown basks in darkness, face lit dimly by the dance floor lights and the twinkling LEDs beaming from an array of audio equipment.

The bass tones rumble the guts of the dancers as the lyrics "hotel, motel, Holiday Inn" thump through vibrating speakers. Mr. Brown shuffles rhythmically between five giant compact disc books that each contain 320 discs. At 2:02 a.m. he's touched his 90th-or-so disc of the night.

"The most important thing about running the floor is tempo," Mr. Brown says. "It's all about tempo. Each song I play is a little bit faster than the song before."

Beats per minute is a mathematical element that all successful disc jockeys must master. It's "BPM" that allows Mr. Brown to assume control of the horde on the floor. The music is flowing at 136 BPM -- just about the peak of Mr. Brown's ideal top speed.

At 2:07 a.m., he cuts it to 70 BPM -- the slowest he'll go.

"It shakes up the floor a little bit," Brown says as a few dancers head to the bar for another drink, while others join in the party.

The turntable Mr. Brown is fussing over allows two discs to play simultaneously. A sliding switch in the middle -- the cross-fader -- gives Mr. Brown the ability to control which elements of each song take precedence, almost as if he is recomposing already composed music. He puts on his headphones each time he adds a song to ensure it mixes smoothly.

"I pride myself on making remixes and creating sets using songs people aren't used to hearing on the radio," Mr. Brown says.

It takes practice and patience. Mr. Brown, 39, has been a DJ in some form or another since 1986, whether working raves, teen clubs or fraternity houses. He got his start working dances at Galesburg High School, where he graduated in 1988. He's been at 2nd Avenue for eight years. The equipment belongs to the club, the thousands of CDs he uses to orchestrate his shows each weekend belong to him.

Safe to say there is some music he likes and some he doesn't.

"The No. 1 piece of advice that I can give an aspiring DJ: You have to learn to put your own tastes aside," Mr. Brown says. "You're working for the crowd, not for you."

Mr. Brown works on perfecting mixes in his kitchen in his spare time. He said DJs network and share mixes they have developed.

At 2:13 a.m., Mr. Brown unleashes what he calls his "signature set," which starts out by pairing Ritchie Valens' "La Bamba" (recorded in 1958) with rapper Cassidy's "My Drink n My 2 Step" (recorded in 2007).

Which CDs he chooses at which time just depends on the faces in the crowd or the speed of the set. The tempo of each song is written on the disc.

"Sometimes you just mess around and find two songs that really mesh like butter," Mr. Brown says.

And while he tries never to repeat a mix too often, he says he finds it hard not to couple Justin Timberlake's "Bringing Sexy Back" with Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" every night. He melds those tunes at 2:23 a.m. to a roar of approval.

For the next 10 minutes he continues to illustrate the DJ's art of crossing generations and spanning decades, while still holding a modern dance beat and keeping the floor's enthusiasm. At 2:38 a.m., he even manages a successful mix with a rendition of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" before dropping the beat at 2:40 a.m. one last time to prepare for a final climax.

At 2:47 a.m. he plays the night life's ever-recognizable "Closing Time" by Semisonic while he zips up CD cases and shuts down the music at 2:50 a.m. By 2:55 a.m., the floor is empty, the lights are on, and conversations are muffled as the ears of hundreds of dancers are ringing. At 3 a.m., the doors are locked.

Another night of melodious puppet mastery for the musical Mr. Brown.

COLUMN: U2 3D

Someone asked me the other day why I would want a column every week in the newspaper. I suppose there's two schools of thought:

(A): Some people need therapy to overcome the awkward and embarassing parts of their lives. I need YOU guys. I prefer to vent my frustrations through humor and a well-worn keyboard. I'm blessed to have such a wonderful outlet as the Dispatch/Argus to do so every week. It's humbling and magical to think that people like you take time out of YOUR life to read about mine. I'm the luckiest guy in the world.

Or (B): Owning a page in the newspaper that reaches over 100,000 readers is what I like to call Step One in my eventual bid for world domination. There's no problem big enough that can't be solved by a horde of evil minions to do one's evil bidding, and I'm kinda counting on you folks to step up in the evil minion dept.

But if sinister plan (B) stands a chance, I simply cannot be stymied by area businesses in their feeble attempts to wrench fame from my hands.

I'm talking to you, Putnam Museum and IMAX Theatre.

This month, the IMAX is airing "U2 3D," a concert film of the Irish rockers that proved so popular during its first stop that it's back for a second engagement. And, as a novel way to promote the film, the folks from the Putnam IMAX put together a viral video that's making its way around the local Youtube circuit. In this video, they've assembled a rather impressive collection of A-list Quad Citians to lip-sync along to U2's hit single "Vertigo."

Anyone and everyone's on there. Dwyer & Michaels. Jill Green. The guy from Brenny's. Mayor Bill Gluba. Stephanie and Jan from Ross' Restaurant. Matt Hammill. It's a cool idea that works and looks great.

There's just one small problem: I'm not in it. I wasn't asked to be in it. I've watched the video and there's not even one cameo from yours truly.

What gives, Putnam IMAX? I am a Great Local Writer of Local Greatness, a beloved and cherished Quad Cities institution, but I've been left out like yesterday's news. Don't cry for me, Quad Cities. The truth is I never left you. I was right here, waiting for the phone call -- that never came.

There's Ellis Kell. My colleague Jonathan Turner. Bill Wundram and my arch-nemesis (and in reality close friend) David Burke from that (cough) OTHER paper. Yet no Shane. No offense to Mayor Bill Gluba, but surely I'm a more adept lip-syncer. I am, after all, the #13 vocalist in the world on the video game Rock Band. Who else on this list has THOSE kind of qualifications? Dwyer? Michaels? Paula stinkin' Sands? Well, okay, even I can't compete with The Paula. The Paula is a diva goddess and clearly the only human being in the Quad Cities more powerful than myself. Don't knock The Paula.

But it's okay, Putnam IMAX. I'm sure it was a tragic oversight on someone's part, right? Someone whom I trust has been given their well-deserved pink slip by now, no? Or maybe the awesome power of my awesomeness was just TOO MUCH for the Putnam IMAX to handle. My brute machismo IS somewhat intimidating.

Don't worry, Putnam IMAX. I forgive you. And I've come up with a way for you to make it up to me.

First thing's first, though -- can we lose U2? Because they kinda, umm, suck nowadays.

Once upon a time, U2 were a good band. Existing on the sheer fury of Bono's power mullet, early U2 was a wicked force. Remember the iconic scenes of Bono climbing the scaffolding and waving the flag? Or at Live Aid when he jumped into the crowd to dance with the shell-shocked girl. And I'm convinced that the only reason Band-Aid managed to help feed the world with sales of "Do They Know Is Christmas" was entirely due to Bono's spine-tingling "welltonightthankgoditstheminstEEEEAAAAADDDDDDOOOOOOOOOFYOOUUUUUUU!" When you heard early U2, you knew it was a band that stood for something. You weren't exactly sure what that something WAS, but it was entirely impressive nonetheless.

Then Bono cut his power mullet, found those ridiculous glasses, and the whole band went to heck. I have no desire to see them in concert, on film, or coming at me from a 27' screen in three dimensions. I like that Bono still tries to heal the world, but that's because it makes him occasionally stop singing.

Still, I'll put my loathe of contemporary U2 aside for the sake of fame. Just send a camera crew over and we'll shoot a quick 3-D introduction to the film. Here, I've even written the script:

A lightning strike at dawn. As the sun begins to rise, the camera swings to reveal the rooftop of the Putnam IMAX. Atop it stands a long figure next to his trusty motorcycle, which has made it to the roof on the power of sheer awesomeness alone. Like many fine Cinemax movies from times of yore, our leather-clad hero is a renegade biker on a lone search for justice. It is... The Shane.

As the sun strikes his muscular frame, he casts his eyes towards the heaven and yells. "Hoooooooooooo!" Windows throughout the Quad Cities shatter at the sound. A menacing team of ninjas appears. The Shane sighs. It is time. He flies into the air in slow motion like The Matrix. Every time he touches a ninja, they are immediately decapitated and their heads fly in 3D towards the audience. When it is done, The Shane stands triumphant atop a pile of severed ninja heads.

From somewhere down below, action star Chuck Norris yells up, "Thanks, buddy. I couldn't have done that myself."

"No problem, Chuck Norris," says The Shane. "All in a day's work when you're as awesome as me."

The wind whips up, taking with it The Shane's shirt. From all around the Quad Cities, women squeal with delight until the windows throughout the Quad Cities, all of which were replaced during the ninja fight, shatter again. Townsfolk appear with gifts. One of them is an elderly lady who doesn't see the oncoming semi truck...

Lasers shoot out of The Shane's eyes, destroying the semi truck and magically turning it into... a box of newborn kittens. The crowd goes "Awww!" as the camera slowly ascends into the sky, further and further until...

We are in outer space. As the globe spins, we see the continent of South America, where giant mile-long letters have been set ablaze in the Amazonian rainforest. The message: "SHANE IS KING." The end.

Oh, wait. Then I step into the frame and go, "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.... U2... will not be seen tonight on account of they suck. Instead, enjoy me in three dimensions while I play Rock Band, eat a ham sandwich, and compose newspaper columns in my head for two hours."

Perfection.

Or, if you go back up to the top and take it from the (A) school of thought, I can breathe a sigh of relief that the Putnam IMAX crew didn't come a-callin'. I'm so self-conscious that I probably would've died of stage fright. Plus Paula Sands really DOES kinda scare me a little. I'll stick with THIS gig, thanks. I really AM the luckiest guy alive.

COLUMN: Stoplight

I remember painfully little of the grade school years (a fact which I blame on the college years.) But for no particular reason, one homework assignment has always stuck out in my head.

My 3rd grade teacher, a wonderful little hippie lady named Mrs. Harlan-Marks, asked us to write a paper on who our "hero" was. Oh, and it couldn't be someone in your own family - you had to think outside the box. And thinking outside the box threw me for a loop.

My hero? Outside of my parents, I didn't really have any. I thought about it forever and ever, but no magic light bulbs went off above my head. That's when I committed my first memorable act of bull-pooing: I decided to announce to the world (or at least to Mrs. Harlen-Marks) that my hero was... Dan Tanna.

Dan Tanna was the character Robert Urich played on the short-lived 70's TV series "Vega$." I'd never even seen an episode of the show before that night, but it was on TV in the background while I was working on the paper and I was desperate. I don't remember if Dan was a cop or a detective or a mercenary or a gambler or what, but for one brief shining moment in 1970-something, he was my hero.

Twenty plus years have passed since that assignment, and nowadays it's easier to come up a list of heroes. My parents (still.) My girlfriend (always.) Dispatch/Argus Publisher Jerry Taylor (because it never hurts to suck up to your boss.) 2nd Avenue/RIBCO owner Terry Tilka (or your other boss.) Eddie Izzard. Chuck Klosterman. Dave Barry. Whitney Matheson. Musicians like Johnny Marr, drummer Loz Colbert, and the greatest songwriter of our generation, Martin Carr (look him up.) The list goes on and on, but this column involves some other heroes of mine.

Recently I got the ability to stream Netflix purchases over to my TV, and I discovered that Netflix has every episode of one of my favorite shows: Mythbusters. These two guys, Jamie and Adam, set out in every episode to dispell popular myths via elaborate experiments and, if at all possible, large explosions. It's funny, it's science, and exploding things are cool. The Mythbusters rule.

Another set of heroes? Journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein -- two guys who four-handedly brought down a corrupt American presidency through sheer determination, willpower, and by being really really annoying. There isn't a newspaper writer alive who doesn't want THAT kind of a story to fall into their laps.

And I think I've got mine. That's right, it's time for this columnist to move to the big leagues. I will now -- by the cunning use of Mythbuster experimentation and the doggedness of Woodward and Bernstein, bring down a corrupt Rock Island stoplight.

Flashback: June 2009. A horrible car accident occurs at the intersection of 24th St. & 4th Ave. in Rock Island. A semi truck and an SUV meet in a most unfortunate of ways. People are sent to the hospital, but thankfully no-one dies. Our paper runs a story with the following quote:

"After the accident, several people said the sensors, which trigger the stoplights, haven't been working properly for several months."

What the article doesn't mention is that one of those "several people" was yours truly. Every weekend, I head home from my DJ gig at around 4 a.m. Usually, that puts me southbound on 24th St. at the 4th Ave. intersection. And every night for a month before that accident, that stoplight sensor hadn't been working. I would pull up on a red light, and it would stay red - indefinitely. Since 4th Ave. is a one-way street with a turn lane I'm never in, my only choice is to become a rebel without a cause and roll cautiously through the red light.

So when that accident happened, I naturally assumed that the broken light was to blame and promptly told our reporter as much. But when the reporter questioned the police about the sensor, Lieutenant So-and-So responded (again I quote from our June article,) "sensors on the stoplight at the intersection appear to have been working properly."

Properly, my journalistic fanny. But who am I to correct a cop? Instead, I shut my yap, ignored my journalistic duty, and started taking a different way home, assuming that the light malfunction would eventually be rectified. But this past Saturday, I absent-mindedly took the old route home, found myself southbound on 24th St., and once again ended up waiting indefinitely at the 4th Ave. stoplight. It still isn't fixed.

So I can't let Woodward & Bernstein down. I need to expose this light for the broken hunk o' junk it is. I need documentation and experimentation. I need to bust the myth that this light is working properly. It's now 9:40 p.m. on Monday, February 8th. My investigative team (me and my girlfriend) are heading out to the intersection to see if we can conclusively prove that the light is failing. We know that my New Beetle will NOT set off the sensors, so we'll be in Amy's Toyota Avalon instead. We'll approach the intersection from a variety of scenarios. Wish me luck...

Okay. It's now 10:21 p.m. We have just proven beyond a shadow of a doubt... that the Acapulco Cafe on the corner of 4th and 24th has pretty good chips and salsa. Other that that, I've got nothing. It looks like the sensors don't come on until the wee hours. Right now, it's just on a timed loop, changing lights regularly regardless of traffic flow. I bet it doesn't change to sensor activation until after midnight.

Woodward and Bernstein would go back out and interview everyone who went through the intersection. The Mythbusters team would go back out after midnight and run a variety of simulations and experiments. But the Mythbusters are in California, where 5-8" inches aren't on tonight's forecast. And Woodward & Bernstein didn't have to meet Deep Throat in the middle of a snowfall. As for me? I'm home, I'm comfy, and now I've got chips and salsa.

I firmly believe that the stoplight sensor is broken, at least when it comes to 2712 lb. Volkswagen Beetles at 4 a.m. And now I've gotten that in print. I leave it to someone else to bust the myth that this stoplight works hunky-dory. I recommend Dan Tanna.

COLUMN: End of Days

Well, it's finally happened. I've received my first threatening letter from a deranged fan.

I knew it was just a matter of time. I am, after all, a Super Important Writer of Much Importance. And when you have such a massive legion of fans built up, there's bound to be a crackpot or two in the mix. I just opened my mail and there's a letter here threatening my physical safety in the days to come. Better hand it over to the authorities, I guess. Let's just see who the crackpot is that's making some threats... oh, I see. It's some guy named "God."

When I opened it up, I expected the usual "Dear Shane, you are so super awesome" yada yada "want to have your babies" yada yada "handsome, sexy hunk of" yada. Instead I get this:

"THE END OF THE WORLD IS ALMOST HERE! HOLY GOD WILL BRING JUDGMENT DAY ON MAY 21, 2011!"

Well, then. I guess that's that. At least God was nice enough to wait until AFTER the finale of "Lost."

The rest of the letter, which appears to be photocopied and is likely being sent to a goodly portion of the world, explains the "infallible proof" that the world as we know it is coming to an end.

It turns out that there's a California-based ministry called Family Stations that's led by an 88-year-old retired civil engineer named Harold Camping. He's the guy who, through careful Biblical analysis, has determined the exact date of the End of Days. How he figured it out is beyond me - I'm no good at math. But apparantly you can backtrack through all the Biblical begat-s to determine that the great Noachian flood happened in 4990 BC. 2 Peter states that "one day is with the Lord as a thousand years." God tells Noah that he's sending the flood in 7 days. 7 days = 7000 years. 4990 BC + 7000 years = 2011 A.D. Noah's flood lifted on his 600th year, second month, and seventeenth day. Allowing for calendar changes between Biblical times and the modern era, the 17th day of the 2nd month of the 7000th year is May 21st, 2011.

It's just that easy, logical, and completely bat-guano. Plus, it's a Saturday, so at least our work week won't be disrupted by a pesky plague of locusts.

Mr. Camping spreads his prophecies o' doom via his Family Radio Network (and what a great name, too, because nothing says family fun quite like seas turning to blood, eh?) He published a rather comprehensive book some years ago detailing his prophecy for Armageddon. Just one problem -- in THAT book, his Doomsday was September 6, 1994. On that date, Camping and his followers gathered to bear witness to... a rather routine Tuesday, with nary a flying horseman in sight. That's when Camping sheepishly admitted a "math error," declared an Apocalypse mulligan, and announced May 21st 2011 for the do-over.

This would be bad news to the Mayan empire, who -- as we've been seeing on countless cable channel specials designed to scare the bejeebies out of us -- long ago predicted what some think is the end of the world. The Mayans were pretty good at predictions, except when it came to predicting the premature and unexplained collapse of their own society. What they left behind, though, was a primitive calendar system that makes just about as much sense at Harold Camping.

In the calendar we know, 30 days (roughly) = one month. In the Mayan long count calendar, 20 days make a uinal, 18 uinals make a tun, 20 tuns make a k'atun, and 20 k'atuns make up a b'ak'tun, as commemorated by Neil Simon in his lesser-known play "Same Time Next B'ak'tun." But instead of a Happy New B'ak'tun being a big party in Times Square, there's Mayan lore that at the end of the 13th B'ak'tun, something, err, signifigant would happen. Something signifigant enough that most of the ancient calendars don't have a 14th B'ak'tun. It just sorta stops at 13.

The last day of the 13th B'ak'tun works out to be December 23, 2012. Actually, we've already seen what's gonna happen then. L.A. will slide into the ocean, Yellowstone will erupt, an aircraft carrier will take out the White House, and our future lies entirely in the hands of John Cusack. Just so long as its not Tom Cruise, I'm kinda okay with it.

So who's right? Is it Harold Camping and we're hosed in just over a year? Is it the Mayans and we've got a couple years to prep for Armageddon? Or is it this pesky God fellow, whose Bible says that we "do not know on what day your Lord will come...so you must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect Him."

As the professional consumate journalist that I am, I wanted to do my own investigating, and I've discovered yet ANOTHER potential End of Days, this one foretold from another ancient source of wisdom ahead of its time. I speak, of course, of the Modern Woodmen of America.

I received a Christmas card at the office this year from the Modern Woodmen home office, and inside of it is a shiny new desk calendar that's come in quite handy this year (moral of the story: I like free stuff.) But as I stared at this calendar pondering the Apocalypse, I flipped past February into March... April... and kept going. You will not believe what I discovered.

My courtesy Modern Woodmen of America calendar STOPS... on December 31st, 2010. It just ends, with nary a hint of January 2011's existence. So I went to a bookstore that night where hundreds of calendars were on sale. ALL OF THEM stopped on the same day. December 31st, 2010. In fact, they went as far as to call themselves "2010 Calendars," as though 2011 simply will not happen. Clearly, the world has caught on to Modern Woodmen's predictions. Fraternal life insurance society and banking institution... or mystic seers predicting the end of humanity? I could only do one thing.

I sent an emergency e-mail to my friend Tina who works at Woodmen's home office.

"What gives?" I wrote. "Mayan calendar ends on 12/23/12 and end of world is predicted. My Woodmen calendar ends on 12/31/10. Are you Woodpeople harboring the secret knowledge of Armageddon?"

"Look again," she replied. "At the top right-hand corner of the December 2010 page." Sure enough, there, in tiny print, was a handy one-month extension covering January 2011. "So I think as far as we Woodpeople go," she wrote, "you're safe."

Whew. Three Apocalypses is enough for this guy to worry about without a fourth getting in the way. I guess it's just a coincidence that 2010 calendars expire at the end of 2010. We're gonna have at least a year and a half to worry about the end of time. John Cusack's gonna have himself one boring year.

COLUMN: Pickers

(pic courtesy The History Channel)

I get excited whenever the Quad Cities gets national attention. I'm not exactly sure WHY, though.

But I've got a theory. We should all be in agreement by now that the world revolves entirely around ME, right? After all, I'm pretty cool and all-powerful in certain circles -- or at least the entirely credible and horribly important circle of locally-based humor columnists. Ergo, all of the nation's media should be pointed squarely at me and my innate coolness. Oh, and I'm humble, too -- I don't mind if the rest of you locals cash in on my fame from time to time, so I like it whenever camera crews roll through town.

Seriously, though, who wasn't excited when Charlie Gibson was on ABC eating a Magic Mountain at Ross'? Who doesn't get mildly thrilled by all the secret service detours whenever presidential candidates come a-stumping through town? And I, for one, stood up and clapped when the poor shoppers of the Village of East Davenport melted into the ground in the locally-filmed and entirely-awful disaster flick, "Megafault." It's cool to see ourselves and our humble homestead on the boob tube.

That's why I got excited when I found out that the History Channel had picked up a 10-episode run of a locally-filmed documentary series, "American Pickers." I was especially excited when I found out that "Pickers" stars one of my absolute favorite Quad Citizens, Danielle Cushman. I've known Danielle and her husband Chad for ages, and they've always had their hands in some of the coolest hipster activities in town. From roller derbies to burlesque shows, DJ gigs to farmer's markets, Chad and Dannie are familiar faces to the local arts scene.

Too bad, then, that I'm not a huge fan of "American Pickers." And it's NOTHING against the show itself. It's actually pretty entertaining and you guys should all watch it. It's just not MY thing.

Here's the deal with "American Pickers." It features a couple of guys who run an antique business out of Leclaire (my friend Dannie works in their office and runs the joint when they're gone.) In each episode, the guys cruise around the Midwest in a van, looking for crusty old farmhouses with equally crusty old owners. Their goal is to find folks who have collected mountains of old junk in barns and closets and backyards. They invite themselves in, "pick" through the junk for antique treasures, make offers to the owners, and then take their prizes home to determine their resale worth.

In a way, it's a fascinating show. The two guys are pretty funny, and they meet some pretty colorful characters on their adventures, many of whom are more than eager to share the tales behind their treasures. In the premiere episode, they meet an old guy who proudly tells the story of how he came to possess the Japanese samurai sword that the pickers found rusting away in his barn -- he got it while part of the occupying force following the bombing of Hiroshima. That kinda stuff is pretty cool to hear, and the show's full of similar stories. It's a good marriage for The History Channel, that's for sure.

My problem is this: I can't help but feel a little bad for the old folks these guys are dealing with. On every episode, the guys pick through these folks' worldly possessions, pull out some junk, and then start haggling prices. If they come to an agreement, they head home with their stuff, where they have it appraised and learn its real value. A little graphic pops up on the screen like, "Paid: $150. Value: $400. Profit: $250" while the guys high-five each other and smile.

It's neat for the two pickers, but I can't help but wonder what Farmer Joe's gonna feel like when he watches the show and realizes he could have made an extra $250. The arrival of this TV crew might just be The Most Exciting Thing That's Happened To Farmer Joe In Nigh On A Decade, so I would expect nothing less than a grand Farmer Joe Family Potluck to celebrate the show's airing. Imagine a room full of family and friends, all there to support a guy's Hollywood minute, only to find out that Hollywood used that minute to stiff Farmer Joe out of a couple hundred bucks.

But I guess the buying and selling and profiteering is the whole fun purpose of collecting and owning antiques in the first place -- it's a world I don't appreciate, it's a world I don't understand. The true miracle of this show is that there's people out there willing to pay $150 for these gross, rusted-out tetanus traps in the first place. One crusty motorcycle they bought required knocking out live, active beehives before they put it in their van. I don't know about you, but once bees set up home in something, it's theirs until winter comes.

I don't get antiques. I just don't. There's only two good places for old junk of this caliber: (a) a dumpster, or (b) free of bees, cleaned meticulously, and hung from the walls of a TGI Friday's. What these guys call "treasure troves of antiques" I call "oughta-be-condemned."

We live in a world of progress. The neat part of the industrial revolution is that new stuff constantly comes out that's better than the old stuff. Throw the old stuff away, buy the new stuff. Don't hold on to the old stuff and revere it and dream of a simpler day. I prefer my stuff to be shiny, new, and with any luck, remote-controlled. You antique weirdos can keep your hardwood floors and oak craftsmanship. I want my whole house to be, I dunno, chrome. Like a cross between "Barbarella" and "The Jetsons." And if there's a robot maid in the mix, all the better.

To each their own, I guess. While some people collect antiques, I collect music. And there will probably come a day, sooner than later, when CD's will be a thing of the past (likely replaced by some new technology where music is directly implanted into your brain stem by an Apple product called an iLobotomy.) And maybe someday I'll be an old, crusty dude who gets accosted by a pair of cocky pickers. And when that day comes, I'll do the only thing I can:

"Don't you know who I am?! The world revolves around me! You wanna buy this music? $1000 apiece or I release the hounds!" (I'll have hounds when I'm old, I'm sure of it.)

COLUMN: OCMND

Oh, umm, hi. You people again? So soon? Okay, umm...

How 'bout this craaaazy weather, huh? And those football teams with their football games, there's somethin' to talk about, eh? And how 'bout that Conan O'Brien? He's a... umm... wacky...

Okay, is it THAT obvious that I have no clue what to write about this week? Truth be told, I have nothing to write about because I've ceased to have a life. Well, I have a life, but for the past 3 weeks, it's been developing eyestrain, sitting in my living room, plugged into a Mac Book Pro. I'm pretty certain that I might just be going insane.

Or I might just be going a little OCD. Now, I know that Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a real thing that afflicts tons of people. And I'm not going to make light of it, lest I get a flurry of angry letters that real OCD sufferers will send just as soon as they're done washing their hands for the 34th time this hour. I couldn't imagine a life ruled by ritual behaviors and paranoia and anxiety, and I sure as heck hope that none of you fine folks are afflicted by it.

But what I'm pretty sure I DO have is OCPD: Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. I've never been officially diagnosed as such, but a quick trip to Wikipedia pretty much nails it. According to Wiki, the primary symptoms of OCPD are "a preoccupation with details, rules, lists, order, organization, and schedules; being very rigid and inflexible in one's beliefs; showing perfectionism that interferes with completing a task; excessive focus on being productive with one's time; hoarding items that may no longer have value; and a reluctance to trust a project to someone else for fear that one's standards will not be met."

Now, some of you (namely: my girlfriend, parents, friends, co-workers, and everyone who's ever met me ever) may be laughing right now, because I'm pretty much THE dictionary opposite of organized and detail-oriented. And the only time I'm rigid and inflexible is when I've laid on the couch so long that my muscles have atrophied.

But when it comes to ONE particular aspect of my life, the above description is pretty much me in a nutshell. That's why, at great expense of time and manpower, I've come up with my own malady. I fear, ladies and gents, that your humble columnist suffers from OCMND: Obsessive-Compulsive Music Nerd Disorder. And right now, it's about thiiiis close to wrecking my life. Let me explain in the least nerdy way I can muster.

You guys know that I DJ on the weekends at a club down in the District, right? Well, recently I made the decision to change my DJ system to an all-digital format. Out with records and CD's, in with mp3's and laptop computers.

For me, it was a decision of logistics. On any given night, I lug books and books down to the club full of roughly 2500 CD's. And when you've got a cubic ton of CD's scattered around you, the whole DJ booth starts to feel like a game of Musical Mah-Jong. In order for me to play a song, I have to remember what book it's in, which CD it's on, and what track number it is. With a digital system, all you have to carry is a hard drive capable of storing a quarter million songs. There's just one teensy tiny problem.

The hard drive capable of storing a quarter million songs starts out EMPTY. I first must go through my entire music library and rip the songs I need down to the mp3 format. In my delusional head, I thought I could get it done in a couple of days. I've been at it non-stop since Christmas and I've only just reached the "N"'s.

At least I'm learning new and exciting things along the way. For instance, I've learned that when your girlfriend wants to come hang out, she does NOT want to sit on the couch in silence as you huddle over your laptop for hours on end. I've also learned that when you sit Buddha-style in front of a laptop for hours on end, eventually your legs want to fall off. I've also learned that your friends and family don't like it when you get too "on a roll" to answer your phone, leave your apartment, or - in my worst moment - fail to shower for 48 hours straight.

But they don't understand my OCMND. It needs to get done, and soon, and the right way.

Let's go back to the symptoms:

1. A preoccupation with details, rules, lists, order, organization and schedules.

I'd like to pretend that I didn't spend an hour trying to decide whether to alphabetize "The Dave Matthews Band" under D or under M. Guilty.

2. Being very rigid and unflexible in one's belief.

I believe that it should alphabetized under M. Rigidly. And don't get me started on what to do with A Flock of Seagulls or The The. These kinda things keep me up at night. Guilty.

3. Showing perfectionism that interferes with completing a task.

Which might explain why I'm only through the N's after weeks of working. Guilty.

4. Hoarding items that may no longer have value.

I own three Dexy's Midnight Runners CD's, and only one of them contains "Come On Eileen." Guilty.

5. Excessive focus on being productive with one's time.

It's kinda killing me a little bit to sit here and type this column while the O-Z CD's are unripped. They're staring at me longingly from their place on the wall right now. I'm pretty sure one of them keeps muttering "loser" at me. I suspect it's a Beck CD.

6. A reluctance to trust a project to someone else for fear that one's standards might not be met.

Bless her heart, my girlfriend offered to help, she really has. I politely refused. She thinks it's because I'm such a caring dude that I wouldn't want to subject her to such a boring time-waster. Truth be told, I didn't think she could pull off the correct spelling of bands like Einsturzende Neubaten.

Enough chitter-chatter. I've got an overdue appointment with an Oingo Boingo CD. Don't blame me; blame my OCMND.

COLUMN: By Amy

[The following column might just raise the bar for acceptable levels of cuteness in professional journalism. As a total surprise, my girlfriend Amy's birthday present to me was to try her hand at column-writing and give me a week off. WARNING: It's full of the sort of warm, fuzzy, "aww"-inducing touchy-feely romantic mumbo-jumbo that may very well hit the gag reflex of our more testosterone-laden audience. And it's also one of the nicest things anybody's ever done for me.]

Dear Shane, you've said before that it would be fun if I helped write your column sometime. Well, I needed a good idea for a birthday present for you -- so here goes!

I first got the idea to write this as a response to people saying, "Let's hear more about this boyfriend of yours!" So I began thinking about how we met and the first time we really got together - which happened to be on your birthday, exactly one year ago...

You used to be some guy who worked at a dance club where my friends and I went to dance.

[Actually, I was the borderline creepy leering guy who couldn't stop staring at the cute girl on the dancefloor.]

Then you were a Myspace friend while I lived in Cairo, Egypt for two years.

[yep, I was THAT guy... Mr. Internet Stalker.]

Then we became fast Facebook friends, of course.

[I was THAT guy, too. See, it was just my luck to notice a super cute girl in my club, happen upon her profile on Myspace, get up the nerve to send her a message, and THEN find out that she had just left for two years in Egypt. Le sigh. But she was worth waiting for, and we really DID become fast friends via the keyboard.]

I began to notice that your posts always made me smile. We spent a lot of time instant messaging, and you constantly made me laugh. Once I got back to the States, you eventually invited me to hang out "in real life." It took several times, over a period of months, before I finally accepted the offer. It was your birthday, and we watched a movie. If you know me, you know I love birthdays, so there was no way I was showing up to your place without some sort of gift! Hmmm... what to get for Shane? Well, I considered some sort of music -- but then I remembered you saying that you owned about a billion CDs. I decided to stop by Old Town Bakery for a fancy cupcake. Everyone likes cupcakes, right? The celebratory cupcake was a hit, although it ended up flipping upside down in the box on the way to your place.

[Truth be told, I'm not really a fan of cupcakes -- but when a cute girl hands you one, you eat the heck out of it, even if it looked like the thing had exploded all over the box.]

You tried to prepare me for the extent of your love for music, but I was still shocked when I walked in to find one wall in the living room covered entirely with shelves full of CD's. (I later found out about the mountains of records you have stashed in closets and under the bed.) That night, you entertained me with several stories of how you acquired the many autographs on your wall of the musicians you had met.

[That's right. I'm not above name-dropping. 'Check it out, this celebrity totally gave up .5 seconds of his or her time to sign this piece of paper... because I'M SO COOL!']

Then it became a little more personal when you gave me a sampling on a CD that you had titled, "Amy's Favorite Mix CD Ever". I started to listen (with strict instructions to not read the tracklist until I had listened to the entire CD without peeking.) It was while hearing lyrics such as "You've got terrible vision if you can't see that I'm in love with you," (Rhett Miller) and "I want to tell you..." (The Beatles), that I began to realize this Shane guy kinda likes me -- like, the more-than-just-friends kind of likes me!

[Not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty doggone good at making mixtapes -- and that one I made Amy was, like, a harmonic convergence of aural and lyrical perfection, if I do say so myself. Bachelors, a well-made mixtape can be the greatest weapon in your love arsenal -- e-mail me for advice anytime.]

Since your birthday last year, we've talked or spent time together every day. I'll never forget when you asked me to dinner for Valentine's Day -- and what a hilarious night we had! (Still my favorite column you've written so far.)

[Nothing says romance like second-degree burns, a broken-down car, and a two mile jog through the snow.]

You've taught me so much this past year. For example, I've learned more than I ever cared to know about British rock music. I know the best techniques for getting points in a Rock Band tournament. (You really could be a professional Rock Band coach, you know.)

You've shown me that cats aren't too scary and that I can even pet them! (Somewhere along the way in life, I developed an irrational fear of cats. No, not lions and tigers and the really scary big cats -- I was terrified of your average housecat. I mean, scared to touch them or even have them near me. Once in high school, when I was babysitting, I called my mom crying because a cat was "looking at me!" Scary, right??? But Shane insisted that his cats were nice... and I slowly began to see that he was right!

I have learned that snuggling on the couch with you, even while you teach me the many strategies of Nascar drivers, is the best place to be. You've shown me that long drives to nowhere can lead to the most wonderful places.

I've learned many more things about you this year, like how much you hate onions, peppers, mushrooms -- and GERMS! I learned that you play trivia like a professional. I found out that your eyes are the best shade of green God ever made. I found out that when you hold my hand, I can feel it in my heart.

You are such a caring, loving, and kind man. You have been there to encourage me when I was sad. You didn't give up on me, even when I was tempted to give up on myself. You have laughed with me and cried with me. You make me want to be better and do great things. You make me feel like dancing!

[Any girl who can drop Leo Sayer lyrics on the fly is the one for me.]

I hope you have a wonderful birthday, honey! I'm so very thankful for you! You have blessed my life, and I pray that I will be a blessing in yours. For all the gifts you've given me, here's one for you. Happy Birthday! Love, Amy.

[Awww... I'd mention how this column almost made me cry, if I wasn't such a burly and macho piece of man-meat.]

COLUMN: Holiday Roundup

Ho, ho, ho! Season's Greetings to one and all! Deck the halls with...

Wait, what? The holidays are OVER? ALREADY? But my tree's still up! There's still an animatronic dog on my coffee table that barks "Jingle Bells"! I'm still in the mood for more presents!!

The fun thing is that, at least for me, the holidays are NOT over. Because I lead the world in efficiency and time management, I like to bang out every major holiday in one big, wintery thrust. First, it's Christmas. Then BAM! it's New Year. Then five days later, it's my birthday. As I write this, I remain a young and spry 38-year-old. By the time you read this, I will be old and haggard and 39 and likely mired in a deep well of despondency. For now, though, I'm still surfing on a wave of holiday bliss.

And, as you'd expect, I've been having a holly jolly season full of the kind of awkward and uncomfortable situations that make my life little more than a 3-D comedic nightmare. On the up side, we've got LOTS to write about.

For instance, on Christmas Eve my girlfriend and I went to one of those candle-lit church services, because those are super pretty and festive and full of warm fuzzies, no? Well, I wouldn't know, because we got to the church to discover that a recent incident involving no less than a flaming wreath had put a moratorium on the candle-lighting tradition. Instead, they provided these weird little plastic faux candles that flickered with glowing LEDs like little holiday lightsabers.

Weirder still was the cute little nativity scene set up at the front of the church. This would have been warm & fuzzy, had I not noticed a striking similarity between the nativity's Baby Jesus and something altogether different.

"Umm," I whispered to Amy, "Don't look now, but did Mary just give birth to a King #11 Hobo Combo?"

She may have responded with the don't-crack-jokes-in-church evil glare, but there was no denying it: that baby looked a lot less Savior and a lot more like a sub sandwich from Hungry Hobo. And when the minister began gently cradling it during his sermon, I couldn't help but feel hungry. And then, I'm afraid my earlier comment caused my goody-two-shoes girlfriend to ALMOST laugh out loud in church when the minister unwrapped the baby Jesus to reveal... a loaf of communion bread.

And later, when the Three Wise Men showed up in a reenactment asking, "Where is the King? Where is He?" and Amy whispered to me, "I'm pretty sure we just ate him," I knew I'd officially corrupted my true love and could cross off "accidentally descrate religious ceremony" from my to-do list.

Another tradition that runs deep at the holidays is spending time with family. MY family members have all had the good sense by now to die off or move to distant lands, so holidays with the Browns are usually low-key affairs with me, my mom & dad, and gobs of presents. This is how I enjoy Christmas.

Amy, on the other hand, has a family tree the size of a deciduous forest, and they all live and thrive within five miles of the Quad Cities. And if there's any excuse for all kajillion of them to congregate at someone's house and eat mountains of food, they're doing it. Don't get me wrong, I like her family a LOT -- but for someone with as much social anxiety as myself, it can be a little daunting.

This brings us to New Year's Eve, and a drop-in to a Clan Amy shindig at her aunt's house. We're welcomed warmly at the door and ushered to the main room, where we're told a board game is afoot and we "have to play!" Okay, fine, I like board games, I'm in.

That's when I discovered the game they were playing was "Things." If you've never played it before, umm, don't. Here's how it works. Somebody draws a card. On that card is an incomplete phrase, like, "Things you should _________." All of the players then fill in the blanks secretly on little slips of paper and give them to the guesser, who reads the answers and then must accurately guess which player wrote which answer.

Sounds fun, right? It's not. Imagine my turn as guesser, and the card I draw is: "Things you should never swallow: ___________." As I read the little slips of paper, the answers began tame but - as you could imagine - grew more and more perverse. Like, the category may as well have been "Things you can never reprint in a family newspaper: ___________."

So it was then my task to determine who wrote which marginally obscene answer. Let's see... was it my Christian schoolteacher girlfriend? Or perhaps her Christian schoolteacher mother? Or her dad, whose approval and respect may or may not hinge on when I accuse of him of writing, umm, That-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named? Maybe it was this Random Family Member who I've never met before tonight? Or good ol' Uncle What's-His-Name?

Instead, I chose the easy way out by turning red and giggling like an 8-year-old who just said "doodie" for the first time. The good news is that I escaped playing Who's-The-Pervert-In-Amy's-Family. The bad news is they now probably think I'm a meth-head.

We capped off the week with a wonderful pre-birthday romantic dinner at my favorite fancy restaurant, which may or may not rhyme with "Konnie's Italian Steakhouse." Well, it would have been wonderful and romantic, had they not sat us within earshot of The Tragic Family. I know nothing about The Tragic Family, and there's a chance they may not even BE a family, but they were seated 8-deep at a party table, spoke about 20 db over the legal sound limit, and featured some of the greatest dinner conversation of all time. Among that which we inadvertently heard:

"...can never have another child again, what with the ripping and tearing and bleeding..."
"...tumor the size of a cantaloupe..."
"...six months later, there was still an oozing hole in her gut..."
"...couldn't stitch up the open wound from all the infection..."

I kid you not. And all this while I'm attempting to enjoy a delightful bleu cheese-encrusted filet oozing with goodness. Or possibly oozing with infectious pus. Happy Birthday to Me. Sigh.

But on the whole, it WAS a happy birthday, just as it was a happy new year and a happy Christmas -- all because I got to spend it with the people and places I care about. I hope your holidays were equally as awesome and as free of open wounds as possible. Now then, I'll talk to you people later - I've got to go become old.