COLUMN: Doomsday Prepping

The way I see it, there's two options.

(1) We freak out, go into doomsday prep mode, hoard food and supplies, don face masks, and isolate ourselves in biocontainment bubbles for the rest of time.

or

(2) We take common sense precautions like washing our hands, staying off cruise ships, and trying super hard not to ingest the spittle of strangers.

The scary thing? I honestly don't know which of these is the right answer. This coronavirus has me spooked.

I'm fully aware that I have hypochondrial tendencies. If I read enough horrifying news stories, I'll eventually buy into the terror wholesale. I'm purposely limiting my scope of knowledge on the outbreak, lest I start building a bunker. 

I'd like to think that humanity is smart enough to beat this thing with patience, an abundance of caution, and a whole lot of Lysol. But I also know how gross people are.

We've all seen co-workers show up at the office when they should be home in bed. We've all seen people cough and hack without covering their mouths. On the weekends, I DJ at dance clubs and routinely find myself on the receiving end of spittle showers from drunken clubgoers leaning in to request terrible music. If I die because some ill moron wants to hear "The Cha Cha Slide," then I know one moron about to be haunted by a VERY angry ghost.

People are disgusting. I should know -- I'm one of them. I've come to work sick before. I habitually chew on pens that are probably petri dishes of germs. The other night, I was leaving work and the glare from the setting sun revealed a kajillion dried droplets of my own spittle on my windshield. I'd had an allergy fit a few days prior and the resulting sneezefest unknowingly coated my car. Eww.

Let's face it, we as a species are nasty. Our bodies shed skin and ooze sweat. There are millionaires in our world whose entire fortunes were made selling goop that we smear on our underarms to stop us from smelling. We buy boxes and rolls of tissue just to dispose of our own ick. Could we be the most disgusting species of all? Nope. Those fears were alleviated today when I came home at just the right time to (a) watch a cat vomit, (b) run upstairs for paper towels, and (c) return to find the vomit magically gone and an entirely DIFFERENT cat walking away. I'm not asking questions. 

As for the plague currently sweeping mankind, for now I'm opting to follow the guidelines we've all been hearing: wash your hands until your skin falls off and try super hard not to touch your face.

You know what I've learned while trying super hard not to touch my face? ALL I WANT TO DO IS TOUCH MY FACE. It might as well be the top line of my resume. Current occupation? PROFESSIONAL FACE-TOUCHER. Until this week, I had no idea how often I groped my own face until I'm suddenly told not to. My nose constantly itches. My ear constantly itches. I can't hold a pen without wanting to shove it in my mouth. I seriously just took a break after typing that sentence to go wash my hands JUST so I could rub my nose and then wash my hands AGAIN. If this is the new normal, I'm not a fan.

Thankfully, I'm not the only one. Last week, the citizens of Santa Clara County in California listened as the director of their Health Department gave an important speech about virus prevention. "Today, start working on not touching your face," she said, "because one main way viruses spread is when you touch your own mouth, nose, or eyes." Without missing a beat, she then immediately licked her finger to turn the page of her prepared remarks. Priceless.

I haven't gone full hermit yet, but I'll admit to a teeny bit of over-spending at the grocer. I went in for some weekly essentials, but the paranoid part of my brain told me I should probably stock up. You know, just in case. Maybe some emergency chili rations in case I need to cover my house in Saran Wrap and cut ties with the outside world for a few weeks. I've got some vacation time to burn. Way to think with your head, Shane.

When it comes to hoarding for a disaster, I'm kind of a disaster. I stocked up, alrighty. And now, in the event of a global pandemic, I can rest easy knowing I have a couple extra boxes of Cheez-Its, some potato salad that expires in four days, and a healthy supply of Tuna Helper (which would have been smart had I remembered to buy tuna.) I did pick up non-perishable fixins for chili, though, so yay for me. Of course, that just put me in the mood for chili and I made it within two hours of getting home. It's gone already. So much for emergency rations.

In these paranoid times, I DID find one surefire trick to avoid other shoppers: Simply have a full-blown seasonal allergy fit while standing in the medical supplies aisle. Trust me, people literally RUN away, no matter how much you reassure them. "I don't... (ACHOO!)... have the Corona.. (ACHOO!) virus. I swear (ACHOO!)" I tried to cover my mouth, but I also didn't want to germ up my hands, so I kept awkwardly sneezing into my elbow. Apologies, fellow shoppers, if you went to stock up on sundries last week and instead came face-to-toxin with a sneezing madman who appeared to be jubilantly dabbing in celebration of his own spittle. It was, in fact, just an idiot with hay fever trying to remember where his elbow was located. 

If anyone needs me, I'll be at home. Please don't visit -- unless you have a clean bill of health and a clean bowl of chili. No, you can't have my Cheez-Its.    

COLUMN: Beekeeping

They say knowledge is power. Sometimes NOT knowing is more powerful.

We live in the information age. Knowledge comes to us on a multitude of silver platters. News channels are available to me at the push of a remote. This newspaper is brought to my front door every morning. Computers sit by the ready. If I want to know something, I can literally just yell a question to the open air and a sultry voice named Alexa will try to answer. It's a brilliant time to be alive -- except when it's terrifying.

The other night, I was putting off sleep in favor of random internet surfing. I'd made my usual pit stops on social media and Youtube, and by all accounts, it was an uneventful trip down the information superhighway. Then I took it one click too far. I followed a link on Facebook that made it hard to fall asleep that night. After all, how can one possibly relax after the most intense white-knuckle thrill ride in all of the Quad Cities? That's right -- I watched an online replay of a Rock Island City Council meeting.

Truth be told, government meetings are often less exciting than watching paint dry. Whether you agree or disagree with their decisions, God bless our local alderpeople for thanklessly sludging through the red tape of bureaucracy on our collective behalf. How our reporters can even cover these things without nodding off is beyond me. But as boring as council meetings may be, watching them fills me with a sense of civic pride. I care about my community, and it makes me feel proactive watching our government in action -- even if said action is mind-numbing votes on applications for special use permits to locate B-3 enterprises in areas not zoned B-3. Riveting stuff.

But just as I was about to drift off to pleasant dreams of seconded motions and special use permits aplenty, the council got to Item 20 on their agenda: An ordinance establishing urban bee-keeping for city residents. Umm... is it too late to table this motion for discussion?

Let's get one thing straight: I am in no hurry to repeat Chickengate. Once upon a time, Rock Island passed an ordinance allowing urban chicken-keeping. At the time, I thought it a fine idea to write a column in which I MAY have accused chickens of being smelly, noisy, and mean. The local and shockingly well-organized pro-poultry contingency was unamused. Angry chicken lovers showed up at our office and I came home to an egged door and a poo-covered porch. Lesson learned. They could pass an ordinance to keep man-eating bears in city limits and I'd remain silent.

But bees? Come on, people. We may have our differences, but I think we can all agree that bees are a menace that have plagued our fragile earth for far too long. And now you want to put up bee condos in backyards? TO THE PICKETS, EVERYONE! Who's with me? Anyone? Bueller??

Sigh. You can save your speeches, I know the drill. Bees are a vital and endangered part of our ecosystem. Pollinators are responsible for 1 in 3 bites of food we eat, and one honeybee can visit more than 2,000 flowers in a single day. Bees are nature's little friends and our best insect friends in all the land -- and sorry, but I still want to kill all of them dead.

I have an irrational fear of bees. And the best part of an irrational fear is that it's NOT RATIONAL -- so you can't placate me with rational arguments about the merits of our bee buddies. I will still act like a ninny if one flies near me. A hornet once flew onto my shirt while I was at a drive-thru window. I thought I handled the situation with poise, strength, and bravery. The fast-food employees almost called 911 because they thought the fat guy in the drive-thru lane was having a stroke (true story.) Apparantly the only noise I made while paralyzed with fear was "Gffffrrraaaaaa" until it finally flew away.

My apiphobia (thanks, Alexa) is somewhat grounded in reality. When I was little, I stepped on a hive and got stung three times. Were it not for my dad breaking multiple traffic laws racing me to the hospital, I might not "bee" here today. There's a good chance I've since outgrown my allergy to bee stings, but I'm in no hurry to find out. Bees might be YOUR friends, but they're definitely not mine.

Our ecosystem could be in tatters if bee populations keep declining, but I have faith in science. If we can figure out how to put both peanut butter AND jelly into one squeeze jar, we can surely find a non-stinging, non-Shane-killing means of pollinating our crops. And where are all these urban crops in need of urban bees? City folk don't need bees to tend their crops. They want bees because they think it's cool to harvest honey. Well, I harvest honey, too -- just up the street at Hy-Vee, from friendly cashiers who won't sting me to death. 

I was a little distracted by the hives I was getting at the thought of hives in my neighborhood, so I didn't catch who the pro-bee enthusiast was who spoke to the council in favor of urban beekeeping, but he had a nice speech about how modern bees have been bred to be honeymakers and a non-threat to humans. Well, I have a friend who raises bees (but has the good sense to do it in the country.) He's the biggest bee supporter I know, and his honey is admittedly delicious, but ask him how many DOZEN times he's been stung by his little friends. Bees don't give up their precious golden vomit without a fight -- and I don't want to get caught in the crosshairs.

My protest is pointless. The ordinance passed, but kudos to Alderman Jenni Swanson, a fellow allergy sufferer, for being the lone "nay" vote. At least if your neighbor wants to raise bees, there's now city regulations in place, classes to take, and safety precautions to be made. You even have to inform all your neighbors.

But if you're a neighbor of mine and you're setting up hives anywhere near me, please don't inform me. Just fake my signature, unless you want to see a grown man make a VERY high-pitched noise and have a panic attack in front of your eyes. Sometimes it's better to NOT know things.    

COLUMN: McDemon

Another column, and once again I find myself working the Apocalypse beat. 

Last week, I told you about about a video from one of the odder cul-de-sacs of the information superhighway claiming the Super Bowl halftime show was an unwitting indoctrination to the occult. What we thought was ten minutes of fiesty Latin dancing was, in fact, symbolic imagery and dark magic heralding the end of days. It sure didn't do much for the 49ers offense in the second half, either.

Well, the video may have been right. New evidence of scary occulting is afoot, and we should all take heed.

The world is nothing if not messed up, and it seems to be getting messier by the day. If you're the sort of person who buys into conspiracy theory rantings on the internet, there's a lot of ammunition these days to send you straight into tinfoil-hat levels of paranoia. 

The internet is full of things to be afraid of. But if you want to be afraid of things you never knew you HAD to be afraid of, put your laptop down, grab some coffee, and turn on your radio. The best place to go for top quality left-field fearmongering is a little show called Coast to Coast AM. Founded by the legendary Art Bell and hosted these days by George Noory, Coast to Coast AM is hours of pure conspiracy theory bliss, dispensed in wonderfully foreboding fashion throughout the wee hours of the night.

Coast to Coast tells us the news that matters. The news that the news is clearly too afraid to report. We insomniacs know the truth. Why worry about coronavirus when we have more pressing threats at hand -- like Bigfoot. Who has time to bother with climate change when there are time-travelling Men in Black walking among us? Floods and volcanoes? Heck, those were prophesied by ancient Mayan architecture. What's more important: our political divide or the fact that more and more people look at the clock at precisely 11:11 every day?? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!

If you don't listen to Coast to Coast AM, treat yourself some night. It's broadcast locally on WOC and streams on SiriusXM's Road Dog Trucking channel -- which is great, because if there's anyone we want to make paranoid of alien abductions and Bigfoot attacks, it's those tuning in while driving 10,000 pound death machines at 70 miles an hour in the dead of night.     

Coast to Coast warns us of important matters, such as this week's incredible breaking news, which comes straight from their website:

Dateline: Pueblo, Colorado. Police were summoned last week to a local McDonalds after employees reported hearing a female voice making "demonic sounds." Employees were unable to identify the source of the noise but "were so unnerved... they said they wouldn't be going back outside their building until after the sun came up."

I'm not quite sure what to make of this. I've eaten a couple Big Macs in my day that were followed by some admittedly demonic sounds shortly thereafter, but I have yet to experience gastrointestinal distress to the degree that it frightens the occupants of nearby buildings. Perhaps I should try harder.

Honestly, though, I could buy into this story. Let's say you're a demon hellbent on the destruction of mankind. You've just successfully crossed over from the netherworld and successfully possessed a human. You're now super psyched and eager to unleash your evil wrath upon the innocent... but FIRST? You should probably unleash your evil wrath upon a 10-piece order of Chicken McNuggets. I wonder what kind of dipping sauce a demon prefers? My guess is Spicy Buffalo.

Exactly what criteria are we using to determine a sound to be "demonic"? Who's qualified to make THAT kind of judgment? It's not every day one encounters a demon. I'd reckon few if any people actually know what a demon sounds like. Demons could sound like "Stairway to Heaven" played backwards, but for all we know, they could also sound like Morgan Freeman reading lullabyes. Thankfully, I don't have the life (or afterlife) experience to know for certain.

But I do have my suspicions. I'm fairly well versed when it comes to sound. I've lived through a My Bloody Valentine concert. I've heard my share of dark and evil noise. And out of all the noise I've heard in all world, I'm fairly certain the most demonic sound in the world is "Baaaaaayyy-beeeee shark doot doo de doot de do, baby shark doot doo de doot de do, baby shark." If somebody were outside MY restaurant chanting that song, I'd be barricading myself behind the deep fryer in no time.  

Surely there's a rational explanation for whatever caterwauling was commencing outside that McDonalds. It better NOT be a sign of the end of days. I'd frankly be a little bummed. I hate change. I'm still getting used to being a homeowner, and I'm in no mood to be raptured off my couch any time soon. On the other hand, I've also seen "Mad Max" and I don't think I'd be a fan of surviving in a post-Apocalyptic wasteland, either. I would not fare well Beyond Thunderdome. Shoot, I wouldn't fare well IN the Thunderdome. In fact, I think I'd prefer an entirely Thunderdome-free existence. The list of things I'm skilled at is pretty short, and most involve both electricity and air conditioning. When the tribal outlanders of the Wasteland begin rebuilding a primitive feudal society, I don't think anyone's top needs will be someone to write snarky newspaper columns or man the DJ booth at Club Apocalypse.

So here's hoping the voices on our late night radio dial are wrong and the voices outside a Colorado McDonalds aren't demonic harbingers of doom. I'm leaving the apocalypse beat to you conspiracy theorists out there. The world is a messy place, but I wouldn't worry about demons in the drive-thru lane just yet. Whatever was making those noises is bound to be perfectly explainable -- I'm pretty sure it was Bigfoot.

COLUMN: Halftime

Dang it, guys. Bad news. The Illuminati got us again.

Every time we let our guard down a little bit and try to have some fun, those pesky Illuminati come along to spoil the party with their hidden messages, sinister brainwashing, and New World Order oligarchy. It's getting a little tiresome.

Good thing the ever-vigilant watchdog known as the internet is here to protect us all.

The anonymous warriors of the internet have saved us with their teachings on many an occasion. Were it not for them, we'd have never known the world was flat. We'd have no clue that NASA faked the moon landings. That the only person who DIDN'T kill JFK was Oswald and the only person who didn't kill Epstein was Epstein. But more than anything, the internet wants to remind us that the world is secretly controlled by a shadow government known as the Illuminati. Their intentions are evil, their minions are everywhere, and they may even be shape-shifting reptilians from another dimension. And they're at it again.

Like many of you, I enjoyed the Super Bowl halftime show this year. Jennifer Lopez and Shakira wowed fans with a Miami celebration of Latin flavor, energized dance moves, and if an internet video this week from the Illuminati watchdog group Hacking the Headlines is to be believed, an unwitting indoctrination into the occult. 

"As many of you know, halftime shows are nothing but giant occult rituals in plain sight," the video begins, and there's oh-so-much evidence. The stage was bathed in red, the color of the occult. The dancefloor was a circle, just like the ancient ritual circles where demonic spells were cast. When the dancers formed a pyramid? That represented "the ladder of Freemasonry illuminated by the light of Lucifer." When J-Lo showed up atop a pink spire, that was clearly a celebration of abortions. The gold and silver costumes represented the ancient rites of alchemy, Shakira's rope dancing symbolized the binding power of dark magic, and the overall theme of the performance was that "Lucifer is the lightbearer coming to awaken the world."

Wow, and I just thought it was fun booty-shaking. I guess we shouldn't be fooled by the rocks that she's got, she's still Jenny from the Block. It's just that the Block in question is the fundamental building block of mankind's downfall. I never suspected Jennifer Lopez to be an agent of the Illuminati. Bummer.

But none of this evidence really implicates J-Lo or Shakira. It's all about their costumes and dance moves. Given the evidence at hand, I think there's only one obvious conclusion to draw: CHOREOGRAPHERS ARE EVIL. The real Illuminati aren't politicians or J-Lo shaking her booty. They're the people who design these stages and teach J-Lo HOW to shake her booty. Could the world secretly be run by choreographers? It would sure explain why "Dancing with the Stars" hasn't been cancelled yet.

Obviously I have a journalistic duty to expose this evil cabal of choreography, so I immediately asked for an interview with Parris Goebel, the New Zealand dancer responsible for this year's halftime show. And I was immediately told -- wait, let me look up the exact wording here -- "no." WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU'D EXPECT A REPTILIAN SATANIST TO SAY. Clearly she has something to hide.

With Ms. Goebel unwilling to go on record, I turned to my next best source: Chicago-area Zumba instructor Jessica Spicer Banaszek, because she's clearly a key player in this Latin dance cabal conspiracy and NOT because she's an old college friend willing to play along. My interrogation was brutal.

SB: HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN TEACHING ZUMBA DANCE FITNESS? AND AS A FOLLOWUP, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN EVIL?

JB: I've been teaching for almost nine years. My sinister ways started long before that.

SB: WHY IS LAMBADA "THE FORBIDDEN DANCE"? IS FREEMASONRY INVOLVED?

JB: I could tell you, but it's forbidden.

SB: WHERE IS THE SECRET LOCATION YOU ALL MEET TO PLOT YOUR RHYTHMIC OCCULT TAKEOVER OF THE WORLD? AND DOES THAT LOCATION NEED A DJ BECAUSE I WORK CHEAP.

JB: There is a convention of all things Zumba and dance fitness in Orlando every July. 8000 of us descend on International Drive and whoop it up in bright devilish clothing. 

SB: ARE YOU NOW, OR HAVE YOU EVER BEEN, AN INTERDIMENSIONAL LIZARD PERSON?

JB: I've been told I move like a snake. Close enough. 

SB: HOW IS POSSIBLE FOR SHAKIRA TO DECEIVE THE WORLD WHEN WE ALL KNOW HER HIPS DON'T LIE?

JB: She is one of the supreme goddesses we regularly worship, that's how. My altar consists of Colombian coffee beans, finger cymbals, and henna.

SB: IS ABBY JO MILLER YOUR LEADER? ARE THE ILLUMINATI *ALL* DANCE MOMS, OR JUST SOME OF THEM?

JB: No dance moms. They are more forbidden than lambada. Our leader is Beto Perez (not Beto from Texas, but I bet he's a hell of a dancer.)

SB: SINCE THE JIG IS UP, PLEASE EXPLAIN THE OCCULT SYMBOLISM OF "JAZZ HANDS."

JB: Jazz hands are a warning to our fellow dancers that an interloper is afoot. I'm doing it right now. We're on to you.

SB: If you assign a numeric value to every letter in ZUMBA (26, 21, 13, 2, 1) and add them, you get 63. 6+3=9, which is an unlucky number in Japan because their word for "nine" sounds similar to their word for "torture," and we all know that Zumba IS torture. Moreover, if you fold a $100 bill nine specific ways, some say the wrinkles on the forehead of Ben Franklin spell "KING OF ZUMBA." Am I onto something here?

JB: I'd be happy to discuss over a mug of our special Zumba elixir. How do you feel about blindfolds and confined spaces? Just wondering.

SB: Now that I've exposed your culty occultness to the world and thwarted your plans, what's the future hold?

JB: Like Britney says, I'll be dancing til the world ends.

Stay vigiliant, dear readers, lest the rhythm is gonna get you.

COLUMN: Caucus

Dear Iowa,

On behalf of all media everywhere (because, clearly, I am their spokesperson), I'd like to apologize.

This week should have been our victory lap. Instead, thanks to a buggy phone app, we've become the butt of the world's jokes. We deserve better.

Well, except "we" don't. Because I'm not a part of "we." I'm a Rock Islander. There's 7.5 solid blocks of Illinois separating my abode from your fair state. This week, though, we are all Iowa.

When the results from the Democratic Caucus didn't show up as swiftly as expected, it took no time for social media to erupt in harsh jokes at Iowa's expense. And since I tend to share our President's predilection of tweeting-before-thinking, I was quick to jump into the fray to defend "our" caucuses. I didn't even realize my liberal usage of the words "we" and "us" on social media that night, despite having never lived in your state nor having never caucused for anyone in my life. I live in the boring Land of Lincoln, where we visit the humdrum polls with a Sharpie and an anticlimactic Scantron card. I've never experienced the excitement of loitering inside a gymnasium waiting to find out if I'm "viable."

Oh, wait, yes I did -- it was called middle school P.E. class. Spoiler alert: I was NEVER viable and was always picked last. From what I can tell, caucusing is exactly like those terrible P.E. classes, just with fewer dodgeballs aimed at your head.

But I heard them mocking you, Iowa, and I wouldn't stand for it -- mostly because standing is SO less comfortable than sitting. I have eaten of your giant tenderloins and I have seen your butter cow. I know how to properly pronounce "Maquoketa." I think I'm qualified to be an honorary Iowan.  

I tried that night to explain the magic of the Iowa caucus to the Facebook nation. It did not go well. Once upon a caucus, it was the very height of democratic efficiency -- in 1846, when Iowa first became a state. Caucuses were commonplace back then, but when all the other states upgraded to primaries, Iowa proudly held her ground. What can I say? You value tradition.

In fact, you tried switching to a system of primaries in 1916, but nobody showed up. We Midwesterners are nothing if not stubborn, and what's the fun in an election if you're not being herded into groups while people with bullhorns yell at you? After the historic low voter turnout in 1916, Iowa went back to caucuses in 1917 and never looked back -- or forwards, for that matter. 

Some people might say it's an antiquated system. I think it's charming and wonky and kinda perfect for Iowa. It DOES, however, disenfranchise a ton of people who might participate were it not for their schedules. "I need your support, Iowa," says the candidate. "Unless you work second shift." 

Heck, sometimes I feel disenfranchised just living in Illinois. Whenever you attend any kind of political rally, you're usually besieged by campaign volunteers who want to procure all your personal info in order to pummel you with propaganda from now to the election. In Iowa, there's no faster way to make those volunteers disappear than the magic words, "I'm from Illinois."

But caucus you did, and maybe by the time this column prints, we MIGHT know the results. The tallying of this year's caucus went a bit haywire. Or, as CNN enjoys calling it, "A HORRIFYING DEBACLE!"

Two weeks ago, reporters couldn't shut up about the charm of Iowa and the niceness of our people. Now we're a bunch of buffoons who don't know how to count. Many are calling for Iowa to lose its privileges as the nation's first Presidential litmus test. I sure hope that doesn't happen.

On a selfish level, it's pretty fantastic to have such lengthy and close access to people who might one day be running this country. This year alone, I got to hang with the Yang Gang. I sat next to Rosario Dawson at a Cory Booker town hall. I met Tom Steyer's team in our break room and got a wave from Pete Buttigieg in the parking lot. I even got a handshake and some small talk with Joe Biden when he stopped by our office. 

But on an unselfish level, I think it's great for everyone's campaigns to start in a single state. Watching candidates stump through small towns and interact with regular folks is a way to get to know them and perhaps catch a glimpse or two of the real people behind the politics. If we didn't have a state like Iowa to kick things off, campaigns would mostly consist of CNN soundbytes, negative TV ads, and $1000-a-plate dinners.

Politicians aren't stupid, and neither are Iowans. If we really ARE just a bunch of backward yokels, politicans wouldn't waste their time with us. Once upon a caucus, you'd see candidates in Iowa wearing overalls and pretending to be one with the farm folk. Those days are over. Heck, Bernie Sanders is leading our popular vote and he's about the least "Iowa" person out there. 

So I tell you what, CNN. Blame technology all you want. Blame the DNC. And heck, maybe it IS time we abandoned tradition and switched to a modern primary system. But don't you dare blame Iowa or typecast us as simpleton country bumpkins. Iowa might not be MY state, but I'm proud to be her neighbor -- and if you think we're not modern or progressive enough to be the welcome door to America's campaign season, think about who we just sent to the front of the field. Bernie's Jewish, Mayor Pete's openly gay, and Elizabeth's a woman.

None of that should matter a tinker's dam when it comes to who's best to lead our country, but it wasn't that long ago when anybody who wasn't a middle-aged straight white male couldn't dream of being president. Us country folk just made history. "Change has to start somewhere," the saying goes. No one ever gives credit that "somewhere" is often Iowa. It's not our fault we're bad at counting. We got hit in the head by a LOT of dodgeballs back in gym class.             

COLUMN: Instapot

When it comes to cooking, I've never been especially trendy.

This is probably because frozen pizzas and TV dinners have never been much of a trend. My culinary know-how usually ends with the words "Peel back plastic wrap. Stir contents. Continue microwaving on high for an additional 2 minutes. Sauce will thicken upon standing."

[Note to all bands out there: "Sauce Will Thicken Upon Standing" would make an excellent album title.]

But over the past few years, I've been trying to become a little more adept at cooking. So far, so good. Okay, sure, there was the time a few months ago when I attempted to glaze a ham steak and somehow ended up making rock candy with a delicious ham center, but pobody's nerfect. I'm proud of my recent kitchen accomplishments. Just last week, I went to a party and brought brownies that I made from scratch -- and no one has died that I'm aware of.

And now, I've officially joined the ranks of trendy foodies. When one doesn't give one's parents a list of things one wants for Christmas, one runs the risk of getting an out-of-left-field gift. And this year, it happened.

Thanks to the magic of Christmas, I am Shane: Instant Pot user.

No, I'm not talking about the stuff you have to wait in line for an hour at a certain dispensary in Milan to procure. I'm talking about the trendiest, fastest, most terrifying of modern kitchen appliances: the Instant Pot pressure cooker. Not since the advent of microwave ovens have I seen people THIS excited to lose kitchen counter space. 

Instant Pots offer all the magic of convenient cooking, just with the added potential thrill of searing all the skin off your body. How many times have you been in the kitchen and thought to yourself, "You know what? Cooking is fun -- but is there was a way to make it more dangerous?" Thanks, Instant Pot, for bringing excitement back to the kitchen.

Okay, I'm kidding. (Translation: Dear Instant Pot Co., please don't sue me. K thanx byee.) When used properly, Instant Pots don't explode. At least mine hasn't yet.

When they first came out, I kinda wanted one just to see what the fuss was about. Then I got on Facebook one day and was sent a meme purporting to show some poor woman whose face was half melted off, claiming it all happened when her Instant Pot covered her in white-hot vegetable soup -- finally proving my long-standing belief that vegetables are hazardous to one's health.

Was the meme a fake? Probably. Instant Pots have a really good safety rating and come with a slew of so-it-won't-explode mechanisms. While there have been a few reported accidents, most can be attributed to human error. But that's why I'm scared -- if there's anyone on Earth capable of human error, it's yours truly. I once broke my foot walking down a perfectly flat sidewalk. If there's a way to scald all my skin off with one of these bad boys, I'll probably be the one to figure out how.

All fear aside, you've got to respect anything that can cook a whole chicken in eight minutes flat. Just don't ask me how it works, because I haven't the slightest idea. My guess is its the science of pressurized heat, or it might just be voodoo magic. Basically, you just throw your food in there, add the appropriate amount of liquid, and seal it tight.

I was all excited, thinking it would make some hellacious noise while it pressurizes your food to oblivion. Nope. Other than the pleasant little beeps when it starts and stops, you can barely tell the thing's on. But inside that sealed pot, all heck's breaking loose. Your liquid's turning to steam that can't escape. This raises the pressure inside the pot and literally attacks your food with unrelenting steam heat energy, cooking it WAY faster than a conventional oven or crock pot. 

The terror comes at the end. Once you've cooked your food, you need to release all that pressure and steam. One option is a natural release, where you basically just stand around hungry for twenty minutes while the pot slowly depressurizes. But that's a good way to turn rice and pasta into mush. That's when you need to do a quick release. It's easy. Just pace around the kitchen for a minute, let the fear wash over you, find the absolute longest spoon you have, cower as far away as you can possibly reach, say a quick prayer, and bump the vent switch with the spoon as steam flies into the heavens and hopefully not into your face.

Honestly, it's been great. My freezer now has enough beef stew to feed an army. My tuscan chicken turned out a little goopy, but still super tasty. The other day, I made chicken adobo and it might just be my greatest culinary triumph yet. Truth be told, I have no idea what chicken adobo is. I found it on a website. It looked brown, and brown's often tasty. Plus it looked easy, and it was. A little vinegar, a little soy, a little sugar, onion, garlic, bay leaves, and FOUR minutes later dinner was ready. It was adoboriffic.

So my kitchen adventures carry on, until I suffer a human error or discover the maximum toxicity level of beef stew intake. Maybe one day I'll get bored with it all, in which case I'll work on my next great invention: a refrigerator that chills your food in eighteen seconds flat, unless you open the doors in the wrong order, in which case there's a 1-in-25 chance ice wolves will jump out and bite off your nipples. 

After all, cooking should be exciting.

[Note: If I should die in an Instant Pot explosion after this column prints, please do not let Alanis Morrissette turn this column into a song about irony. K thanx byee.]

COLUMN: Columbia House

I was wasting time on Facebook the other day when a funny meme sent me on an all-expense paid trip to Nostalgiatown.

"Don't forget," the meme said. "You still owe Columbia House 1 cent for those 13 tapes." The fact that 30% of our population probably has NO idea what that means fills me with sadness. 

Someone asked me the other day where I got my great love of music from. That's a tough question to answer. Well, actually it's an easy one: I owe it all to my parents. Just please don't ever tell them I said that.

I'm not willing to concede that my parents were in any way responsible for my exceptional genius taste in music. In that department, the odds were stacked against me. Actually, my dad listened to some pretty cool stuff when I was growing up. You couldn't pass his workshop without getting blasted by Chicago or Santana at unhealthy decibels. My dad was fairly rad in his day.

Mom, on the other hand, forced me to grow up on a steady diet of easy listening schlock primarily centered around the musical stylings of Barbra Streisand. With varying degrees of success, I spent much of my adolescence trying desperately hard NOT to let her horrible taste in music rub off on me. I think I ended up prevailing -- and I'm sticking to my story that those Barry Manilow and Neil Sedaka CDs in my collection somehow got mixed in by mistake.

She might not have done much for me musically, but my mother DID put me down an advanced path when it came to reading. My folks did everything they could to increase my appetite for reading. Little did they know that appetite would instead turn me into a music geek.

One year for Christmas, my folks let me subscribe to three magazines of my choosing. My first pick was Sports Illustrated (which clearly didn't stick.) The second was a magazine full of crosswords and puzzles called Games. The third subscription -- and the only one I've kept to this day -- was Rolling Stone, the best introduction to counter-culture a 10-year-old could ever ask for.

I read each issue cover-to-cover with reverence. I never understood the political writing, and I distinctly remember thinking Hunter S. Thompson was a loon. But when it came to the articles about musicians, I hung on every word. It was the gateway to a world of rebellion, alternative thinking, and insanely cool music. There was just one problem: the gateway was closed.

I grew up in Galesburg. The only place to get new tunes other than the radio was Musicland in the mall, and their selection was always lacking. Rolling Stone taught me biographies and interesting facts about any number of left-of-center bands. The only thing I couldn't tell you was what any of them SOUNDED like, because Musicland didn't stock left-of-center stuff. This was before Spotify, before the internet, and before we even had MTV.

Cue my parents again. Not only was I lucky enough to receive an allowance I never deserved, my parents never cared when I'd waste said allowance on foolish purchases. And no purchase was more foolish than a subscription to the Columbia House Music Club.

Their gimmick was hard to resist: "Get 13 tapes for a penny!" What pre-teen wouldn't salivate over an offer like that? Columbia House would send you 13 cassettes of your choosing for a mere penny -- provided you joined their club and agreed to buy 4 more tapes at their inflated prices over the next year. Every month, a new Columbia House catalog would arrive in your mailbox like clockwork, featuring their Album of the Month. If you didn't immediately mail back the accompanying reply card, ten days later they'd mail you the Album of the Month (along with a hefty invoice.)

Inevitably, you'd end up forgetting to mail the reply card, and the Tina Turner cassette gathering dust in my basement right now is testament to that. If you weren't diligent with the reply cards, you could get in a lot of trouble quickly. The internet is full of stories from people who were denied bank loans simply because they forgot to pay Columbia House for a tape fifteen years ago. It was a racket, plain and simple.

But that racket changed my life. I remember the day I finally convinced my parents I was responsible enough to join Columbia House. Choosing those 13 tapes was one of the happiest moments of my life. Since I had nothing to lose except a penny, I ordered 13 tapes from 13 bands I'd read about in Rolling Stone but had never heard a lick of music by. It may have been the single most important purchase of my upbringing.

I still remember most of them. The Cure. The Smiths. R.E.M. Elvis Costello. Siouxsie and the Banshees. Husker Du. New Order. Violent Femmes. One Bananarama tape, because even an aspiring mopey counter-culturalist likes to dance in his bedroom behind closed doors. Finally those articles in Rolling Stone had a soundtrack, and it was music that would shape my taste, my passion, and my hobbies for decades to come. And I owe it all to a scammy mail-order music company.

Columbia House closed for good in 2009, leaving behind a legacy of forgotten reply cards, unwanted cassettes, and ridiculous dents in our credit scores. But it also left me a better person with a higher appreciation for a world of music I might have never discovered without Columbia House, Rolling Stone, and my poor parents who suffered through a decade of my blaring stereo. 

I wouldn't trade any of those memories for a dollar -- unless you're willing to give me 13 tapes in return, in which case, let's talk.  

COLUMN: Chili & Cinnamon Rolls

 As we're all prone to doing from time to time, I found myself in Nebraska last weekend.

Wait, no. I don't mean I FOUND myself in Nebraska. I wasn't on a soul-searching mission to discover my true inner Cornhusker or anything. But I WAS in Nebraska last weekend for a visit. Well, technically a visitATION, but that was the bummer part of the trip. I'd rather talk about the WEIRD part.

We had just crossed the state line when I saw the first sign. "IT'S CHILI AND CINNAMON ROLL SEASON," said the friendly restaurant lettering.

The weirdness of what I'd read didn't really hit me until I saw ANOTHER sign. "CHILI AND FRESH CINNAMON ROLLS SERVED HERE!" Well, that's just kind of odd. Why were all these restaurants advertising chili and cinnamon rolls simultaneously? Did some bakery in the area have a dramatic overstock on cinnamon rolls or something?

Eventually, we decided to find someplace to grab a quick bite to eat. And when you need a quick bite in Nebraska, there's really only one correct choice. If you want the true taste of Nebraska, you need to stop at a Runza. The iconic fast food chain has 85 locations, and nearly all are in Cornhusker country.

The chain has scant locations outside Nebraska, but for a short time, we had one right here in Moline. One of the first restaurants to set up shop in the late, great Southpark Mall food court was a Runza. My best friend is from Nebraska, and when he discovered they'd opened a Runza here, I think it's the only time I ever saw him dance. Sadly, it was also one of the first food court failures. Maybe the Quad Cities just wasn't ready for the magic of a Runza sandwich -- a yeast-dough rectangle filled with ground beef, onions, and cabbage. At Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, they sell over 10,000 every time the Cornhuskers take the field. 

So there we were, waiting in line at Runza, when I spotted it. Combo #3: Chili and a cinnamon roll. A sign stuck to one of the windows proudly announced "It's chili and cinnamon roll time!" What the WHAT? And then it happened it front of my eyes. As we sat there eating, I spied a family gathered around a table full of chili bowls and plates of cinnamon rolls -- and I watched in horror as they eagerly tore off chunks of sweet glazed cinnamon roll, dunked them whole-heartedly in chili, and wolfed them down.

I'm all for cultural differences among peoples. I enjoy trying different cuisines and foods I've never eaten before. I love chili. Lord knows I love a good cinnamon roll. I have absolutely no issues with the two sharing a plate in front of me. But to take the cinnamon roll and dunk it INTO the chili? That's a crime against nature.

Just then, a perky teenaged Runza employee came round to clean a nearby table. I proceeded to irritate her.

"Soooo... chili and cinnamon rolls. Is that a thing?"

She looked at me like I was crazy.

"Because in Illinois, it's definitely NOT a thing."

Then she looked at me like I was crazy AND from Mars.

"Of course it's a thing. What else would you eat with chili?"

I could think of a dozen or so pairings less gross than cinnamon rolls -- but before I could comment, she was off, soon to be seen whispering to her co-workers while covertly pointing our way, assuredly telling them about the weirdos at table 13 who dare to eat chili without cinnamon rolls.

Upon getting back to Normalburg where good foods don't make gross decisions, I did some investigating. It turns out I'm not only one astonished by this odd pairing. Internet sleuths have long tried to trace the origins of the exotic mash-up. The general consensus is that it started in Washington state as a "logger's breakfast." Logging camps would take the leftover chili from the night before and dump it over cinnamon rolls for a calorie infusion to power their workers through the day.

As for Nebraska, the fad seems to have been spread by the trendiest of all people -- grade school lunchladies. Chili and cinnamon rolls as a combo showed up on Nebraska school lunch menus in the 1960s and spread regionally from there.   

I wondered if anyone else outside of Nebraska knew of this peculiar pairing, so I posed it to the collective hive-mind of Facebook. Most of my friends found the idea pretty weird. Some said they grew up with it. But then OTHER comments started drifting in that completely freaked me out.

"That's nothing," a distant Facebook friend chimed in. "I once had a roommate from Galesburg, Illinois. He used to eat chili with peanut butter sandwiches and thought it was completely normal."

Umm... that's NOT normal? Having grown up in Galesburg myself, I spent most of my childhood being fed chili and peanut butter sandwiches on the regular by the fine folks at Community Unit School District #205. Just the other day, I heated up some chili, pulled out some Wonder bread, slapped on some peanut butter, and called it lunch. I've eaten chili with peanut butter sandwiches my entire life. Not once, not until that very second, did I think it was weird. Its just how people eat chili -- isn't it?

Spoiler: It is decidedly not normal. And I had no idea. And now I've lost all sense of right and wrong and I'm in an existential crisis. Thanks a lot, lunchladies.

I'm thinking the moral of the story here can go two ways: Either (1) all of us are weird in our own way, whether it's our upbringing, our culture, or the state we call home, and maybe we should stop finger-pointing and just embrace our collective weirdness, or (2) grade school lunchladies were the original social influencers and FAR more powerful than any of us ever realized.

Should my illustrious faux journalism career ever end, maybe that's how I'll spend my golden years -- working in a school cafeteria and devoting my life to making little kids think that insane food combinations are perfectly normal. If one day my column disappears, and then soon after your child comes home from school asking for a sausage and banana pizza with extra mustard, my work will be done.

       

COLUMN: Adoption Story

It happens every January.

Whenever New Year resolutions reach fever pitch, I can always count on at least one overly dramatic post from a friend proclaiming the evils of social media and deleting themselves from Facebook. "I can't take all this negativity and hostility!" one post this year read. "I must remove this from my life and return to normalcy!"

I've never understood this grand gesture. To me, saying "I hate social media" makes as much sense as "I hate mail! I hate telephones! I hate communication!" Social media and the internet is just a new, efficient way of interacting with people. I guess if you don't like, take the next exit off the information superhighway because you WILL get run over.

Is there negativity, hatred, racism, and closed-mindedness on social media? You betcha. If you don't believe me, go send my uncle a friend request and enjoy his daily homophobic, xenophobic offerings unto the world. But just because negativity like that exists on the internet, why let it bother you? My mouse has a scroll button for a reason. If I see something stupid on Facebook, I scroll past it and don't let it ruin my day.

And sometimes? Well, sometimes social media can be truly amazing.

Last week I got a message from my friend Jenny. I think the last time we talked at length, I'd just graduated high school. A few years behind me in school, Jenny lived next door to a girl I had a massive crush on, and somehow I think she ended up with a crush on me (weird, I know.) I went off to college and she ended up marrying a classmate of mine and moving to Kansas City. Apart from the occasional comment on Facebook, we hadn't talked in years.

Jenny was adopted when she was a baby. Despite being raised by a loving mother, she'd always been curious about the identity of her biological mom. 

"I grew up with family I loved," she said. "But I never really felt a sense of true belonging."

For some time, Jenny toyed with the idea of searching for her birth mother.

"A few years back, Illinois passed a law that unsealed my adoption records," she explained. "I filled out all the paperwork but never turned it in. I guess I was worried about being rejected. Every year on my birthday, I'd pull that paperwork out and think about submitting it. Last year, I turned 45 and figured it was now or never."

Last week, she opened her mail to find a copy of her birth certificate listing the name of her biological mother. A quick investigation on social media revealed a woman in Illinois with the matching name. Here's where it gets weird. And more than a little confusing.

Jenny tried to message the woman, but her message went unread and unanswered. Undaunted, Jenny looked up the woman's profile and her list of Facebook friends. One of those Facebook friends shared a mutual friend with Jenny. That mutual friend was me.

Randomly, I was suddenly the middle-man in this mystery. Even MORE randomly, the friend we shared was Veronica, a former newsroom artist here at the paper. Veronica moved away years ago, but we still stay in touch and get together occasionally. So Jenny messaged ME to see if I could message Veronica to see if Veronica could message Maybe-Mom on Jenny's behalf. See, I told you it was confusing.

This put me into a sticky situation. On the one hand, I kinda know how Jenny feels. I was adopted by my dad as a wee Shaneling. He's the only dad I will ever want, need, or love -- I just don't happen to share his DNA. I never met my biological father (who died last year), nor did I ever want to. Through social media, however, I've discovered an entire brood of biological half-siblings I'd never met. A couple of them look just like me, which is kinda creepy. We've corresponded online, and it's been fun getting to know them.

On the OTHER hand, though, what if this woman didn't WANT to be found? Adoption papers are often sealed for a reason, and not everybody who gives a child up for adoption yearns for that door knock years later. What if my actions were about to ruin some woman's new year and send her life crashing down? Yikes. I didn't want that kind of responsibility.

Instead, I passed the buck to Veronica. I messaged and explained the situation. As it turned out, Maybe-Mom wasn't just Veronica's Facebook friend. She was, in fact, the best and closest friend of Veronica's mom. 

"Whoa," Veronica texted me. "I'm actually in the car with my mom right now. Let me talk to her about it."

Veronica's mom was certain Jenny had the wrong person. Her friend never mentioned putting a child up for adoption. Still, Veronica's mom wanted to speak to Jenny over the phone. After making sure Jenny's intentions were good, she went over to her friend's house and relayed the whole story.

It turns out that Maybe-Mom WAS Jenny's biological mother. She had gotten pregnant as a teen and her family sent her away to have the baby in secret. While she later shared the secret with her husband, her best friend (Veronica's mom) never knew. Her son, who grew up as an only child, never knew. With one message to Veronica, I just pulled one VERY large and perhaps unwanted cat out of the bag. This was better than a soap opera, unless I was the villain in the story.

Thankfully, I wasn't. Later that night, Jenny got the phone call she'd been waiting 18 years for. Since then, they've video-chatted daily. This weekend, Jenny's birth mother and family are heading to Kansas City to meet her. Her newly-found half-brother is flying out next month. It looks like a happy reunion is in the cards.

"It's so surreal but exciting," Jenny told me yesterday. "We just instantly meshed and it feels like we've always been a family. She told me her heart is full and she feels like a weight has been lifted. My half-brother told me I've brought her happiness back."

"I've always been searching for my real identity. Call it soul-searching, if you will. I've always felt like I didn't know who I really was. I know it sounds strange, but in a matter of days, that feeling has gone."

Meeting a stranger who happened to birth you isn't necessarily an instant key to self-identity, and a meet-up isn't going to instantly fill a hole in your life. But it sounds like everyone's heads and hearts are in the right place. If you're the praying type, give Jenny and her birth mom a shout-out this week in hopes their reunion goes well.

So next time you cast your New Year's resolutions and feel like social media is pointless, think about how much smaller it makes the world. Think about how it allowed Jenny to find her birth mom in less than a day. If the reunion goes well, it's all thanks to Facebook.

Wait, I take that back. Forget Facebook. If the reunion goes well, it's all thanks to ME. All hail Shane, Uniter of Families, Righter of Wrongs, and Master of the Cyber-Universe. Unless things go poorly. In which case, it's totally Facebook's fault.

  

COLUMN: Best of 2019 - TV

"The new golden age of TV" continued to deliver in 2019, with the sad asterisk being a whole lot of great shows came to an end this past year. With a kajillion new streaming services launching and more competition than ever, it'll be harder than ever for new offerings to become breakout hits. Will 2020 rise to the challenge? For now, let's look at my faves for one of the best years in television history: 

10. Riverdale (The CW) - Some shows are so over-the-top, you can't help but cringe and wonder what the producers were thinking. Riverdale, on the other hand, revels in it. It's the soap opera today's generation needs. It's Twin Peaks meets Days of our Lives meets comic books. From hooded killers and masked vigilantes to sinister cults and evil board games, Riverdale checks all the boxes you need for hammy fun popcorn drama.

9. The Good Place (NBC) - Mike Schur is a sitcom visionary, and The Good Place could well be his opus. It's funny. Really funny. Like, pee your pants funny. But behind the laughs beats a show with a massive brain and bold heart that holds a mirror to society and gets SERIOUSLY deep about what it means to be a good person in the modern era. At times silly and goofy, at times an emotional rollercoaster, there's truly nothing else like it. When it ends its run later this year, it'll leave a hole that won't be filled until Schur's NEXT project gets unveiled.

8. Life in Pieces (CBS) - Shame on CBS for never giving Life in Pieces a fair shake. This smart, sharp family sitcom was seldom given a good timeslot to shine, and when they burned through the final season in two episode bursts, the axe of cancellation was inevitable. What a shame, because it was a real gem. Originally written off as a copycat of ABC's Modern Family, Life in Pieces flourished while Modern Family floundered. I hope the reruns land on a streaming service where others can discover and love it as much as the show deserves.

7. His Dark Materials (HBO) - No matter how much the theme song and title credits may try to mimic it, His Dark Materials is not the natural successor to Game of Thrones -- but it's still awfully good. This year, HBO and the BBC gave the big-budget treatment to the acclaimed young adult novels of Philip Pullman, and it didn't disappoint. Stylish, dark, and full of wonder, it's a world you can lose yourself in, whether you're a young adult or a grown man-boy laying on his couch on an otherwise boring Monday night.

6. Silicon Valley (HBO) - HBO took a hit this year with the final bows of pretty much all its beloved shows. Silicon Valley was an especially hard loss, as I can't imagine a world where I no longer get to root for the hapless losers of Pied Piper as they wade through the pitfalls and trappings of the modern tech world. The finale (a word that still pains me to think of with this show) was especially perfect and poignant, but that's about all I can say without spoiling things. 

5. Game of Thrones (HBO) - Okay, so the finale wasn't everything we wanted it to be. But even at its worst, Game of Thrones flew fire-breathing circles around most everything else on TV. People don't get worked up over a show's ending unless the show was truly something special. In the wrong hands, Game of Thrones could have been little more than "hot babes on dragons." Instead, we fell deep into the world of Westeros and the greatest fantasy epic since "Lord of the Rings." Every episode was a mini-movie that cost more to make than your average theatrical release. The bar of television will forever be raised. Game of Thrones (as well as most of its characters) is dead. Long live Game of Thrones.

4. Rick and Morty (Adult Swim) - Despite having been renewed until basically the end of time, Justin Roiland and Dan Harmon only release new episodes of Rick & Morty when they're good and ready, and the wait always seems to pay off. With its trademark lightning-fast jokes within jokes within jokes that are actually meta-commentaries about television, society, and life, Rick & Morty remains the most inventive and clever show on TV.   

3. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (The CW) - Who would have thought that a light-hearted musical comedy-drama about mental illness would survive four seasons on network television? All credit must go to the CW, who listened to the critics and kept renewing Crazy Ex-Girlfriend despite cultishly low ratings. But what a cult to be a member of! Challenging social stigma through song and dance is a tough order, but co-creator and star Rachel Bloom somehow made it work. Despite a perfect finale, I keep writing fifth season plotlines in my head, but I can't carry a tune half as good as Rachel.

2. Los Espookys (HBO) - What on Earth IS this show? Created by stars Ana Fabrega and the hilariously deadpan SNL writer Julio Torres, Los Espookys was the weirdest thing on TV in 2019. Set in a never-identified Latin American country, the always subtitled half-English, half-Spanish sitcom centers around a group of down-on-their-luck friends who turn their love of horror movies into a business, providing lo-fi campy frights for profit. It's absurd gothic fun fueled by tenderness and charm. Somehow, some way, it got renewed for a second season and I can't wait.  

1. Sex Education (Netflix) - Not nearly as tawdry as the title suggests, the best show of 2019 was a sleeper hit on Netflix whose second season arrives in just a couple weeks. It's a coming-of-age story centered around Otis, an inexperienced high schooler who's smitten with Maeve, the class rebel. She's the only one who knows Otis' secret: his mom (played with glee and gusto by Gillian Anderson) is a famous outspoken sex therapist. Maeve hatches a plan to turn Otis' lineage into cash by making him the school sex guru, dispensing paid advice from a run-down lavatory. The subject matter gets a little racy, but it's a funny show with morality and a HUGE heart. Purposely vague in both setting and era (the kids are British, but the town looks like New England and they wear American letter jackets), it's the kind of show I'd imagine John Hughes putting a hearty stamp of approval on. It was the best thing I saw all year.

Dear 2020, bring it. Sincerely, your favorite couch potato.

COLUMN: Best of 2019 - Music

 2018 was a lousy year for music. As a chart-obsessed musical optimist, I didn't really broadcast that sentiment. But truth be told, when it came time for last year's annual recap, I was hard pressed to find ten records I liked enough to merit inclusion in a best-of list. Thankfully, 2018 was a fluke. This past year busted loose with musical greatness all over the place. Here's ten of the best to check out:

10. Red Hearse - Red Hearse - Less a band and more a meeting of musical genius, Red Hearse is the Fun (pun intended) new collaboration of super-producer Jack Antonoff (Taylor Swift, Lorde, and his own bands, Fun and Bleachers) with beatmaker Sounwave (who was responsible for much of Kendrick Lamar's "DAMN!") and singer Sam Dew, who's written for Rihanna and Zayn Malik among others. Together, they've crafted a sleek minimal album of modern R&B led by Antonoff's future-retro synths, Sounwave's pulsing percussion, and Dew's impressive falsetto. It's a short record of relentless urgency and confidence from three players at the top of their game.

9. Morrissey - California Son - No artist is more polarizing to his fans these days than Morrissey, former vocalist of the Smiths and the once morose messiah for an entire generation of misunderstood, maladjusted youth. Decades on, Morrissey keeps damaging his legacy through his support of extreme right-wing UK politicians and a series of controversial statements some have labelled xenophobic at best. It's a shame, too, because "California Son," his first ever album of all covers, is a charming and solid collection. Perhaps the most shocking thing about 2019 Morrissey is that he finally sounds like he's in a good mood.

8. White Reaper - You Deserve Love - Kentucky's White Reaper jokingly called their last album "The World's Best American Band," but they weren't too far off the mark. Shrugging off modern rock trends and focusing instead on harmonized guitars and power hooks, White Reaper owe more to Thin Lizzy and Cheap Trick than the current radio sound. Landing a major label deal this year with Elektra Records this year, "You Deserve Love" is a slightly more polished affair, but still full of the same headstrong snottiness, killer tunes, and absolute lack of pretention that makes them one of the most vital bands on the planet.

7. Billie Eilish - When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? - HOW could an album this striking, confident, and professional come from a 17-year-old noodling around with her brother in their bedroom studio? Did they have any idea they'd be redefining the pop landscape? "Moody" doesn't begin to describe this record -- it's downright dark and haunting, with Eilish's barely-above-a-whisper ASMR croons flowing loosely over her brother's minimal musical landscapes. It's emotional, affecting, and holds a gravitas that defies her age yet resonates with a new generation of pop fans. Billie Eilish is the hero our radios needed in 2019.

6. Sekai No Owari - Eye/Lip - The charts may have been owned this year by Lizzo, Billie, and Ariana, but the grandest pop music being made right now comes from a band who are massive superstars in most of the world but virtual unknowns in America. Japan's Sekai No Owari are SO prolific that in 2019, they released TWO full-length albums on the same day, "Eye" and "Lip." Both are spectacles of sing-along pop sunshine even if you don't speak the language. Despite running the gamut from dancefloor techno to wistful ballads to New Orleans jazz and big band swing, "Eye" and "Lip" are still strangely cohesive and utterly enjoyable. Just try it. It won't leave your headphones for a long time, trust me.

5. Deep Cut - Different Planet - I've reached the age where I'm starting to repeat the sort of cringe-worthy things my parents once said to me: "Today's kids just don't understand what good music is." But hey, it's not MY fault the greatest music of all time ever just happened to come out when I was in college. Deep Cut is the family project of Mat Flint, who once fronted one of my favorite bands of that era, Revolver. Together with his wife, brother, and brother-in-law, they sporadically release albums that harken back to that magical era of psychedelic swirls, fuzzy guitars, and magnetic melodic jangle-pop that makes me yearn for the days of mixtapes and midterms.    

4. Sault - 5 - Not much is known about the mysterious outfit Sault, who arrived in 2019 with not one but TWO albums, "5" and "7." Based on what limited information has been made public, the loose collective may rotate around producer Inflo and is rumored to also involve British rapper Little Simz and Kanye West protege Kid Sister. One thing we DO know, though - the results are magic. Both records ("5" is a little more striking than "7") are groove-heavy experiments that melt R&B, funk, dub, and tribal rhythms into the best vibe of the year. There's no better soundtrack to drive around town and lose yourself in. 

3. Susto - Ever Since I Lost My Mind - South Carolina's Susto have become an annual crowd favorite at Maquoketa's Codfish Hollow, and it's easy to see why. Leader Justin Osborne's hook-filled, no-pretenses songwriting is refreshing in an era where every acclaimed tunesmith seems to compete for who has the longest beard, highest falsetto, and most obtuse lyrics. Known for songs about rebellion, substance abuse, and the celebration of youth, "Ever Since I Lost My Mind" finds Osborne coming to terms with adulthood, a new wife, and a baby on the way. None of this has settled or compromised Osborne musically, and his newfound maturity hasn't affected his ability to craft emotional barnstormers that tackle weighty subjects with honesty and an unspoken optimism.      

2. Ride - This Is Not A Safe Place - When 90s Brit shoegazers Ride announced their reunion back in 2014, it was a dream come true for yours truly. I've spent most of my life championing the band to anyone who would listen, and when they announced their first US comeback show, we packed up the car and drove to NYC to be in that crowd. But no one, not even me, could have anticipated their post-reunion output to be as good as it's been. "This is Not a Safe Place" is their second album since the comeback. Rather than retread their vintage psychedelic sound for the nostalgia circuit, Ride continue to challenge and expand their sonic palette while giving bands a clinic in what a second go-around should sound like. "It's funny, people hate you to change," they sing on "Repetition." "They want you just to repeat and stay the same." No worries here, lads. We're still along for the Ride. 

1. Tripmaster Monkey - My East Is Your West - Here's where I have to convince you that of all the kajillion records released in 2019, the best one of all comes from a Quad Cities band. But it DOES. Well, technically they're not all from the QC anymore. After a noteworthy career in the 90s, half of Tripmaster Monkey moved out west, but this year they reunited for little more than the love of four friends making music together. For a record conceived and mostly recorded via the internet, it's shockingly the most cohesive record of Tripmaster's career and expands their patented alt-rock sound with decades of influences. It's not just a welcome reminder of the things that make the Quad Cities special. It's not just a feelgood story for a hometown newspaper. It's the best album of the year - period. 

COLUMN: Big City Boyfriend

I'm an evolved person. I should be wandering around a museum. I should be at a college lecture series listening to someone analyze post-war Scandinavian economic strategies. I should be sipping fair trade coffee around a table of literary snobs discussing the role of masculinity in the later works of Ibsen and Tolstoy. I should be doing things both hoity and toity.

Instead, I am sitting here watching the girl from Full House as she finds Christmas love. After that, I will probably watch the OTHER girl from Full House as SHE finds Christmas love. Curse you, Hallmark Channel. I am once again under your incredibly stupid spell.

Each Yuletide season -- and by Yuletide season, I mean pretty much half the year -- the otherwise innocuous Hallmark Channel turns into a tinsel-covered cheesefest I like to call "CCN": the Caucasian Christmas Network. Twenty four hours a day, for months straight, they air nothing but made-for-Hallmark holiday romance movies. Like Christmas clockwork, every two hours someone will find their soulmate and have the perfect holiday season. 

The Hallmark people aren't stupid. They know what people want, and they turn out dozens of these low-budgets lovefests every year. They all pretty much have the same plot. They all pretty much star Candace Cameron-Bure. And they're all pretty much insipid garbage. Yet every year, my TV drifts to that ridiculous channel. Sure, I should be watching C-Span. But you know what? It's cold outside, I'm sitting here with a cup of cocoa, and my house is bathed in magical twinkling lights and the smell of fresh balsam (courtesy Bath & Body Works. I'm not a heathen who actually brings nature indoors.)

Maybe I don't want to watch some esoteric art movie this time of year. Maybe I just want to watch people kiss under mistletoe and believe in Christmas magic. Sue me.

It really IS amazing how much these movies are alike, though. Most of them really DO have the same plot: Work-obsessed Big City Girl is in a loveless relationship with Big City Boyfriend, when she's suddenly forced into a last-minute holiday business trip to a small town that's economically depressed yet still looks like a Norman Rockwell paradise every Christmas. There she'll meet some hunky guy who's terrible at running his Christmas tree farm but great at being a single dad to whatever precocious child actor is assigned to Holiday Movie #304A. 

Over the course of 3-4 days, she will fall in love with the hunky guy AND use her big city wits to save his tree farm from foreclosure. Snow will fall. ONE kiss will occur. Everyone will live happily ever after.

Or will they? The more I think about these movies, the more I realize there's one big plot hole. You know who doesn't live happily ever after? Big City Boyfriend. He gets dumped for Christmas -- and the worst part? It's usually not his fault.

In the first year or two that Hallmark was churning these things out, Big City Boyfriend was usually a reprehensible jerk we couldn't wait to dump. Sometimes he was revealed as a cheater right out the gate. Boo on you, Big City Boyfriend. But Hallmark soon discovered you can't make Big City Boyfriend a complete ass, because it reflects poorly on our beloved heroine. If she's a perfect person (which she always is), how could she have ever had such lousy taste in men? 

In the more recent Hallmark movies I've seen, Big City Boyfriend is far less of a heel. Sometimes he doesn't even exist at all. Sometimes, our heroine's only boyfriend is her job. When Big City Boyfriend IS there, his biggest crime is that he works too much, or he works for the company that's trying to foreclose the Christmas tree farm. Either way, he's not that bad of a guy. He's just not THE guy.

Ergo, here's my idea for a TRULY great Hallmark Christmas movie: Big City Girl gets sent to Nowheresville, meets hunky guy, falls in love, blah blah blah. As is the common trope, Big City Boyfriend turns up in Nowheresville to surprise Big City Girl on Christmas Eve. They realize they've grown apart as people, and Big City Boyfriend is gently dumped. But instead of following her back to the party, instead the film follows the newly-minted ex-boyfriend back to the Big City.

We see him go home, microwave a Salisbury Steak TV dinner, and eat in lonely silence. Better yet, in a totally meta moment, we see him flip his TV to the Hallmark Channel and watch a stupid Christmas romance movie alone while a single tear rolls down his cheek. The next day, he goes to his family's house and we see the heartbreaking moment when his mom asks, "Where's Jill?" and he has to reveal that Jill is clearly an insane person who chucked their entire relationship away to move in with a stranger she met three days ago. 

But then we follow him to the station to catch the train home, and there's only one other person on the platform. It's Small Town Girl. She just finalized a bitter divorce with her jerk of an ex-husband. No longer would she have to put her dreams on hold for his stupid Christmas tree farm that only makes money one month out of the year.

"Say," says Big City Boyfriend. "Would you like to come over?"

"Sure," says Small Town Girl. "After all, my precocious child is staying with my ex this weekend."

"We could watch a Christmas movie on the Hallmark Channel?"

"Nah," replies Small Town Girl. "Let's just make out. Those movies suck."

Roll credits. Dear Hollywood, please send my check to the usual address. 

COLUMN: Rosario

Normally I shy away from politics in this column for one simple reason: you people rely on my expertise too much. As a beloved and cherished cultural icon, I know how much my opinion must mean to you all. An endorsement from Shane would clearly be a golden ticket to the White House for whomever I bestowed such an honor upon. For me to openly support a candidate just wouldn't be fair to the other campaigns. 

But the heck with it. You've pressured me long enough, and I'm willing to share ONE nugget of political wisdom with you all. After having weighed all the options and studied everyone's platforms, I can safely issue one proclamation: of all the candidates running for President of our great land, Cory Booker's girlfriend smells the nicest.

Okay, maybe no one cares what I think. That's probably a good thing, because I'm not very politically minded. If I were enough of a journalist to merit an interview with an actual presidential candidate, I'd probably just ask them about their favorite band. Worse yet, I'd probably vote based on their answer.

Still, I like to stay informed. Living a stone's throw from Iowa gives us a chance to see most of the major candidates as they inevitably stump through town. So when opportunity presented itself last weekend to check out both Cory Booker and Pete Buttigieg in the same day, I was in.

Up first was our paper's forum with Cory Booker at St. Ambrose University. It was great to pull up a bench and see a candidate in such an intimate setting. Little did I know how intimate things were about to get. All it took was a tap on my shoulder to wreck my world.

"Excuse me? Can I share this seat?"

"No problem," I whispered, before turning around and dying a little inside. Thus begins the story of how I spent an hour sharing a bench with Rosario Dawson. THE Rosario Dawson. In all the hubbub of Booker's appearance, I had completely forgotten he and the A-list actress were dating. I sure didn't expect her to be schlumping across Iowa with him. I assumed she had more, well, Hollywood-y things to do. 

What followed was an insightful hour of policy discussion, probing questions, and deep dialogue about the state of our nation. At least I think it was. People occasionally clapped, and I clapped along with them. Truth be told, I was only catching about every other sentence. Okay, truth REALLY be told, Cory Booker could have been advocating for the murder of toddlers and I would've absent-mindedly clapped along. My brain had other agendas:

OMG OMG ROSARIO DAWSON JUST TOUCHED ME. ROSARIO DAWSON IS SITTING NEXT TO ME. Someone who was once in a Tarantino film is sitting next to me. She KNOWS Tarantino. I wonder what Tarantino's like? Wait, who cares about Tarantino, IT'S ROSARIO DAWSON. Should I turn around and look at her? I should totally look at her. Wait, don't look at her. You'll look psychotic. I don't care, I'm doing it. Here I go, I'm caaaasually turning around.

OMG I LOOKED AT HER. SHE LOOKED BACK AT ME, SMILED, AND WAVED. I just made eye contact with Rosario Dawson. We are clearly now friends and she will soon ask me to co-star in "Rent 2." Shut up brain, stop it. You're a grown adult. Stop geeking out. Yes, she's a famous actress. So what? She's just a person. Except better. I want to look at her again. DON'T LOOK AT HER AGAIN. LOOK AT ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD.

See? There's Todd Mizener, our paper's marketing director, with his trusty camera. I wonder if he got a picture of us. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let him have gotten a picture of us. I AM NOW SENDING PSYCHIC VIBES TO TODD MIZENER TO TAKE OUR PICTURE. Please, Todd, please. Wait, everyone's clapping. I should clap, too. Oh wait, Rosario is snapping her fingers instead of clapping because she's just that cool. Should I snap instead of clap? I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SNAP MY FINGERS!

Okay, Shane. Get ahold of yourself. You're starting to sweat. Focus on what Cory Booker is saying. Something about education. Yes, Cory Booker, education is very important. God, she really does smell fantastic. Wait, if I can smell her, CAN SHE SMELL ME? Do I smell bad? Oh GOD, I had a hot dog at lunch. DO I HAVE HOT DOG BREATH? Am I sitting next to Rosario Dawson while she regrets sitting down with HOT DOG GUY?

Uh oh, my phone's vibrating. Let me just nonchalantly slide it out of my pocket and OMG ITS TODD TEXTING ME A PICTURE OF ME & ROSARIO. He knows me too well. Maybe I AM psychic! I'm SO stoked he got a picture of... NOOOO! She looks like a goddess and I look like a warthog. TODD, YOU HAVE TO GET A BETTER PIC. Can I casually text that to him? Let me try.. annnnd I just dropped my phone. Smooth, Shane.

Focus up. You have a task at hand. When this event ends, everyone's going to clap. And then you will have thirty golden seconds in which you can commence small talk with one of your favorite actresses. It has to be something suave. It has to be something you can tell ALL your friends about. It has to be PERFECT. And it certainly can't be about politics because you've only listened to about 20% of what Cory's been saying. Wait, he just wrapped up. Everyone's clapping. This is it, Shane. This is your moment. Don't dream it, be it. 

And that is when I turned to People's Choice Award nominee Rosario Dawson and said the following:

"HA HA HA THAT WAS WEIRD LIKE SITTING NEXT TO YOU! I'M A BIG FAN! YOU'RE GREAT! GO CORY! THIS IS SO WEIRD HA HA!"

At which point, MTV Movie Award nominee and "Men In Black 2" star Rosario Dawson looked at me and said:

"I hope not bad weird?"

To which I suavely replied:

"NOT BAD WEIRD! DEFINITELY GOOD WEIRD! HA HA HA, I'M WEIRD! IT WAS GREAT TO MEET YOU, WE HAVE TO GO NOW, YOU'RE SO COOL, BYEEEEE!"

And then I left before hyperventilating into a sea of embarassment. Ten minutes later, we were across town watching Pete Buttigieg, who was equally inspiring. I still don't know who I'll be voting for in the coming elections. For the record, I did NOT share a bench with Pete's husband Chasten, but in fairness, I bet he smells okay, too. 

COLUMN: Lights

I am bad at math. This isn't exactly a newsflash in my life. I came to terms with my disdain of numbers long ago.

I'm not entirely mathematically incompetent. When not writing this column, I sell ads for our various media platforms. I work with numbers all the live-long day. But when customers call, thankfully they can't see me counting on my fingers and gripping a calculator for dear life.

Most definitely I was one of those people who sat through algebra and geometry classes muttering through clenched teeth, "I will NEVER use any of this." And you know what? By and large, I was 100% correct. I can't think of ONE single time I've needed to know the square root of ANYTHING. I have never looked at a triangle and gone, "Man, if only I had the length of that hypotenuse." Math is for suckers.

Or so I thought. Every year about this time, I'm reminded of why geometry is a thing. You clearly need a deep math background in order to hang Christmas lights.

When I got my own house, the realization that I could finally have my own outdoor Christmas lights made my heart grow two sizes larger. Or maybe it was just the cholesterol. Either way, I was excited.

Don't get the wrong idea. I've never gone overboard, nor will I. My crippling fear of heights sees to that. I might be bad at math, but I can definitely tell you that an object weighing over 250 lbs. falling from a 20 foot ladder at a gravitational speed of 10.93 m/s reaching an impact energy of 6774.01 joules WILL HURT. A LOT. My December decor will always remain at ground level, thanks much.

I also prefer my Christmases holly and jolly rather than wacky and tacky, so no inflatables or animatronic Santas for me. Sure, there's a part of me that would love a display visible from space with lights sequenced to a yuletide dubstep soundtrack, but who has time for that? (Other than that one AMAZING house in Coal Valley everyone should see.)   

Instead, I play it simple. Each year, I deck the edges of my front porch with a modest arrangement of red Christmas lights. To the holiday connoisseur, it's probably a ho-hum display at best. To me, it's a triumph of the will.

I own exactly eight strands of red lights and five extension cords. This is all I need to run lights around the railings and support columns of my porch. And every year, I have to spend an hour remembering how to do it. Then I spend another hour actually doing it, then another hour realizing I did it wrong before tearing it all down and starting over. It is easier to solve a Rubik's Cube than hang these lights.

Light strands 1-4 plug into one another and cover the south and west railings. Strand 5 covers the north railing, while 6, 7, and 8 adorn the three support columns. Strands 1-4 plug into extension cord A, strand 6 plugs into B, and strand 7 plugs into C. Strand 5 plugs into D, which in turn plugs into 8, which plugs into E, which runs under the porch and plugs into C. A, B, and C then plug into power, and voila -- Christmas magic. And the reason I'm telling you all this is so I can re-read this column next year and remember how on Earth I did it, because I WILL ALWAYS FORGET.

This schematic is the only possible way to get all the lights to my available outlets without cords running across my porch like a snare trap waiting to string my mailman up by his ankles. This year, it only took me three days and two failed attempts to remember the pattern. It also doesn't help that the sun now sets a few seconds past noon each day, so if you were wondering about the idiot fumbling around in the dark stringing up Christmas lights to the glow of his smartphone, that was me.

I have no idea how the Griswolds of the world pull it off. Eight strands of lights is enough to do me in every year. But it's done and my house is officially festive. I've gotten some different feedback online, though. "All red?" one of my Facebook friends wrote. "Isn't that kind of evil?" Another said it's a sign that I'm running a bordello -- and if that's the case, there are SERIOUS problems with my business model, because customers are few and far between. Someone else said red lights on your porch now means you're showing solidarity with the anti-gun movement.

The only notion I want to show solidarity with is that red lights are pretty. My house is tan and brown, and red looks nice against it. Besides, it's the one month I can invite people over without making them figure out the exact address. "It's the house with the red lights." Boom.        

This year, I had a harder time than usual piecing together my tangled puzzle of lights and cords. I tried six different ways of stringing everything together before realizing I was missing a cord. Apparently sometime during the year, Cord E got stolen for DJ Gig A and never returned to the spare laundry basket I've dubbed the "holiday hibernator." But I was so bad at math that I didn't realize I was trying to do the impossible -- I just assumed I was being bad at math.

If anybody needs gift ideas for me, I could use a new calculator. Feel free to drop it off at my house. It's the one with the red lights.