COLUMN: Levidrome

People ask me all the time, "Shane, what's the best part about being a beloved and respected and incredibly humble newspaper columnist?"

That's easy: I get to help people. (And by "people," I of course mean ME.)

If a grave injustice occurs somewhere in the world, it's my duty -- nay, my PRIVILEGE -- to inform the masses, right the wrongs, and shine a beacon of journalistic light into the darkness. And obviously, there's no injustice graver than when someone other than myself gets fame and attention for doing something I totally could have done, had I thought of it first. Or had I been as lucky. Or, in this case, had I been a precocious 6-year-old boy.

Did you guys catch the story this week about adorable little Levi? He's a precocious six-year-old boy from Canada who's gained headlines, internet fame, and perhaps even immortality this week, all because he did something any of us could do: he invented a word.

The story goes like this: little Levi had recently learned in school about palindromes -- words that spell the same thing backwards and forwards. I'd give you an example, but all I can think of at the moment is "boob," and I don't want to sink to that level. Wait, "level." That's another one right there. Those are palindromes.

And that's when little Levi turned to his dad and asked, "What do we call a word that spells a different word backwards?" You know, like how "drawer" backwards spells "reward." Or how "stressed" backwards spells "desserts." Or how "boobs" backwards spells "sboob."

Well, it turns out there's NOT a word for this language phenomenon. Ergo, Levi and his dad have launched an online campaign to create one. Everyone thinks it's adorable. Celebrities have chimed in, dictionaries have offered their support, and it's probably a done deal. The new word they have offered up for a word that spells a different word in reverse? "LEVIDROME." This is unacceptable on multiple levels.

For one, I think we can all agree that "levidrome" should be saved to name the arena we will all go to in the year 2075 to enjoy the future sport of zero-gravity ultimate cage fighting. "LLLLLLLLET'S GET READY TO LLLLEVITATE!" I don't ask for much in life, but if it's 2075 and I want to check out some good old-fashioned gravity-free combat, I should be able to march my 104-year-old sboob down to the TaxSlayer Levidrome.

But most importantly, under what qualifications does a SIX-year-old get to invent a word? By my count, this is the 653rd column I've written. I've paid my dues, time after time. I've done my sentence but committed no crimes. If anyone around here gets to invent a word, it's ME. So if Levi gets levidrome, then may I be the first to give you:

"Shane. [shayn]. Noun. The precise emotion felt when you ignore a vast to-do list but instead try to find a similar sense of accomplishment in binge-watching a full season of any show on Netflix."

You're welcome, English-speaking citizens of Earth. No longer will you be unable to express the feeling you get when you should've cleaned out the garage but at least you got through Season 2 of "Stranger Things."

Thanks to me, you now know EXACTLY how you should feel. You should feel thoroughly and completely a-shane-d of yourself.

All I need to do is start petitioning the major dictionaries of the world... which I will do immediately after this episode of "House of Cards."

And then I'll get on Twitter and try to lure celebrities to my side... which I'll get to promptly after the fifth season of "Under Arrest."

Eventually -- probably shortly after I complete Season 4 of "Orange is the New Black" -- everyone will feel ashaned of themselves and think of me. And then there will be no stop. Except that "stop" spells "pots" backwards. Stupid levidrome.

COLUMN: Eclipse

"You speaks English. You deal with him, yes?"

This was NOT how I wanted to start my Sunday. After a long night spinning records til the wee hours, it was "morning" (noon) and I was on an emergency coffee run to the gas station. I usually try to avoid all forms of human interaction until the caffeine's kicked in, but no sooner had I walked in when the cashier suddenly called me in for the assist.

At the counter was a long-haired guy with his young daughter in tow, asking how to get to Illinois. 

"You're IN Illinois," I replied. "Mission accomplished?"
"Oh," he blinked. "My car robot says I need to take the Congressional Bridge to Mineland."
It was too early for Congressional bridges and people calling their GPS a "car robot." I just wanted coffee.

"We're going to the eclipse totality," he elaborated, "to experience a celestial rebirth."

I should have guessed as much. His car seemed barely capable of climbing the Congressional Bridge, yet alone making it to "Mineland," but Godspeed, brave adventurer. He was a nice guy and I hope he made it there.

I don't believe that eclipses are the harbingers of spiritual rebirth. I do, however, believe that eclipses are pretty rad. This explains why eighteen hours later, I was on the road with my best friend, listening to HIS car robot give us directions to the Show-Me State.

On TV the other night, they were interviewing astronomers and astrophysicists who were decidedly "meh" about last week's solar eclipse. As one guy put it, "The skies are filled with comets and supernovas, black holes and forces beyond our comprehension. So why does everybody get so worked up whenever one thing moves in front of another thing for a couple of minutes?"

He's got a point. We just drove for five hours in order to watch a thing we see every day cross in front of another thing we see every day. Except you can't actually watch it, because if you do, your retinas will melt. Good plan, then. But hey, in college, we once drove to Missouri and back for the precise reason of, "Hey, let's drive down to Missouri and back." This time, we actually had a proper excuse to do it.

When I told my mom that I was going to Missouri for the eclipse, she gasped in horror. "NO!" she said. "Don't be dumb. They're saying that traffic will be backed up for miles!" And they were, too. Newscasts were warning of nightmare traffic, distracted drivers, overpriced hotel rooms, and people in Carbondale willing to pay over $1000 for prime seating to watch the eclipse in the football stadium.

Here's a newsflash: When the event you're wanting to see is happening directly overhead, ANY view without a roof is going to be a prime view.

Out of mom-inspired traffic fears, we tried to stay off major arteries and instead stuck mainly to side roads, a decent plan that only brought us into the seedier Winter's-Bone backwoods of Missouri once or twice. With twenty minutes to spare, we reached our destination: the free viewing party at the Bradford Research Center of the MU College of Agriculture, Food, and Natural Resources -- right in the middle of the line of totality.

As we got out of the car, the light was already dimming, as if a gnarly storm was rolling in. But this was no storm. No, this was the moon deciding to steal the show for a change. And then, like the flick of a switch, totality hit. Day became night, the horizon roared to 360 degrees of dancing color, and up in the sky, the sun had turned into the fire-edged black ring you usually only see in movies. Cameras couldn't do it justice. It was breathtaking.

I could handle living in eclipse totality forever, but I had to settle for two amazing minutes before the sun popped out the other side to sear our retinas. 

My mind goes back to the astrophysicist who was poo-pooing eclipses. Watching one thing block another thing shouldn't be amazing. Right now, one of my cats is blocking the view of my other cat, yet I'm not staring upon my cat with profound wonder (note: never stare at a cat with profound wonder without proper safety eyewear - they could claw out your retinas.) But think back to ancient civilizations that worshipped the sun as a god. Imagine if, one day, you're going about your business when suddenly, overhead, your god turns BLACK. That'd be terrifying. For those two minutes, I'd be sacrificing anything that moved in hopes of my sun god returning to full power.

Thankfully, I don't think anyone used the totality of last week's eclipse to stage their version of The Purge. I hope those who needed a spiritual awakening got what they were looking for. I certainly got what I needed: a great vacation day with friends witnessing something I hadn't seen since Ms. Harlan-Marks projected it into a shoebox for us in 3rd grade. The next eclipse is only 7 years away -- if you can daytrip to the totality zone, I don't promise a rebirth, but it's an impressive show regardless.

COLUMN: Big Brother

I watch a LOT of TV. Some might say I watch TOO much TV. Sometimes, I have to agree with them.

I suppose it depends on what I'm watching. Many things I can justify. When I lay there like a bump on a log zoning out to CNN, I can convince myself that I'm being educated and staying up-to-date on current events. When I'm too lazy to change the channel off the Food Network, I can tell myself that I'm picking up important tips for the kitchen. When I'm watching "Game of Thrones," I feel zero shame because, well, dragons. Dragons are awesome.

But then comes the secret shame of my summer. A show that I adore for reasons I can't begin to explain. A show that I feel guilty for even THINKING about watching, yet it never stops me. A show so idiotic you can almost feel your brain cells wasting away. A show that I'm pretty sure once cost me a relationship in order to watch. A show called "Big Brother."

Every summer, CBS gets taken over by "Big Brother." Airing 3-4 primetime hours per week, it's one of those reality shows that isn't too particularly "real" or representative of any reality I've ever known. Still, it's mandatory appointment viewing for me every week, and if I dare to miss even ONE episode, I'm in an unexplainable funk for days.

You must be familiar with "Big Brother" by now, right? It's been on the air for nineteen seasons, and I'm pretty sure I've sat through every one of them. The premise is about as simple as possible: Each season, a cast of strangers get chosen to spend the entire summer in the Big Brother "house" -- which, of course, is a TV studio where every room is wired for sound and vision and the houseguests spend every second of their summer under total surveillance. Each week, through a series of contests and votes, one houseguest gets eliminated from the competition. The last player remaining at the end of the summer claims $500,000.

The primetime shows serve as a "best of" compilation of what happens in the house each week. If you're a superfan (like me), you can also watch Pop TV every night, where they air three hours of live unedited camera feeds from the house. If you're completely unhinged, you can pay for 24/7 internet access to every camera feed in the house. This is a line I have yet to cross. I beat myself over wasting time on "Big Brother" every summer, but then I remember that there are countless people across the country who are, at this very second, glued to their computer monitors watching strangers eat cereal and paint their nails.

The original first season of "Big Brother" was actually pretty great. A true sociology experiment, the chosen cast were representative of all walks of life and a diverse array of genders, ages, sexes, and backgrounds. Over the course of the season, these strangers put aside their differences and had a blast living in front of the camera. In today's world, where our differences create more headlines than our similarities, it was heartening to see such a diverse group of people become close friends. That original cast grew so tight that they dreaded each weekly elimination. At one point, they even threatened to sacrifice the money and walk out together as friends. The winner that year was crowned begrudgingly.

The whole thing was downright heart-warming -- and, of course, people hated it and the ratings tanked. Sadly, CBS learned from their "mistake." The following season, the show was retooled. The houseguests became less friendly and a lot more devious. Friendship and fun gave way to backstabbing and drama. The once-diverse casts now look like they're hand-assembled from the Island of Improbably Attractive People. I still watch, don't get me wrong -- but it's gone from an interesting sociology experiment to a wickedly addictive low-brow trainwreck.

Most of the guys in the cast look like professional bodybuilders while every girl is a wannabe bikini model. Then they sprinkle in the stereotypes, which usually consists of: (1) one older contestant, (2) one gay contestant, (3) one married contestant, and (4) one little nerdy guy. Most houseguests are single, and televised hook-ups are encouraged. The unspoken competition always seems to be who can wear the least amount of clothing. In-fighting and name-calling are the rules of the day. This kind of manufactured drama might make for more compelling TV than watching friendships slowly blossom, but it sure doesn't make me feel any better for wasting my summers with such garbage.

I say they should just go whole hog and stick a cast together that's so diverse the house becomes a modern-day Tower of Babel. "This season on Big Brother: everyone speaks a different language!" I want to force goths to live with Juggalos, Trump devotees with Bernie supporters, Cubs fans with Cards fans, alt-lefts with alt-rights. Maybe give them some weapons. Or at the very least, several big foam bats they can harmlessly beat each other with, because that's about the only threshold this show has yet to cross.

So why do I still eat this trash up every year? You got me. My co-workers and I gleefully discuss it. We're on a first-name basis with every houseguest, and as they get evicted, it feels like we've lost a friend. People have told me time and again that I should apply to be on "Big Brother." No thanks. I couldn't hack it. Contestants on that show have to spend an entire summer NOT watching TV. I wouldn't want to be on "Big Brother" because then I wouldn't be able to watch "Big Brother."

COLUMN: Bix

One of the things that makes life here in the Quad Cities so wonderful is our area's shared sense of tradition. Our time-honored ways of life have created customs behind which we can come together and rally as a community.

For instance, we recently celebrated the 43rd running of the Bix 7 road race.

On a personal note, I have my own traditions that I like to observe. For instance, I recently celebrated my 43rd year of ignoring the Bix 7 road race.

Some people might just say I'm lazy and an obese couch potato. I prefer to think that I'm simply honoring a cherished tradition near and dear to my cholesterol-hardened heart.

This year, though, was a little different. Due to a vet appointment, I actually had to be awake at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. So for the very first time, I was able to turn on the TV and watch the Bix as it happened live. I now understand it even less.

I think I speak for all couch potatos when I state the obvious fact that running is torture disguised as exercise. Oh, I know. Some of you physically fit types are now about to lecture me on the exhilaration and joy that comes with the "runner's high." Here's what I say to you people: The next time you're jogging along and enjoying that euphoria of a runner's high, pull out a mirror and take a look at yourself. Trust me, that look on your face is NOT one of euphoria.

I've seen you. I'm the guy driving past in my air-conditioned car while you're jogging amok sweating through your skivvies. I've seen the faces of countless runners, and not once have I seen those faces expressing anything remotely resembling joy. Instead, it's usually a pained grimace that I see, with a clear caption that reads, "DEAR GOD, WHY AM I DOING THIS? MAKE IT STOP."

Being the hard-nosed and diligent journalist that I am (not), I've done my homework. I've conducted experiments and run tests. And I can safely say with a good degree of certainty that one can complete the Bix 7 course MUCH faster and more efficiently if one were in a car. I just don't understand why no-one's thought of this before.

Also: to get from the starting line on Brady to the finish line on 3rd Street, there's no need to run all the way up Brady, across Kirkwood, and loop back. Come on, that's just showing off. It strikes me that a much more efficient route would be to walk from the starting line two blocks due east to the finish line. I'm pretty sure that I could make that walk in about the same time it takes the elite competitors to run to near-Bettendorf and back. I don't like to brag, but I'm pretty sure with this plan, I could win this thing next year.

Really, though, who designed this course? Running seven miles is painful enough, but to start by forcing everyone to climb up a grueling hill? That's just malicious. But it turns out I really didn't know the meaning of the word malicious until the race ended and I channel flipped into the worst sports event this side of Competitive Nose Hair Plucking: The Tour De France. (Translation: The Tour of France.)   

The elite runners of the Bix look like weenies compared to Tour cyclists with their veins bulging out of their legs like an overly aggravated Bruce Banner. After watching these guys ascend the Alps on nothing more than foot power and a flimsy bicycle, I'm never complaining about the Brady Street hill ever again. I get that exercise is good for you and all, but this kind of competition has to cross the line, right? Forget who comes in 1st place -- I say anyone who survives the Tour De France without their hearts exploding out of their chests should deserve a yellow jersey.

Isn't there supposed to be some kind of acclimation process when ascending mountainous heights? I just watched a documentary on climbing Everest, and before you can even THINK about venturing to the summits of the Himalayas, they make you chill out at base camp for a week just to get your body used to lower levels of oxygen.

A friend and I once drove to Colorado on a vacation whim. I remember stopping for gas just outside of Denver, taking one step out of the car, and nearly faceplanting from dizziness. We hadn't even made it TO the mountains and I was already suffering from oxygen deprivation. There's no wonder these Tour De France guys get busted doping themselves with horse blood or whatever. Certain things are simply not for humans, and I fear racing around mountaintops might be one of them.

I suppose it's easy for me to judge whilst I sit at sea level with a cushion on my rump and a donut in my hand. At the gas station today, I met a father and son from Germany who are halfway through a three-month journey across America on bicycles. They started in Portland, Oregon and they're headed to New York City. They definitely looked a bit worse for the wear, but for what it's worth, they had smiles on their faces and told me they were having the adventure of their lives.

So maybe I should change my lazy ways and start biking and running everywhere. Or maybe I should stay here on my couch in morbidly obese judgement of you healthy people. After all, it IS tradition. 

COLUMN: Hype

Sometimes I think I should've gone to school for marketing.

Instead, I was a Speech major, which is kinda funny seeing as I'm one of the most awkward small-talkers on the planet. The only time I'm really good at small talk is if I'm passionate about something that I want YOU to be passionate about as well. Just ask my co-workers -- over the years, I've talked them into listening to bands they normally wouldn't, watch TV shows they normally wouldn't, and even try food they normally wouldn't. Once, I even talked one of my co-workers into adopting a stray dog that I found.

In other words, I'm good at marketing. Which makes sense, because I'm even better at being a mark.

As I type this, I'm so tired that I'm barely lucid. Why? Because I'm an easy mark. Last night, I was minutes from shutting off the TV and hitting the pillow when "Last Call with Carson Daly" came on. You know, the late show that comes on AFTER the late show that comes on after the late show? And just as I was reaching for the remote control, I heard Carson go, "...and we'll finish with an exclusive live clip from the group some are saying could be the next big thing."

That's nice, Carson, but I need to go to... wait, the next big thing? And I haven't heard of them? I don't like to be uninformed when it comes to new bands. Darn it, though, it's pretty late. I need to go to sleep. Click went the remote and off went the TV.

It stayed off for seven minutes. That's how long it took until the thought of NOT knowing the next big thing caused me to get up out of bed and turn the TV back on. I just had to wait a half hour until the clip was on. Finally, I was face to screen with the band some are saying could be the next big thing.

Annnnnnnd they won't be. In fact, this band pretty much sucked. The world is not yearning for a three-member band who barely look old enough to be out of high school playing incredibly bland surf-punk while a sea of kids mosh and stage-dive around them. "Some are saying they could be the next big thing." Precisely WHO is saying this, Carson? Their girlfriends? Their classmates? Their moms? When I was a kid, we thought our high school band could be the next big thing, too. Their 8-song repertoire consisted of reggae covers of Beatles songs and one original called "Butt Ugly Women." They never made it to the radio, and neither will this band.

But, my sleep-addled brain argued, perhaps I'm not being fair. Maybe one three-minute live clip isn't enough to fully appreciate the genius of this band that clearly "some" think are amazing. I'd better do some more research.

And THAT is why I sit here sleep-deprived today, for I was still awake at 2 a.m. last night watching clip after clip of a sucky band continue their assault of suckage throughout the internet at large. The Carson Daly clip wasn't a fluke -- they're just a terrible band. Once again, I had fallen victim to the hype machine.

I like to consider myself a human being of at least moderate intelligence. When presented with hype, I should be able to see right through it, ignore the ballyhoo, and see it for the strategic marketing campaign that it is. Nnnnnope. If something's presented to me as new, amazing, or exciting", I'll be the idiot queueing up to throw money at it. A sandwich where the buns are made of fried chicken? Sign me up! A taco inside a gordita INSIDE A BURRITO? Yes please! I once bought a new car based entirely on the music used in its TV ad campaign.

If you ask me, the undisputed local master of hype is music promoter Sean Moeller. For years helming Daytrotter and now on his own, Sean has spent great effort turning the Quad Cities into a Midwestern music mecca. He's also one of the very best people I know and I'm proud to call him a friend. But if you want a lesson in how to use hype to your advantage, look no further than Sean's Facebook account.

Two days ago, I was greeted with this message: "ANNOUNCING A HUGE BARN SHOW this Thursday. GIGANTIC news Monday. And lots more show announcements this week! Just sayin'." By the time this column prints, all will be revealed, but I'm writing this on Wednesday night, and I guarantee I get a bad night's sleep tonight just wondering about this barn show and what this "gigantic" news could be.

Odds are high that it'll be some band or artist I'm "meh" about. On the other hand, it could be a band I'm really excited about. "You've got me all hyped about these announcements," I wrote on Sean's Facebook page. His cryptic reply just now? "You should VERY much be hyped." SQUEEEEEEEE! WHAT DOES IT MEAN???

Of course, now that I'm all in, anything less than a full Beatles reunion featuring the reanimated corpses of John Lennon and George Harrison will end up being a let-down. But in my never-ending efforts to be at the cusp of all things cool, I want to know. I need to know. I have been infected with hype.

I'm just glad I'm not the only one who falls into the hype trap from time to time. After all, they say a sucker's born every minute. On an absolutely unrelated note, next week's column is going to be new, amazing, and exciting! Some say it might be the next big thing! Just sayin'.

COLUMN: Golf Classic

My name is Shane, and I'm a music nerd.

For as long as I can remember, my love for music has defined the paths and friendships of my life. Quite often, the music nerd in me speaks louder than the rational part of my brain, and I'm okay with that. In fact, the only times I second-guess myself is when the rational part of my brain supercedes the music geek in me.

Last Sunday was a toughie for me. The British band Ride was making a rare Chicago appearance. Ride is my favorite band of all time, yet I decided to listen to the rational part of my brain and elected NOT to attend. I hope this doesn't mean I'm growing up.

In retrospect, it was a smart decision. Yes, my favorite band was playing Chicago, but only as part of the weekend-long Pitchfork Music Festival. This would have meant spending $75 and driving 3 hours to stand around in the sun and heat admidst thousands of smelly, sweaty hipsters, all just to see one terrific band play a quick festival set. Painfully, my rational voice won out and I decided to stay home.

Well, not ACTUALLY stay home. I wanted to do something to take my mind off the show, so I decided upon the most un-Shane-like activity I could think of: I called up my friend Jason and we went to the final day of the John Deere Classic. If I couldn't see my favorite band on the planet, at the very least I could see famous professional athletes like, umm, that one guy. And some other guy in pink pants. And a guy named Ollie Schniederjans who exudes a confidence you wouldn't normally think possible from anyone named Ollie Schniederjans. Personally, I was nowhere near as confident as Ollie.

Prior to last Sunday, I had never been to a professional golfing event. I had never been to ANY golfing event. The closest I came was college, when I talked Jason into taking Golf 101 with me because it sounded like the class in which I would be least likely to break my coccyx. Part of the class requirement was playing a few rounds of golf on your own time, so Jason and I went to Saukie one Sunday and played... something, but it certainly didn't deserve to be called golf. It was more like a game where we'd swing at a tiny ball and repeatedly miss it. Then, every once in a while, we'd hit it -- never to be seen again. I'm pretty sure at one point we teed off at the 7th hole and ended up on the green at the 9th.

So honestly, I had no idea what to expect as a spectator at TPC. I knew I had VIP parking, and was told a shuttle would take us to the course. In my mind, I pictured a cheery, oversized, air-conditioned van with decadent cushions. I did NOT picture a rickety school bus designed to accommodate all the travel needs of toddlers and/or Fantasy Island's Herve Villechaize. Jason is super tall and built like a stick. I am kinda tall and built like a bean bag full of tapioca pudding. Neither one of us fit into this bus with any semblance of grace and it's a miracle we made it to the course before our VIP stood for Very Injured Prostates.

Once there, though, I ended up having a shockingly decent time. The course is beautiful, and as we strolled down the valley of the back nine, I was overwhelmed by the politeness of the staff, the cleanliness of the facility, and the good behavior of our fellow attendees. Right away, I learned a few universal truths:

(1) Based on unintentional eavesdropping, it is MUCH better to know nothing about golf than to think you know EVERYTHING about golf. (2) I want one of those "QUIET" signs and would like to reserve the right to use it frequently in life. (3) Why do golfers and tennis players earn respectful silence from the crowd yet Lebron has to put up with 21,000 screaming idiots every time he takes a free throw? (4) By and large, pro golfers are nice guys. Even in the heat of the final round, I saw players stop for autographs, bump fists, and toss golf balls to fans. Respect.

The only negative was at the end, when I discovered that a pleasant stroll down the valley of the back nine meant facing a mountainous uphill climb back to the bus, which became a quick reminder of just how out-of-shape I am. I didn't want our headline the next day to read, "JOHN DEERE CLASSIC MARRED BY DEATH OF FATBOY." At one point, I saw a golf cart labeled "media shuttle" and almost tried yelling, "I'm media! I'm the guy who writes the cat columns!" but I couldn't gather the oxygen.

All in all, it was a pretty good day. Better yet, I got home in just enough time to log on to the live stream of the Pitchfork fest and caught Ride's entire set from a vantage point far better than I would've had in that sea of hipsters. So what does all this mean? "I'm Shane, and I'm a golf nerd?" Probably not. I don't have any plans to trade in my concert tees for pink golf pants anytime soon. But if I have to spend a day NOT seeing my favorite band, there's a lot worse places I could have been. 

COLUMN: Cat Food

My column is dangerouly veering towards self-parody this week. It's okay, though -- I'm well aware of it and we'll get through it together.

For years, I've said that our paper is staffed by qualified and exemplary journalists -- and one guy who writes about his cats WAY too much. Caution: I'm about to do it again. But when the heat index tops 100 and I spend an entire week holed up with the cats in air conditioning, no other topics really come to mind. Heat makes me want to do nothing, and if there's anybody in my life adept at doing nothing, it's my cats. But recently I've had to enter a new reality where "nothing" suddenly requires a high degree of maintenance.

My cat Bez is in kidney failure, so keeping her healthy has required a number of dramatic changes. As I'm typing this, she's under the bed hiding. Why? Because over the past two months, I've gone from being her best friend to my new role as the meanie who takes her to the vet every few days for the sub-cutaneous fluids she needs to survive.

But that's only part of the fun. To ease the workload on her kidneys, it's been recommended that I switch her from dry food to canned.

Even though I've owned cats for years, I've never actually felt like a cat person -- until the day I had to stand at the store trying to select moist cat food. In the time-honored battle of cat vs. dog, I'm giving this one to dogs. Dogs will pretty much eat ANYTHING you offer them: dog food, people food, toilet paper, styrofoam... they're not a discriminating sort. 

Cats, on the other hand, require their owners to menu plan. "SAVORY TURKEY MEDLEY WITH VEGETABLES," "CHICKEN & CHEDDAR CHEESE FEAST IN GRAVY." Really? Do cats really care about the savoriness of their dinner? If we're being realistic and going for what cats really want, shouldn't we see cans that say "SAVORY MOUSE ENTRAILS" or "DEAD BIRD WITH FEATHERS"?

I have never once owned a cat that's given chicken one bit of interest, and I'm pretty sure cats don't consider vegetables to be food. Cats don't give a mouse entrail about the presentation of their food, so long as its palatable. And at least judging by MY cats, their palates are pretty wack.

In fact, in all of Bez's life, I've only seen her get SUPER EXCITED to eat one thing, and it's too gross to even mention. So of course I'm going to.

The other day I was headed out the door with a friend when Isobel, my OTHER cat of the very sensitive stomach, made The Bad Noise -- it was hairball hacking time. As gross as it is, there's really nothing you can do but let nature take it's course and try to keep her on the tile floor where it's easier to clean. Ew.

As she was going about the awful business of throwing her gastrointestinal tract into reverse gear, I was using the restroom for a quick second before departing. That was when I heard my friend yell.

"Omigod," he said in a panic. I knew exactly what was happening.
"Ignore it, man," I said from the bathroom.
"But... your OTHER cat... so gross..."
"I know, dude. Just look away. Tell yourself it's not happening."

Let's just leave it at that and say that any cat excited to eat THAT is not going to be especially concerned about the savoriness of the vegetables in her turkey medley.

But after trying a few different varieties of moist cat food, I've begun to understand what owning a finicky cat is like. I've tried a couple flavors where Bez will run up, take one sniff, and look at me like, "Nope. I'd rather die of starvation, thanks." The other day, I opened a can of "SAVORY BEEF FEAST IN GRAVY," and I won't lie to you, it looked delicious and smelled like stew. If I was less concerned about what cow parts actually comprised this savory feast, I could see myself grabbing a spoon. Bez, on the other paw, seems to prefer just one thing: Chicken Pate'.

Pate' is a fancy word that sounds more appetizing than what it REALLY is, which is chicken mush. In my days, I've borne witness to most forms of chicken: raw, baked, Kentucky Fried, and even contentedly clucking about on a farm. In NONE of those forms was the chicken gelatinous and/or greyish-brown. I know chicken, and you, pate', are no chicken. You certainly don't smell like chicken. But so far, it's the only canned food my cat will eat. She'll nosedive into the stuff with hearty abandon, usually just before cuddling up next to me with pate' breath.

Moral of the story? Cats are weird, but not as weird as owners who stand around in stores planning their cat's menu. If gross chicken goo can keep my cat alive longer, I'm all in. If nothing else, it makes the hot dog I'm about to eat seem especially gourmet.

COLUMN: Cat TV

(Actual cat not pictured.)

Being the hard-nosed investigative journalist that I am (not), I don't like to see this column go to waste. I'm allowed about 750 words per week, and I like to make them count. That's why this column consistently focuses on life's most challenging questions: Why are we here? Do we have a purpose? What is right? What is wrong? Where do we go when we die? How do we make the world a better place? And, of course, the most perplexing and fascinating question of all:

What do my cats do after I leave for work?

I may finally know the answer.

Last week was rough. Stress at the office, stress at home, stress from the plentiful amateur pyrotechnic enthusiasts in my neighborhood and their nightly attempts to burn down our block while sending my cats into permanent firework psychosis. I even got to experience stress in the car thanks to some passing nimrod who thought it would be great fun to cruise down River Drive shooting roman candles sideways into the windows of passing cars and local newspaper columnists. I dig fireworks, but after a week of coming home every night to Little Fallujah, I yearned for some relaxation.

And how do I relax? The mature, 46-year-old way, of course: By playing loud, violent video games. But that's when things got interesting.

I had just booted up the X-Box and was checking my ranking in Rock Band (I am now the 7th greatest singer in the world, in case you were wondering.) That's when Bez, my feline couch co-pilot, hopped up beside me. After giving her a quick courtesy skritch, my attention returned to the game. This didn't sit well with Bez, who wanted more than an absent-minded pat on the head. After a couple of head butts and a mewl or two, she hopped down, walked directly in front of the TV, turned to me, and let loose an indignant meow of displeasure... which caused THIS to happen:

"VOICE COMMAND ACTIVATED. TV POWER OFF." Poof. And with that, my TV shut off, leaving me open-mouthed, game controller still in hand.

That's right, my cat has the ability to shut my TV on and off. Worse yet, it's an ability I have yet to master.

I was once excited to learn that my new TV had voice command technology. After all, this is a milestone advancement in the world of contemporary laziness. Some may have thought we had reached the pinnacle of sloth with the invention of the remote control, but let's be honest: we as a lazy people could be doing MUCH better.

Even with the so-called "ease" of remote controls, I still have to roll to one side of the couch, extend my arm, pick up the remote, avert my gaze from the TV for precious seconds to find the correct button, and engage multiple finger muscles in order to push that button. If I want to scroll through all the channels, that can involve pushing said button like fifty times. Come on, that's practically a full-scale exercise regimen for that finger.

But with voice command technology, there's no more exhaustive button-pushing to be done. Finally, I can change a channel without averting my eyes from the screen even for a second. THIS, friends, is optimal laziness.

According to the manual, all one has to do is clearly say, "Hi, TV." This initiates voice command mode, where it responds to a limited vocabulary of commands. "Hi, TV. Power on." "Hi, TV. Volume down." "Hi, TV. Please call 911 because my muscles have ossified and I have become fused to the sofa." You know, that sorta stuff.

But of course I get the one TV that doesn't enjoy being a conversationalist. I can sit there in the basement and say "Hi, TV" 'til the cows come home and my TV usually just ignores me. My neighbors, on the other hand, probably refer to as "that crazy guy who keeps angrily saying hello to his television."

That's not optimal, I realize. But it's probably better than "that crazy guy who keeps meowing to himself." All I can hope is that no-one walked past my house at 9 p.m. last night, because after discovering the cat can control my TV, I switched tactics to, "Hi, TV. Umm... meow?"

I never did get the TV to come on. But I now know EXACTLY what it's like to have your master ignore your desperate meowing.

I'm now convinced that the moment I walk out the door, my cats high-tail it to the basement, turn the TV on, and spend the day watching Animal Planet and winning the laziness war for now. In the meantime, I have a cat wanting a belly scratch. If I'm nice enough, maybe she'll change the channel to HBO for me.

COLUMN: Hallmark Christmas

I'm not sure how it happened. I didn't want it to happen. I should have known better than to let it happen. It's days before Thanksgiving, but somehow I'm feeling -- (gulp) -- festive.

I love the holiday season. BUT IT HASN'T STARTED YET. When I was a kid, we had Halloween, we had Christmas, and somewhere inbetween we had that day where you eat too much.

Then things changed. Retailers weren't satisfied with just ONE month of blitzkrieg yuletide shopping. Nowadays, Christmas displays start firing up before Halloween candy has left the shelves. Leaves are still turning on my trees, but Mix 96 is already blaring Christmas music. Our three holidays have been morphed into a melange of Thanksmasoween.

I love Christmas -- but with clenched teeth and Grinch-like stubbornness, I will not love it until December. Or so I thought.

It wasn't my fault. I had a LOT of stuff to do last Sunday, and I was trying my best to find my productive side. It's just that my house is SUPER weird and quiet without a TV on, so I absent-mindedly channel-flipped to HBO for some background noise while I worked on my to-do list.

But then I noticed something. Banal dialogue... thin plotlines... washed up C-level actors... an overly saccharine soundtrack. OHH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

This wasn't HBO. I was on -- The Hallmark Channel.

I don't know when Hallmark switches to 24/7 Christmas movies. My guess is mid-July. For all I know, maybe they just ALWAYS run Christmas movies. They're low-budget, formulaic, predictable, undeniably awful... and addictive as heroin. How do I know? I just sat through SIX of them.

And it was basically the same movie six times in a row. The only thing that changes is the setting and the failed 90's actor in the starring role. It's always the same plot:

We meet him/her, who is usually but not always Full House's Candace Cameron-Bure or Party of Five's Lacey Chabert. It's the holiday season, but he/she barely notices, thanks to the distraction of (a) his/her important and time-consuming job, (b) his/her louse of a boy/girlfriend, or (c) being a single mom or dad to a precocious and overly-talkative child.

He/she invariably is in a hurry to get somewhere. Then, due to either (a) a twist of fate, (b) a wrong turn, or (c) a helpful nudge from a ghost and/or angel who is usually but not always William Shatner, he/she finds him/herself stuck in a small town that looks like any number of Norman Rockwell paintings.

There they will find the following: (a) a wise-cracking waitress and/or mechanic who will inevitably become their best friend by the end of the movie, (b) the magic of Christmas, and (c) their soulmate, who is always either struggling to get by, or struggling to get by because they're a single mom/dad to a precocious and overly-talkative child. They will meet, they will fall in love, someone will learn the true meaning of Christmas, and somehow the family farm and/or business will be saved from bankruptcy.

Lessons will always be learned, love will always prevail, fake snow will always fall. The title must include the word Christmas: "Love You Like Christmas," "Just in Time for Christmas," "Christmas Done Right," "Christmas Done Wrong," "Christmas 2: Electric Boogaloo," "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Christmas," it honestly doesn't matter.

But for some reason, I can't stop watching them and I don't know why. It's not as if they're nail biters. I'm not sitting there going, "Will she ever find true happiness?" There's no other possible outcome. No Hallmark Channel movie will ever end with the script notes of, "...and then she dies. The camera zooms in on a single tear rolling down the face of the precocious and overly-talking child -- for she now knows that Christmas is a lie."

After ten minutes of watching, you feel ridiculous. After two hours of watching, you can't fight off the warm fuzzies. And after watching insipid Hallmark Christmas movies for twelve hours? Well, what happened then in my house, they say, is that Shane's small heart grew three sizes that day. It didn't help that I looked outside at noon to see giant Rockwellian snowflakes floating from the sky like holiday magic. Within hours, I had already dragged out the first of my Christmas decorations.

I suppose it could be worse. I could be one of the writers who spends their summer months dreaming up these heart-warming atrocities. I could be an actor having to walk through fake snow in mid-July pretending it's Christmas. I may have found some premature holiday magic this year, but it's not my fault. Blame Hallmark. Blame the guy who turned my TV to the wrong channel. I presume it was William Shatner.

COLUMN: The Orville

I'm confused.

As part of my public service as your humble columnist and purveyor of all things pop culture, I've been checking out this fall's new TV offerings. (Because it's my JOB, and not in any way because I have no life and prefer to live vicariously through fictional television characters.)

I've seen some new shows that are fantastic. I've seen some that are awful. But there's one new show that just leaves me with a huge question mark every week, because I'm just not quite sure WHAT to think about it. Have you seen "The Orville" yet?

When I first heard that Seth MacFarlane would be helming a "Star Trek"-esque sci-fi show this fall, I was intrigued. I've long been an almost-fan of MacFarlane's work. I'm just not sure if he's a genius or the most annoying guy in Hollywood.

Take "Family Guy," for instance. MacFarlane's long-running animated series represents both the best and worst that modern TV has to offer. On one hand, it's a deliciously delinquent rule-breaker that pushes the envelope of good taste with decadent glee. But tasteless humor works best if you're using it subversively to skewer society (see: South Park, Rick & Morty.) If I have to sit through another extended sequence of Peter Griffin fighting a giant chicken, it might be the last straw for me and "Family Guy."

MacFarlane's forays into film have been equally iffy. "Ted" had some funny bits, but "Ted 2" was a disaster. Critics and fans alike turned away from "A Million Ways to Die in the West," but I went into that film expecting stupidity and ended up laughing a LOT.

That's why "The Orville" intrigued me. I'm a long-standing nerd, which means I'm required to love sci-fi stuff, right? But sometimes sci-fi drives me up a wall because it takes itself WAY too seriously. Did Captain Kirk ever crack a joke? Have Mulder and Scully ever cut loose once in their lives? Maybe letting MacFarlane lampoon "Star Trek" would be refreshing.

So I've been watching. And sure enough, the pilot started with some solid comedy and a cast of characters rife for spoofing: A captain whose stellar career was derailed by his failed marriage. A no-nonsense doctor. A skirt-chasing helmsman. A brutish Klingon-esque alien. A cute blonde security officer with superhuman strength. And, of course, a robot who struggles to understand human emotion. Then the first officer shows up -- and it's the captain's ex-wife! Ho, ho, ho. It's every bad Trek stereotype rife for parody.

I was eagerly anticipating "The Orville" to ham-handedly skewer "Star Trek." Instead, though, The Orville pretty much IS "Star Trek." Every episode starts with a few edgy laughs, then suddenly it becomes earnest and serious -- or as serious as you can take a low-budget space adventure. Like the infinite Treks before it, "The Orville" is little more than a weekly morality play, usually involving the ship happening upon some dytopian society that warns us how easily our own world could run amok.

In one episode, they visit a planet where all legal rulings are decided by citizens up-or-downvoting on what looks to be Space Reddit. I think it's supposed to show us the dangers of overusing social media. All it made me do was go on Facebook and talk about how much I hated it.

The show takes itself so seriously that when the jokes DO come, they're jarring and incredibly out-of-place. Imagine ANY random episode of "Star Trek," but have Kirk and Spock drop flatulence jokes every fifteen minutes and you'll be close to what "The Orville" has to offer. The plotlines are thin and campy and the "lessons learned" are so heavy-handed it feels less like sci-fi and more like an extra-terrestrial Afterschool Special.

It's as if the show doesn't know what it wants to be. Enough people have watched to secure a second season, so that's good for MacFarlane. Maybe he can use the down time to iron out the awkwardness a little. If he really wants "The Orville" to be the new "Star Trek," though, can I offer a few suggestions?

(1) Get the nerds involved. Geeks aren't going to be impressed by thinly veiled morality plays. I vote for a little less fiction and a little more science. How are your spaceships even powered? For all I know, they run on magic. I don't even follow Star Trek, but every geek knows their starships need dilithium crystals to activate their warp drives. Nerd it up a little, Seth.

(2) Give us a cool weapon. Trek had phasers. Star Wars had light sabers. "The Orville" has plastic looking guns that stun people. Not impressed.

(3) Diversify. You're never going to win the hearts of geeks without tie-ins to video games, action figures, comic books, and role-playing adventures. Peddle your wares and go full Comic-Con.

Make up your mind, Seth. Are you going for campiness? Homage? Sincerity? Satire? Seriousness? You can't be ALL things to ALL people, especially since most of those people are watching "Scandal" or Thursday Night Football instead. Maybe I shouldn't remind him of that. The crew of "The Orville" might soon be snacking on wine and popcorn while showing us the dangers of getting concussions from interstellar contact sports.

COLUMN: Sinatra Stranger

Well, there's another Halloween survived. No tricks, a few treats, and most importantly: No awkward dialogue with people in costumes.

Last week, I mentioned in passing how much I hate it when grown adults dress up for Halloween. A couple of you e-mailed wondering why I had to be the All Hallows Grinch. Sorry, it wasn't my intention to rain on anyone's spooky parade. I actually really love great Halloween costumes. Did you guys see Dave Grohl dressed up like David Letterman when he guest-hosted Kimmel on Halloween? It was amazing. The internet is full of hilarious costumes and Halloween hijinks, and I eat it up like candy.

My problem isn't your costume. It's having to talk to you while you're IN it.

I'm a socially awkward person. I've never been great at making banal small talk. I'm usually the nervous weirdo who won't make eye contact and can't think of a single worthwhile thing to say because I'm usually too busy telling myself, "YOU'RE ACTING WEIRD. DON'T ACT WEIRD. BE NORMAL, WEIRDO."

Face-to-face small talk is awkward enough -- please don't make me do it when one of those faces is caked in zombie make-up. I can't discuss the weather when fake entrails are spewing out your chest, sorry. That's almost panic attack territory for me.

I dunno, maybe I'm not as bad at small talk as I think. But an instance happened a couple weeks ago that cemented my self-worth when it comes to normal human interaction, and it wasn't pretty.

I was in Chicago, taking advantage of a rare chance to see one of my favorite bands, The Trashcan Sinatras. They might not be a household name, but these unheralded kings of Scottish indiepop have been wowing their diehard resilient fans for decades. When they announced an all-acoustic career-spanning tour, it was a must-attend. At the show, I met up with some old friends and familiar faces from Trashcan shows of yore. Then there was the one face who saw me, beamed with a smile, and came straight over.

"HEY!" he said with enthusiasm. "I didn't know you liked this band, too!"
"Oh, totally," I replied. "Been a fan since day one. How have you been?"
"Not bad," he said. "I haven't seen you for years! Are you still...?"
"Doing my thing?" I interrupted. "Absolutely!"
"Man, it's good to see you!" 
   
All things told, not a bad piece of small talk. There was just one problem: I had NO CLUE who this guy was. I have friends and acquaintances from all walks of life, but this guy wasn't one of them. I was talking to a complete stranger. "Doing my thing?" Did I REALLY just say that? I suppose it wasn't a lie. I do things.

When he went away, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then came intermission (and yes, I'm now old enough that I see bands who take intermissions.) Of course, who do I end up next to in line at the bar but this same stranger -- and the awkward dance continued.

He told me about his job. His girlfriend. He talked about the weather. I complained how difficult it was to find parking on the same night as a Cubs game. The more we talked, the more I was certain we'd never met. Finally, the clincher happened.

"It's... Frank, right?"
"Nope, it's Shane," I replied, pretty sure I'd just sent the conversation spiralling.
"Oh, sure, Shane, that's right."

Seriously, dude? Must we continue this phony conversation? SURELY he had to have realized by now that I wasn't who he initally thought I was. I wanted to put this sorry encounter to bed.

"How long HAS it been?" I inquired to put the nail in the coffin of this conversation.
"Oh, I think the last time I saw you was at the Beautiful South concert."

There are a whole lot of bands in the world. On any given night, dozens of them are playing in Chicago. I might drive up for two or three per year. I didn't know this guy. I'd never spoken to him before this night. But against all odds, I had been at that Beautiful South show.

It didn't change the fact that he had mistaken me for another random chubby guy, quite probably named Frank, who must look as ruggedly handsome as me and who must also have pretty decent taste in music. At some point, probably when I mentioned that I lived a stone's throw from Iowa, I think he realized he was talking to a total stranger. By then, though, it didn't matter, because we had one thing in common.

I'm bad at small talk about weather or the workday or current events. But talk to me about MUSIC and suddenly you're in my wheelhouse. We spent the next ten minutes debating the best Beautiful South records, comparing favorite Trashcan songs, and sharing reviews of our top records of the year. We certainly weren't old friends, but I may have met a new one by the time it was all said and done.

So please, if you see me out and about, don't hesitate to come say hi. I won't have a panic attack, promise. But if you see me fishing for words or awkwardly dodging your glance, all you need to do is blurt out something like, "Quick, what's your favorite Beatles album?" and we'll be fast friends. Just don't do it in a costume. And don't call me Frank.

COLUMN: Cricket

I am not a big sports guy. This may come as a shock to those of you who look at my picture and naturally assume that I'm a buff jock.

In this world, there are those who play sports, there are those who watch other people play sports, and there are those who were too busy DJing the post-game dance to even worry about what the game even WAS. When it comes to athletics, I have always been, and shall always be, woefully inept. For me, gym class was little more than legalized child abuse and a daily opportunity to get picked last for any team.

Occasionally, though, sports can be fun to watch, especially if you have no clue what's going on.

Last Saturday, my friends and I were heading out on a much-needed aimless joyride when we stumbled across something I'd never seen before in the Quad Cities: a cricket match. There, in the fields of Jacob Park in East Moline, a handful of guys stood around gleefully cricketing away. None of us had seen a live cricket match before, so we decided to pull in and spectate for a bit. After watching for fifteen minutes, we still had NO clue what was happening.

Cricket is somewhat of a distant cousin to baseball, in that both sports involve batters trying to hit balls that are pitched their way. Instead of a diamond, cricket is played on an oval field with defensemen surrounding the batter on nearly all sides. There's a whole lot of standing around and not doing much. In other words, cricket might just be a sport I could handle.

When I got home later that night, I researched cricket to figure out the rules. It turns out this simple-looking game is a bit more complex than it appears, and comes with its own incomprehensible vocabulary -- such as this, from Wikipedia: "The ball can be bowled so that it bounces on the pitch, is a yorker, or a full toss. A no ball or a wide does not count towards the six balls in the over." Oh, I completely understand now, thanks.

Wikipedia also informs that when it comes to determining whether or not a batter is out, "even though the wicket may have been put down, or the ball caught, the batsman is not actually dismissed until the fielding team appeal to the umpires for a decision, traditionally using the phrase 'How's that' or 'Howzat.'" I was now more than ever convinced that cricket could just be MY sport. I might not make a good ball catcher or a good wicket put-down-er, but I'm pretty sure I could make an exceptional Howzat-man, should any team need my services.

I honestly DID want to learn more about cricket, but had no idea where to turn. Then I had an epiphany. Unfortunately, it may have been a slightly racist epiphany. At the end of my block is a gas station that I frequent daily, and over the years I've become friendly with the Indian family that runs the place. Cricket is HUGE in India, and I had a feeling those guys knew everything about the sport. But would it be an uncool stereotype to just assume so?

Thankfully I'm friendly enough with them to risk it. So yep, yesterday I started a gas station conversation with the phrase, "I apologize if I'm making a bad stereotype here..." which ALWAYS means "I'm definitely making a bad stereotype here," but thankfully my inquiry was met with a smile.

"Sorry, dude," my friend said. "I'm not very sporty," which is probably why we're friends. But he DID know everything about the rules of cricket, and told me all about how it's played. I now know about wickets and outs and yorkers and a really interesting game that's been around since the 16th century.

Even more convinced that I'd finally found a sport I could get along with, I got home that night and decided to check out some cricket videos on Youtube. This wasn't a good decision. Well, for ME, it might have been the BEST decision. As it turns out, right next to all the "How-To-Cricket" videos were dozens of videos with titles like "HORRIBLE CRICKET INJURY!" and my personal favorite, "TOP TEN CRICKET DEATHS ON THE PITCH," inferring that some cricket deaths on the pitch are just not awesome enough to make a top ten list. Whoa.

I'd like to say that I was respectful and classy enough to skip the shock-and-awe videos and focus only on the educational videos. Nope. Instead, I sat there for a half hour watching the sport of cricket maim people. I saw teeth fly out of mouths in slow motion. I saw groins that will never be the same. I saw an Australian pro take a cricket ball to the neck so hard he never got up again.

Over the years, I've learned a few simple Laws of Shane. An important one: If it's possible for something to injure me, it most likely will. Cricket seems fun, but so does keeping all my teeth in my mouth. I've seen all the safety equipment you should be wearing to play cricket, but I didn't see much padding going on at Jacob Park.

Before I discover my inner jock, I want to watch a few more matches. When it comes to cricket, I might make a better spectator than player. If you're an area cricketeer and you're playing soon, shoot me an e-mail and maybe I'll come check it out. Howzat?

COLUMN: Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

A little bit of change is often a big deal in my world. Change can be exciting, intimidating, scary, and exhilarating. In other words, it's usually not for me. "Exhilarating" just isn't a word that creeps up in my couch-dwelling lifestyle too often. However, a little bit of change has entered our lives this week here in Dispatch-Argusland. That's usually my cue to curl into a fetal ball and commence panicking.

I've always had a natural resistance to change. Admittedly, this is a pretty stupid mindset to have. Without change, there's never any possibility for growth. More often than not, change is a risk worth taking, whether you have to push yourself or accept the occasional push of fate. After all, without a good push or two, I'd be a 250 lb. fetus making my mom SUPER uncomfortable right about now.

This time around, though, I strangely haven't been panicking. I've yet to reach for a fidget spinner or search the internet for coping mechanisms. In fact, this change is giving me a strange new feeling I'm unfamiliar with. I looked it up, and I think it's something called "optimism." Weird, huh?

You're reading this now, which likely means you're a fan of our papers, so you've probably already heard the news: last week, the Small Newspaper Group sold the Dispatch•Argus•QCOnline to the good folks at Lee Enterprises. 

What's this mean? Well, it means we'll be saying goodbye to the Small family, who have been steadfastly sailing this ship since before I was born. We're also saying goodbye to Jerry Taylor, who retires as our publisher after 40-plus years of service. With soft voice and steady hands, Mr. Taylor has been our rock, our captain, our friend, and a man whose only error in judgement may have been letting the weirdo kid from advertising write about his cats every Monday. I couldn't be more grateful.

It also means we'll be saying hello to a company with a proven track record of excellence, who already serve 49 markets in 21 states. This week, they've been meeting our team, and I hope they're discovering they just inherited a scrappy crew of hard workers equally devoted to the noble pursuit of journalistic excellence -- and one columnist who probably uses the word "poop" too many times for their liking.

The ones who should benefit the most from this new partnership are you, the readers. With renewed vigor and newfound resources, we're committed more than ever to serve our community the very best print and online products we can muster every day. The Dispatch•Argus isn't going anywhere.

So if the order of the day ISN'T to panic and curl up into a fetal ball, how did I cope with the spectre of change this time around? Well, with some acoustic folk music, naturally.

The night that news of the sale broke, rather than sit at home and convince myself that change must always be bad, I instead took an invitation from my friend Sean Moeller and headed to downtown Davenport's Raccoon Motel to catch Son Little and singer-songwriter Korey Dane.

"I wrote this one a couple years back when I was hitch-hiking across the U.S.," Dane said at one point, in an instantly successful attempt at proving himself way cooler than I'll ever be. That's when it hit me. Maybe I resist change because I've never had my walkabout moment. I've never thrown caution to the wind or hitchhiked across our great land with Kerouacian passion. I've barely left the corn belt.

Then again, I've also never been axe murdered, and that's what my mom always promised would happen if I ever hitchhiked. The gods of fate are something I seldom toy with, so it WOULD be just my luck to begin my life-affirming spiritual journey by hopping into a car with a blood-thirsty sociopath. Plus, Dane's good looks and natural charm probably scored him rides fairly easy. My aged and tubby silhouette would probably still be on a roadside as we speak, trying to stick out my thumb while balancing an armful of cats.

Just today I read an article about all the free-wheeling travelers that converged on Stonehenge for the summer solstice last week. Dozens of new age hippies weeped at the morning sun while presumably renewing their chakras through the karmic vibrations of the ancient ley lines. Had I been there, I'd have been the guy whining about the mosquitos and asking if anybody knew the password for the Stonehenge wi-fi. The traveler's life is not for me.

No, my place is here, contentedly couch-surfing and waiting for my cats to do something funny enough to write about. I'm no sage philosopher, so all I can tell you is this: I'm excited about the future, and I hope you all are, too.

Here's where I should probably quote REO Speedwagon's "Roll With the Changes," but I just can't bring myself to cite a song so bad it dares to rhyme "brink of" with "drink of." Instead, I will follow the orders of the great David Bowie, turn and face the strange, and see what these ch-ch-ch-ch-changes have to offer.

COLUMN: Catfight

It's normally my goal to try and bring a little levity to your Monday newspaper, but it's tough to be carefree and jovial in times of war.

I refer, of course, to the battle of wits that I'm currently waging against one of my cats.

As you may already know, I recently got some bad news about one of my feline houseguests. After eleven years of companionship and column fodder aplenty, poor Bez's kidneys are starting to give out. There's no magic fix for kidney failure in cats, but there ARE therapies that can slow the process while hopefully giving her continued time for her favorite hobby: testing my patience to its absolute breaking point.

Specifically, this therapy involves subcutaneous fluids to help take some of the load off her kidneys. This means sticking my cat with a IV needle three times a week and somehow getting her to hang out while 100 cc's of fluid drips under her skin.

In theory, it's an easy process. You just grab the cat by the scruff of her neck, make a little tent with the skin, poke the needle in, and just sit there for a few minutes while gravity does all the work. It's so harmless that my vet showed me how to do it using one of their office cats, who strolled in and sat amiably while a vet gave her a few cc's of fluid.

"See?" the vet tech told me. "They don't even feel it."

Clearly, they had never met MY cat.

Back home, I logged onto Youtube and watched countless instructional videos. In each one, happy cats sat around seemingly undisturbed in the slightest by the process. The most common advice was to distract your cat with food. As long as there are delicious nom-nom's, cats don't generally care who's doing what to the scruff of their necks.

Clearly, they had never met MY cat.

I was ready. IV bag in place? Check. Delicious cat treats at the ready? Check. As Bez began to chow down, I lightly grabbed her scruff, made a tent, gently put the needle in, and then watched in horror as my cat turned to me and squealed as if I were trying to kill her. Next thing I knew, claws were sunk in, needles were pulled out, and IV fluid was shooting around my living room willy-nilly. Not good.

Things haven't improved. I did not raise a dumb cat. Now all she has to do is SEE the IV bag and she runs for the hills. I'm doing everything right but she's just being a huge baby. I tried distracting her with food -- and now she's equated food with pain. When I set down dinner for her, now she circles it warily for minutes as if she expects someone to leap out and stab her in the neck the minute she takes a bite.

Happily, my vet's office will do the deed for me as often as needed -- but this creates a whole new set of problems. The minute I put her in a carrier, she howls like the world's ending. My vet's office is only nine blocks away from my house, but the other day she spent those nine blocks howling so loud that she blew out her little cat voice and spent the rest of the day hoarse, meowing at me like a chain-smoking cat reincarnation of Brenda Vaccaro.

Of course, to make me look even crazier, the minute we're inside the vet's office, she shuts up and acts like an angel. Doesn't even make a peep when they put the IV in.

"She's such a sweetheart," they told me the other day. "We can't imagine how she could give you trouble at home." And then the SECOND I take her outside of the office, she starts howling again like I'm the world's worst human.

And now she's catching on. After two times of waking up early to take her to the vet before work, she now hides in the mornings. Last week, I mixed it up and took her on my lunch hour -- and now she hides from me any time I come home mid-day. I was hoping as the sub-Q treatment carried on, eventually she'd get used to it. Instead, she's getting more stubborn. Work is sympathetic to a degree, but I can't exactly call in late because I'm playing hide-and-seek with a scaredy-cat.

Like I said, she's not dumb. When I come home from work at night, she knows the vet's office is closed. There's never any hiding at night. Instead, she comes running for skritches and spends most of the night contentedly purring on my lap. As I type this, I'm laying on my stomach while she's sprawled out on my back, checking out the laptop over my shoulder and probably learning how to read.

I suppose it's all worth it. Despite our ensuing battles, the therapy's working. She's back to her usual self and seems happy (except for the stabbier parts of her week.) I know friends whose cats have lived for years thanks to sub-Q fluids. At this rate, Bez might just outlive ME -- the stress of being continually outsmarted by a cat might just be MY early end. War is hell, friends.

COLUMN: Editor Shane

So I couldn't help but notice the alarming fact that I'm not yet a multi-millionaire. This is kind of a bummer.

I've done everything right. I've played the lottery at least a dozen times. I've provided you all with moderate levels of entertainment every Monday. I've brought beats to as many local dancefloors as my weekend DJ gig allows. But for all this work, I've yet to win a single jackpot. No publisher has handed me a global syndication deal. And even though I'm quite adept at mixing TLC's "No Scrubs" into N*Sync's "Bye Bye Bye," Lollapalooza has yet to invite me to headline their main stage. What gives, people?

I'm a realist. I'm not asking for Bill Gates levels of wealth. I'd be perfectly happy with just a mansion or two and perhaps a modest handful of personal assistants. That's not asking too much, is it?

At this rate, I may be forced to turn to Plan B. I don't really have the time, but I may just have to write the next Great American Novel.

Wait, scratch that. Great American novels might be beloved, but they're not exactly money-makers. People never camped out for days in front of a Barnes & Noble waiting for "Moby Dick." Universal Studios never opened a Grapes-of-Wrath-land theme park. I don't need to write great literature, I just need to write POPULAR literature. I want Dan Brown money. Stephanie Meyer money.

All I need to do is come up with a... what's that thing called? Oh, yes. A plot.

Truth be told, this isn't the first time I've sat down and declared myself a novelist. Each time, it's been nothing less than unmitigated disaster. One time, I thought I could cash in on the Twilight craze by writing a page-turner about a teenager who falls in love with... a leprechaun. Laugh all you want, I still say it could be a romance for the ages. Nobody better steal my idea. It could still happen.

The problem is, I'm just not that good of a writer. I'm horrible at coming up with original ideas, and the few times I've tried, I end up writing dialogue where every character acts, reacts, walks, and talks just like me. If there's a more hellish nightmare than the prospect of a town filled with Shanes, I can't imagine it. And therein seems to lie my biggest problem: I can't imagine.

So there I was last year, banging my head against an empty screen in frustration, when an e-mail from an old friend showed up. Back in junior high, I rolled with a close-knit posse of proud nerds, and they didn't come much nerdier than my good friend George. Some of my fondest memories involve slumber parties at his house, slamming Jolt Cola while watching wonderfully awful horror movies until the wee hours. George has since become Dr. George, working in the field of artificial intelligence and data science while making the rest of us feel very, very stupid.

Why was my old friend e-mailing? Because in his spare time, George decided to try his hand at writing fiction. As opposed to my empty screen of frustration, George wrote a novel -- and it's GOOD. Hundreds of hundreds of jealousy-inducing pages. I won't give anything away, but its a tale of gods and goddesses and a mortal hero who has to descend into the bowels of Hell to rescue his beloved. It's legimitately a great read.

And for some reason, he wanted MY feedback on it. Folks, I may have found my new calling. I'm lousy at writing fiction, but as it turns out, I'm kinda decent at telling people how to write theirs. For the past year, George has been e-mailing me drafts of his book and I've been serving as an amateur editor. It's become a fun hobby. He writes phrases like, "Visions give way to faceless night, crawling infantile in the smothering blind-dark: weary, fog-benumbed traveler on the unlighted Path of the Dead." I write phrases like, "He was asleep." Somewhere in the middle, I think we balance.

As opposed to my motivation of vast riches, George wrote his book pretty much just for fun. So rather than struggle with landing a book deal, he's planning on self-publishing, hopefully later this year. His once epic tome is now shaping up to be a multi-book saga, and I'm happy to lend a hand whenever he needs it. This week, he asked me to edit the book summary for the e-jacket. Here's what I came up with:

"Paul Masterson is a lonely professor of religion and mythology.  As a child, recurring dreams of a suffering woman of divine origin sent him to a psychiatrist. Those dreams are now gone, long since dismissed as a childhood fantasy.  But the arrival of a mysterious letter awakens more than just old memories. Could his dream-goddess be real?  And if so, can anyone ease her suffering? To find out, Paul must come to terms with his past and visit a city he's long avoided. Can a shy loner at life become a true hero of myth?"

What do you guys think? If you saw that description on Amazon, would you read that? If all goes well, you might be able to later this year. If I get thanked somewhere in tiny print, that's reward enough for me. Unless, of course, it becomes the next Harry Potter. THEN I'm politely asking George for a mansion -- you know, so I can edit his next book in comfort.

COLUMN: Blog Stats 4

There are lots of ways to take an effective barometer reading of just how crazy the world is at any given time. You could peruse the news in this very paper. Some believe all you have to do is follow the president on Twitter. Me? I just have to check my blog.

Lurking in an inconspicuous back alley of the internet is http://shanebrown.blogspot.com. For the most part, I just use my blog to house all of my columns in one convenient place, for those times when you absolutely need to binge-read the weekly ramblings of a middle-aged nerd. But there's another reason why I've kept my blog online all these years.

I have a stat tracker attached to my blog. I installed it more than a decade ago just so I could see how many people visit, which columns attract the most readers, etc. I also can see what country my visitors are from. (I'm quite popular in Italy for some reason. Ciao!) I can see which websites referred the most visitors my way.

But most important, I can see what search phrases lured people to my blog. Let's say you hopped on Google and did a search for, I don't know, "POOP COFFEE." At some point, I might have written columns that contain the words "poop" and "coffee." If I had, and if you were to keep scrolling through your Google search results, you might very well reach a link to my blog at some point. And whenever someone gets to my blog via a Google search, my stat tracker tells me what that person was searching for. And seeing what people search for is nothing less than a front-row seat to Crazytown.

Want to guess what the most-searched phrase that's brought people to my blog is? That's right, it's "POOP COFFEE."

I suppose this merits a bit of an explanation. About a decade ago, I wrote a brief column about the culinary delicacy known as kopi luwak. It's a rare and expensive blend of coffee from Sumatra. You see, in Sumatra, there's an animal called a civet (imagine if a cat and a weasel had a clandestine tryst, and you'd be close). Well, some Sumatran civets have a taste for coffee beans. The beans go in; nature takes its course; and the beans come out. Then, locals pick up the droppings, roast them, and sell them to bohemian idiots willing to pay upwards of $200 per bag for what is essentially dried civet poop.

Experts say it tastes amazing, although I'm generally inclined to distrust anyone who is an expert at drinking poop.

The second most-searched phrase that leads folks to my blog is "KATIE HOLMES," and I'm perfectly OK with that, given the fact I'm in love with her. Maybe one day she'll reach a point of insecurity in her career, and in a fit of despondency, she will Google her own name. When that day comes, there my blog will be, where I've professed my undying love for her on multiple occasions.

That's when Katie Holmes will have to make the ultimate decision: Stay in Hollywood with her millions of dollars, Tom Cruise's baby and purported boyfriend, Jamie Foxx? Or pack it all in to experience the love only a middle-aged, fat, newspaper columnist from Illinois can offer? Until then, I'll leave a dresser drawer open for her things.

Beyond those popular searches lies a vast smorgasbord of crazy. These are actual Google searches that have somehow brought people to my blog during the past 12 months:

— "WHAT TO DO FOR ITCHY KIDNEYS": Stepping away from the computer and heading for a doctor might be a good start. My general rule of thumb is that, when your internal organs start to itch, you're probably past the "Hi Google" stage of curiosity.

— "HOW MUCH CHOCOLATE DOES IT TAKE TO KILL YOU?": Based on my annual Halloween intake, I'm going to say a lot. I'm still here, so that says something.

— "BEST NICKELBACK SONGS": Finally, something I can help with. With absolute certainty, the best Nickelback songs are the two seconds of silence between each track on their albums.

— "APPLESAUCE IN MY PANTS": My blog might not be famous. My blog might not generate a ton of traffic. But it's good to know my blog has landed the attention of the coveted applesauce-pervert demographic. Success!

I guess all I can do is keep writing, keep blogging and keep saying "POOP COFFEE" as many times as possible to keep the weirdos coming by for a visit.

COLUMN: Stress

My right eyelid is twitching. Is that a bad thing? I'm a little stressed out... or maybe just a little over-caffeinated. In reality, I think it's a delightful combination of the two.

I wear a lot of hats in life. If you're a regular reader of my column, you know that in addition to writing this weekly confessional, I also spend my weekends DJing at area nightclubs. But if you REALLY know me well, you might also know that this column isn't my only job here at the paper -- the majority of my day is spent in our advertising department, working to bring you the area's best classified section. (We have the awards to prove it, too!) Today, though, I might have tried on one or two hats too many.

My day already started out pretty lousy -- remember a couple weeks back when I revealed that one of my cats was recently prescribed home IV fluids to fight kidney failure? Well, as it turns out, the cat is not a big fan of IV Therapy: The Home Game. Last night, she wouldn't let me come anywhere near her with a needle (possibly because I'm more scared of needles than she is, so we make a great pair.) I had no choice but to get up early today and take her into the vet to have them administer the fluids.

What I didn't know was that my vet sponsors ONE day when a traveling specialist visits to perform some kind of cutting-edge non-invasive doggie tooth cleaning -- and guess which day it was. I walked in to a crowd of over-anxious yip dogs and their over-protective owners, none of which helped the mood of my already displeased cat. By the time I finally got her loaded with fluids and back home, I had precious little time to get to the office -- which, of course, was the cue for every little old lady, rickety semi truck, and slow-moving construction vehicle in town to pull out directly in front of me. I was stressed before I even GOT to work.

Our newspaper office is a hectic and ever-changing world that constantly produces new challenges and keeps us on our toes. On the whole, though, it's a fairly well-oiled machine. We've got a fantastic product to offer the world, and everyone does their part to ensure that our daily miracle makes its way to your doorstep every morning. If one of us goes on vacation, someone else steps up and takes care of their duties for the week. For instance, in my neck of the department, I have two colleagues whose work I cover whenever they're gone.

But this week, thanks to a perfect storm of Memorial Day vacations, they're BOTH gone. For the most part, Team Classifieds this week has consisted of one advertising assistant and yours truly, trying my hardest to bend time and space in an ill-advised attempt to be three people at once.

Some folks enjoy multi-tasking. Not me. I can do it when forced, but the OCD part of my brain greatly prefers when my tasks form a nice, orderly line with no pushing or shoving. But in the fast-paced, hustle-bustle, white knuckle thrill ride of print advertising, one-at-a-time tasks are something of a pipe dream.

After being in this game for half my life now, I'd like to think I know my way around the office a bit. But when you have to cover duties you're not used to, there's nothing worse than feeling your brain downshift into first gear as you work your way through unfamiliar projects at a slow pace. I knew this week would be a challenge, so I came prepped with two important coping tools:

(1) Coffee, and lots of it. Usually I arrive to work with one of those cold cappuccino drinks that's basically coffee-flavored chocolate milk. This week the cappuccino stayed at home. This week called for high-test premium unleaded, folks. Brazilian roast, black as midnight on a moonless night, as venti as they make them. I may as well have just poured pure caffeine into my cat's IV drip and hooked myself up.

(2) Music, and lots of it. To the benefit of my co-workers, I usually keep workplace tunes to a minimum. But since everybody's out vacating, I've been reserving the right to respectfully rock out at my desk. Shh, don't tell, but I've been quietly sneaking in my satellite radio every day. Music helps me focus. Except for the new wave channel, which, as it turns out, makes me rock out a little TOO hard. I needed to find a genre I could enjoy yet ignore. Something familiar yet not so familiar that I start reminiscing, crying, and phoning up old high school girlfriends. This explains why I've been sitting at my desk listening to the 70s disco channel all week. You can laugh all you want, but I will survive and I'm stayin' ali-i-i-i-ive.

If I make it through the week with no worse maladies than a twitchy eyelid and "Y.M.C.A." stuck in my head, I'm calling it a win. Pretty soon it'll be MY turn to go on vacation. Just wait til my co-workers learn their job duties that week will include writing an original column, stabbing a cat in the neck, and spinning records at a dance club til 3 a.m. Mark my words, eyelids will twitch.

COLUMN: Twin Peaks

Well, things were rough going there for a bit, but finally, all the world's problems are fixed. It almost doesn't seem real.

I mean, who'd have thunk that ONE television show would be enough to cut through our petty differences, mend global fences, and unite the world together for a cup of coffee and a slice of perfect cherry pie?

Yes, after 25 years of being away, the greatest television show in the history of history returned to the air last night: Twin Peaks. Less than a day later, world peace and global understanding has been reached.

Or at least I assume it has. Truth be told, my column has an early deadline. As I type this, it's Wednesday night and the Twin Peaks premiere is still four arduous and impatient days away. Ergo, at this time I can only presume that its return has ushered in a new era of world peace and a cultural revolution that will change the course of humanity from this time onwards.

After all, that's kinda how it felt the first time around.

When I was in high school, I pretty much ignored TV. Movies were cool, video games were cooler, music was the coolest, but TV? That was the lame thing my parents watched every night. Let's just admit it -- television in the 1980's was abysmal. Think about what some of the top offerings were at the time:

* a show about a guy and his talking car

* a show about a truck driver and his chimpanzee

* a show about wise-cracking mercenaries who drive around in a van loaded with weapons shooting at a measurable percentage of the population yet never hitting anyone EVER.

* a show about high drama and romance onboard a cruise ship where Charo keeps inexplicably popping up.

* a show about an island CLEARLY run by a supernatural demon and his vertically-challenged minion

The list goes on and on. They didn't call it the "idiot box" for nothing.

And then it happened. By divine providence or complete accident, a network TV executive green-lit a new television series from director David Lynch. The same David Lynch responsible for cult classic movies like "Eraserhead," "Blue Velvet," and "Dune." A guy whose film catalog is equal parts weird, wonderful, disturbing, and deranged. A guy who had no business being a part of the idiot box.

But with the partnership of Lynch and co-creator Mark Frost, Twin Peaks ended up the perfect melange of compelling drama, quirky charm, and Lynch's patented weirdness. Within days, it seemed like the whole world wanted to know who killed Laura Palmer, the high school beauty whose life was filled with dark secrets. My roommates and I watched the premiere from our dorm room and were instantly mega-fans. Back then, TV reception in the dorm was spotty at best, so my poor parents were tasked with taping and mailing us every episode immediately after they aired.

With Twin Peaks, filmmakers learned that television could be art. The infamous dream sequence from the third episode might still be the weirdest thing ever aired on broadcast television. Twin Peaks almost single-handedly paved the way for the concept of TV as an actual artistic medium. Every envelope-pushing show from Lost to Mad Men to Breaking Bad owes a little bit to Twin Peaks for forging the trail.

We may be decades away from the original show, but I've never stopped being a fan. I bought all the books and own the series in multiple formats. I went to a Twin Peaks convention. A few years ago, I had the honor of interviewing David Lynch for this very paper, and it took Olympic levels of self-control to keep me from turning into a stammering fanboy.

And now, 25 years later, Twin Peaks is back for a limited run on Showtime. Most of the original cast jumped at the chance to be onboard for the reboot. My hope is that it's everything I loved about the original and more. Now that it's on a cable network, Lynch and Frost have the freedom to make the show darker, creepier, and sexier than ever. EVERY episode will be directed by Lynch, so anything's possible.

It could also be a spectacular flop. Lynch's most recent offerings have been SO out there that it's often hard to discern a plot. To keep viewers in suspense, no advance screenings, trailers, or previews of the Twin Peaks relaunch have been issued.

My hope, though, is that last night's episode was amazing. I've said it before: 2017 is The Year of Shane. Two of my favorite bands of all time (British shoegazers Ride and Slowdive) have reunited and are producing some of the best music of their careers. And now my favorite TV show is officially back on the air. Last night's episode might not have changed the world, but odds are pretty good that it rocked mine.