As a self-proclaimed elitist music nerd, there are a few simple rules to follow to remain cool:
1) Whenever possible, listen to bands that people around you have never heard of.
Ride, The Boo Radleys, Of Montreal, Belle & Sebastian... know 'em? No? Good. They're my 4 favorite bands. Another of my faves has NO name; they simply go by "!!!", which is super cool (until you're looking for them in a record store and you have NO idea how the clerk alphabetized them.) These bands don't get played on the radio. Why? Because you're cooler than radio.
2) If you can find it in a mall, don't buy it.
You're also cooler than chain stores. That's where your mom shops. Your elitist tastes deserve indie record stores. You go to Co-op. You hop online and visit Parasol.com & Tonevendor.com, the bibles of musical cool. The harder it is to find a release, the better it probably is. Don't stop until you find a band SO obscure that they only release albums on player piano reels during odd-numbered autumnal equinoxes. I guarantee they will rock.
3) Above all, don't ever -- EVER -- listen to country music.
Country music is the least hip, least cool music ever made, and you will be mocked by your elitist music nerd friends for liking it.* (*with the exception of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, & 70's era Glen Campbell. Those are all super cool. Probably because they're dead. Well, except Glen Campbell - but anybody with the guts to release "Rhinestone Cowboy" is inherently way cool.)
But I did it. I just broke Cardinal Music Rule #3. And I lived.
I volunteered to review the Brad Paisley gig at the Mark last week.
Why? Call it an experiment in open-mindedness. Call it a test of courage and willpower. Call it an unhealthy and borderline illegal obsession with opening act Taylor Swift, the current lolita goddess of country.
The point is: I went. Worse yet, if you read my glowing review in the paper the next day, I actually had a great time. I think I might even like a couple of Brad Paisley's songs now. I'm scared.
I DID, however, learn some interesting things about the previously unconquered world of country music that I didn't have space to squeeze into the review. Among them:
* It was a novel experience to be at a gig you could UNDERSTAND. At most rock shows, the sound is so jacked you're lucky to make out the obligatory "thankyougoodnight" at the end of the show, let alone ascertain any lyrics. My sincere kudos to the sound engineers, who made the vocals bright and the music powerful.
* Country music fans are really, really nice. I'm used to going to shows where people bump into you, where you're packed in like sardines, where no-one acknowledges one another in the crowd. Right off the bat, this was different. First off, I was totally worried that my new camera would get confiscated. Little did I know cameras are totally cool at country shows. I've been to hip-hop shows where the security frisk-down was more detailed than your average doctor visit. Friday night was pat-pat, come-on-in. Easy peasy. Bump into someone? THEY APOLOGIZE. After the show, I went onto Brad Paisley's website and looked at fans already trading pics, stories, and making meet-up plans for future gigs. The sense of community almost creeped me out.
* Country music STARS are also really, really nice. I'm used to shows where the crowd isn't even acknowledged by the band, or worse yet, gets berated by the band. I was at a show by the British band Suede once where the guitar player told us to "shut the (expletive) up" before he played a note. If Brad Paisley had tried that, he would've been lynched. Instead, the acts at the Mark that night thanked us profusely, looked embarassed when we cheered, kissed babies, threw guitar picks, and generally seemed grateful at the folks who spent money to come down. The opening acts made themselves available to sign autographs for anybody who wanted them. That's a whole lotta name signing. And that was ONE gig on a massive world tour. Frankly, I'd be worried about carpal tunnel come my 20,000th autograph.
* At the same time, though, there's an evil corporate streak to it all. I mean, there must have been at least 25 different t-shirts to buy. And hats, bracelets, photos, autographed CD's, you name it. I'm used to bands selling A t-shirt in order to make gas money to the next gig. Like I said, I went to Brad's website after the show, and when I saw people commenting about the Moline gig, I tried to post a reply. Sadly I had neither $19.99 nor a major credit card handy. They might be nice folk, but they sure know how to turn a buck.
All in all, it was a good night out. It was nice to be at a show where people (be it the crowd OR the band) weren't trying to perpetually out-weird one another. I'm not saying I'm a convert to country music or anything (though I admit, I listened to my fair share of WLLR over the weekend just to make sure,) but it was FAR from a bad time. I'm all for artsy music and challenging lyrics and what-not, but the simplicity and earnestness of country music just lets you switch your brain off for a while and relax and be entertained, and heck, that's what I want out of my Friday nights sometimes.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Monday, May 07, 2007
COLUMN: Photography
"You can be anything you want to be, if you put your mind to it!" That over-used adage was a frequent flyer at the Brown household when I was growing up. And that sagely nugget of wisdom, alongside heaps of encouragement from the World's Greatest Parents, is probably the main reason why I can be a sales rep AND a columnist AND a club DJ at the same time. I DID put my mind to it, and I DID become whatever I wanted to be. What a great life lesson.
And that, kids, concludes the "Reading is Fundamental" portion of this week's column. Now hand the newspaper back to mom and dad and go wash up, alrighty?
Okay, parents. Have the kids stopped reading? Good, because now we can talk. We all know the "be-anything-you-want" bit is a giant load of hooey, right? Otherwise, I'd be Mr. Katie Holmes right about now and getting paid millions to sit and watch TV all day. The REAL phrase should be something like this:
"You can be anything you want to be* (*except for a bunch of stuff that you're bound to be totally inept at.)"
The truth has revealed itself harshly over the years. It started in middle school. It was band sign-up, and I wanted to play the trumpet. My mommy told me I can be whatever I want to be, and I want to be the guy who plays the horn so fierce that my cheeks poof out like Louie Armstrong. "Sorry," Mr. Band Nazi said, "your cheeks aren't poofy enough and your lips aren't shaped right to play a trumpet. Here, go bang on this drum instead."
And so it began. Can't be an astronaut 'coz I get sick on a Tilt-a-Whirl. Can't be a beekeeper 'coz I'm allergic. Can't be a supermodel coz... well, coz I'm SO painfully sexy that it would be unfair and cruel to all other aspiring male models. And now there's another one I can cross off the list:
I've always wanted to be a great photographer. Not gonna happen.
I have a friend who has the world's greatest eye behind a lens. Seriously. She can go on vacation and point-and-click a roll where EVERY shot could be an album cover. I, meanwhile, am the only photographer I know of capable of making the Rocky Mountains look UGLY.
My folks wanted to foster my early love for photography, so I was the first kid on our block to have my very own camera. I've still got some of those old pictures, too -- they're in an album I like to call "Gallery of the Headless." There I was, capturing on film every person who shaped my upbringing, and, without fail, chopping off their heads. It's a cavalcade of torsos. Actually, there's ONE picture in which I managed to fit in frame both the subject AND her head - it's one I like to call "7 Year Old Shane Surprises Mom on the Toilet."
Almost 30 years later, I'm still inept at taking pics. So what's a photo idiot like me to do? Take a class? Buy a book? Naw. If I stink at photography, it must be the CAMERA'S fault, right? That's why I blew my tax return on a fancy new digital SLR. Well, not a FANCY one, because I didn't realize how much cameras cost these days. Another photographer buddy of mine recommended a model, which sounded great -- until I went to the store and saw the $2200 price tag.
$2200? For a CAMERA? Are you KIDDING me? If I'm spending $2200 on a camera, I expect that camera to, at the very least, see through the clothing of attractive women. No X-ray powers? I'll take the basic model, then, thanks.
And with my new camera, soon all of you would be basking in the wonder of my artsy-ness. Too bad, then, that it then spent the entire week raining. Ergo, the debut of my wonderful new camera was spent taking exactly 187 pictures of my housecats, whose retinas may never be the same again.
Still, though, it's a start. When the rain cleared, my friend Jason and I took the camera out on a day-long test drive in the country. I took a LOT of pictures -- towns, rivers, flowers, nature, whatever -- and some of 'em are actually kinda good. I was almost getting confident about my photo-taking ability until Jason fixed that for me:
"Dude, why do you hold the camera so dorky?"
What? I can't even HOLD the camera right? Instead of looking through the viewfinder straight on, apparantly I turn my head to the left. To me it makes sense -- my nose doesn't get scrunched up against the back of the camera, and it affords my eye a perfect fit on the viewfinder. And, apparantly, looks super dorky.
But you know what? I don't care. I may not be Ansel Adams, but I still have fun trying. So I'm not giving up. Maybe I still CAN be whatever I want to be if I put my mind to it. Maybe I WILL go buy a book on photography and learn how to compose a decent pic. Keep your eyes on my blog - if I start taking masterful photos, I'll post them. Until then, SAY CHEESE.
And that, kids, concludes the "Reading is Fundamental" portion of this week's column. Now hand the newspaper back to mom and dad and go wash up, alrighty?
Okay, parents. Have the kids stopped reading? Good, because now we can talk. We all know the "be-anything-you-want" bit is a giant load of hooey, right? Otherwise, I'd be Mr. Katie Holmes right about now and getting paid millions to sit and watch TV all day. The REAL phrase should be something like this:
"You can be anything you want to be* (*except for a bunch of stuff that you're bound to be totally inept at.)"
The truth has revealed itself harshly over the years. It started in middle school. It was band sign-up, and I wanted to play the trumpet. My mommy told me I can be whatever I want to be, and I want to be the guy who plays the horn so fierce that my cheeks poof out like Louie Armstrong. "Sorry," Mr. Band Nazi said, "your cheeks aren't poofy enough and your lips aren't shaped right to play a trumpet. Here, go bang on this drum instead."
And so it began. Can't be an astronaut 'coz I get sick on a Tilt-a-Whirl. Can't be a beekeeper 'coz I'm allergic. Can't be a supermodel coz... well, coz I'm SO painfully sexy that it would be unfair and cruel to all other aspiring male models. And now there's another one I can cross off the list:
I've always wanted to be a great photographer. Not gonna happen.
I have a friend who has the world's greatest eye behind a lens. Seriously. She can go on vacation and point-and-click a roll where EVERY shot could be an album cover. I, meanwhile, am the only photographer I know of capable of making the Rocky Mountains look UGLY.
My folks wanted to foster my early love for photography, so I was the first kid on our block to have my very own camera. I've still got some of those old pictures, too -- they're in an album I like to call "Gallery of the Headless." There I was, capturing on film every person who shaped my upbringing, and, without fail, chopping off their heads. It's a cavalcade of torsos. Actually, there's ONE picture in which I managed to fit in frame both the subject AND her head - it's one I like to call "7 Year Old Shane Surprises Mom on the Toilet."
Almost 30 years later, I'm still inept at taking pics. So what's a photo idiot like me to do? Take a class? Buy a book? Naw. If I stink at photography, it must be the CAMERA'S fault, right? That's why I blew my tax return on a fancy new digital SLR. Well, not a FANCY one, because I didn't realize how much cameras cost these days. Another photographer buddy of mine recommended a model, which sounded great -- until I went to the store and saw the $2200 price tag.
$2200? For a CAMERA? Are you KIDDING me? If I'm spending $2200 on a camera, I expect that camera to, at the very least, see through the clothing of attractive women. No X-ray powers? I'll take the basic model, then, thanks.
And with my new camera, soon all of you would be basking in the wonder of my artsy-ness. Too bad, then, that it then spent the entire week raining. Ergo, the debut of my wonderful new camera was spent taking exactly 187 pictures of my housecats, whose retinas may never be the same again.
Still, though, it's a start. When the rain cleared, my friend Jason and I took the camera out on a day-long test drive in the country. I took a LOT of pictures -- towns, rivers, flowers, nature, whatever -- and some of 'em are actually kinda good. I was almost getting confident about my photo-taking ability until Jason fixed that for me:
"Dude, why do you hold the camera so dorky?"
What? I can't even HOLD the camera right? Instead of looking through the viewfinder straight on, apparantly I turn my head to the left. To me it makes sense -- my nose doesn't get scrunched up against the back of the camera, and it affords my eye a perfect fit on the viewfinder. And, apparantly, looks super dorky.
But you know what? I don't care. I may not be Ansel Adams, but I still have fun trying. So I'm not giving up. Maybe I still CAN be whatever I want to be if I put my mind to it. Maybe I WILL go buy a book on photography and learn how to compose a decent pic. Keep your eyes on my blog - if I start taking masterful photos, I'll post them. Until then, SAY CHEESE.
COLUMN: Breaking News
Long ago when I had a dream of someday having my own weekly niche in the newspaper, I never expected that I would use said niche to compare the Cable News Network to Bobcat Goldthwait. But hey, weirder things have happened, I suppose.
A few years back, a friend and I went to see Bobcat perform live at a local comedy club. It was a REALLY funny gig, but it got awkward at the end. As the show was concluding, it became painfully evident that Goldthwait had used up most of his planned material. However, the wait staff hadn't finished closing out tabs and seeing people off. This left Goldthwait in the unenviable position of having to kill time until the wait staff sorted out everyone's bills. While he did a decent job ad-libbing a few extra minutes, it was QUITE obvious to those of us in the crowd that the material Goldthwait was offering was filler at best.
This past week, I was on vacation. Well, no -- vacation implies that I was somewhere fun doing something fun. I simply was being paid to NOT be at work. Rather than use my vacation time to tour some exotic land, I chose to stay at home, recharge the batteries, and watch a remarkably unhealthy amount of TV.
Little did I know that I picked a doozy of a week to sit glued in front of the TV. What I thought would end up being a week's worth of television comedy at its finest turned into a week-long telethon of tragedy. Between the horrors at Virginia Tech, the senseless workplace shooting at NASA, and the sad loss of a Navy Blue Angel, I spent a LOT of my vacation staring at CNN with my head shaking.
But as much as I appreciate the instant coverage that the TV news channels provide, I realized this week just why I love newspapers as much as I do: newspapers give you news -- on paper. In one glance, you can read all there is to know about a major news event. No hubbub, no spectacle, just the facts as we know them prior to that issue's deadline.
I'm a here-and-now kinda guy. I realize that today's society lives as mere rest stops on the information superhighway. I respect and admire the fact that, like what happened numerous times last week, someone can call me and go, "Dude, are you watching this? Turn on the TV right now," and within seconds, I'm up to pace. But that right there is also the problem of cable news: It DOES take mere seconds to get up to speed on a breaking news story... yet the networks give these stories hours and hours of coverage, some of which is crucial and informative, but most is just pure filler.
When the tragedy at Virginia Tech occurred last week, all the major networks broke in immediately with all-day coverage. CNN quickly procured a video filmed on a cell phone by a VT student. The video showed the exterior of Norris Hall. Inside of that building, unspeakable horror was being played out, yet outside all you saw was a building, the awful sound of gunfire, and then audio of someone yelling.
In other words, the video served little purpose as to coverage of the event. It wasn't news; it was shock-and-awful. I stopped counting after CNN replayed that video 45 times that afternoon. Not only replayed it, but interviewed the student who shot the video three times. Each interview, they asked the student what the yelling at the end of the tape was. Was it students? The gunman? No, it was a police officer yelling at the amateur documentarian to get away from the building.
When the Blue Angel pilot was sadly killed at the air show this past weekend, once again the networks rolled into wall-to-wall Breaking News mode. Problem was, other than waiting for the Navy press conference, there really wasn't much to talk about.
Yet we were subject to hours of the news networks riffing about the Blue Angels, the Carolina coastline, airplanes in general, etc., etc. At one point, CNN contacted one of their reporters embedded in the Middle East and woke her up in the middle of the night to put her on air. Why? Because years prior, this reporter had flown with the Blue Angels in a fluff piece. Her much-needed international insight? "Those planes travel fast." Meanwhile, on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, it's mentioned in passing that a charter plane crashed in the Florida Keys killing 3. Why does THAT tragedy merit only a crawl?
The cable networks aren't dumb - they know that breaking news equals viewers. It doesn't matter if it's O.J.'s car chase, Anna Nicole's kid, or one of the greatest tragedies to ever strike our nation -- the news networks will be there, looping film footage, over-analyzing, talking to witnesses who witnessed nothing, and covering stories when the stories themselves haven't been written yet.
At some point, the cable channels need to know when Breaking News becomes Broken News. If you want to survive in the business of information, you need to inform -- NOT mindlessly riff and kill time like a comedian struggling to get offstage.
A few years back, a friend and I went to see Bobcat perform live at a local comedy club. It was a REALLY funny gig, but it got awkward at the end. As the show was concluding, it became painfully evident that Goldthwait had used up most of his planned material. However, the wait staff hadn't finished closing out tabs and seeing people off. This left Goldthwait in the unenviable position of having to kill time until the wait staff sorted out everyone's bills. While he did a decent job ad-libbing a few extra minutes, it was QUITE obvious to those of us in the crowd that the material Goldthwait was offering was filler at best.
This past week, I was on vacation. Well, no -- vacation implies that I was somewhere fun doing something fun. I simply was being paid to NOT be at work. Rather than use my vacation time to tour some exotic land, I chose to stay at home, recharge the batteries, and watch a remarkably unhealthy amount of TV.
Little did I know that I picked a doozy of a week to sit glued in front of the TV. What I thought would end up being a week's worth of television comedy at its finest turned into a week-long telethon of tragedy. Between the horrors at Virginia Tech, the senseless workplace shooting at NASA, and the sad loss of a Navy Blue Angel, I spent a LOT of my vacation staring at CNN with my head shaking.
But as much as I appreciate the instant coverage that the TV news channels provide, I realized this week just why I love newspapers as much as I do: newspapers give you news -- on paper. In one glance, you can read all there is to know about a major news event. No hubbub, no spectacle, just the facts as we know them prior to that issue's deadline.
I'm a here-and-now kinda guy. I realize that today's society lives as mere rest stops on the information superhighway. I respect and admire the fact that, like what happened numerous times last week, someone can call me and go, "Dude, are you watching this? Turn on the TV right now," and within seconds, I'm up to pace. But that right there is also the problem of cable news: It DOES take mere seconds to get up to speed on a breaking news story... yet the networks give these stories hours and hours of coverage, some of which is crucial and informative, but most is just pure filler.
When the tragedy at Virginia Tech occurred last week, all the major networks broke in immediately with all-day coverage. CNN quickly procured a video filmed on a cell phone by a VT student. The video showed the exterior of Norris Hall. Inside of that building, unspeakable horror was being played out, yet outside all you saw was a building, the awful sound of gunfire, and then audio of someone yelling.
In other words, the video served little purpose as to coverage of the event. It wasn't news; it was shock-and-awful. I stopped counting after CNN replayed that video 45 times that afternoon. Not only replayed it, but interviewed the student who shot the video three times. Each interview, they asked the student what the yelling at the end of the tape was. Was it students? The gunman? No, it was a police officer yelling at the amateur documentarian to get away from the building.
When the Blue Angel pilot was sadly killed at the air show this past weekend, once again the networks rolled into wall-to-wall Breaking News mode. Problem was, other than waiting for the Navy press conference, there really wasn't much to talk about.
Yet we were subject to hours of the news networks riffing about the Blue Angels, the Carolina coastline, airplanes in general, etc., etc. At one point, CNN contacted one of their reporters embedded in the Middle East and woke her up in the middle of the night to put her on air. Why? Because years prior, this reporter had flown with the Blue Angels in a fluff piece. Her much-needed international insight? "Those planes travel fast." Meanwhile, on the crawl at the bottom of the screen, it's mentioned in passing that a charter plane crashed in the Florida Keys killing 3. Why does THAT tragedy merit only a crawl?
The cable networks aren't dumb - they know that breaking news equals viewers. It doesn't matter if it's O.J.'s car chase, Anna Nicole's kid, or one of the greatest tragedies to ever strike our nation -- the news networks will be there, looping film footage, over-analyzing, talking to witnesses who witnessed nothing, and covering stories when the stories themselves haven't been written yet.
At some point, the cable channels need to know when Breaking News becomes Broken News. If you want to survive in the business of information, you need to inform -- NOT mindlessly riff and kill time like a comedian struggling to get offstage.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Brad Paisley pics
So for those of you who actually READ our papers, you might have noticed that lil' ol' me got to review the Brad Paisley show at the Mark on Friday night... Well, or as I like to call it, the Taylor Swift show at the Mark on Friday night that Brad Paisley also happened to be at ;)
I'm kidding. They were all good. And, coming from indie rock ME talking about a country gig, that's sayin' something.
Anyways, it was a good chance to test out the new camera some more. Here's some pics from the gig:
Here's the awesome stage set-up:
Taylor Swift:
Kellie Pickler:
Brad Paisley:
And yes, one chubby and exceptionally dorky columnist/dirty-old-man in one of the most awkward moments of his life:
And, yes, I bet that's the only time Taylor Swift has been photographed next to someone in a Belle & Sebastian t-shirt.
I'm kidding. They were all good. And, coming from indie rock ME talking about a country gig, that's sayin' something.
Anyways, it was a good chance to test out the new camera some more. Here's some pics from the gig:
Here's the awesome stage set-up:
Taylor Swift:
Kellie Pickler:
Brad Paisley:
And yes, one chubby and exceptionally dorky columnist/dirty-old-man in one of the most awkward moments of his life:
And, yes, I bet that's the only time Taylor Swift has been photographed next to someone in a Belle & Sebastian t-shirt.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
Just Some Random Sunday Thoughts...
Okay, so...
(1) I feel absolutely horrible about the wreck on the Centennial Bridge this weekend that, from what I gather, killed two innocents. I hope to God that none of the parties involved were coming to, or leaving from, the club I DJ at on the weekends. PLEASE be careful when you're out on the weekends, all, PLEASE. And not just YOU - watch out for other idiots who might be LESS careful.
(2) So some guy decided to joy-climb the Channel 4 tower in downtown Rock Island earlier today. In a weird, sick way -- I'm jealous. I don't know why, but I've always loved that particular tower. For one, it's old school looking - you don't see too many of those triangular towers any more. Most aerial towers are slender, sleek things held aloft with a bevy of those God-awful support guidewire things (if you don't believe me, go to Bettendorf and check out that housing subdivision due west of the giant KWQC tower -- the big one with the strobe lights. That neighborhood has countless backyards that are totally ruined by the obnoxious support lines to that behemoth.) But I think I like the Channel 4 tower there in Rock Island mostly because of the way that it's lit. I don't know if it's the lights ON the tower, the lights illuminating the tower, or the way that the tower reflects the general light of downtown Rock Island, but the end effect is that the tower looks completely unreal -- almost as if it's made of Legos or some random kid's toy. A lot of weekends in the summer, I hang out on the back patio of 2nd Ave. just staring up at that beast. I don't know why, but it's always been one of my favorite things in the Quad Cities. Part of me wants to be that dude who climbed it today. I'm happy nobody was hurt and the situation was resolved, tho.
(3) Maybe I'm just fascinated by aerial towers as a rule. I try my best to remember the locations of towers in and around the Quad Cities. If you're ever bombing around in the country at night joyriding and get lost, you can fairly easily find your way if you learn to recognize those towers. That monster strobe tower in Bettendorf can be seen 10 miles away on a clear night... outside of Orion, there's a series of towers (also Channel 4 I think?) that are easily identifiable... in Galesburg, the radio stations out there are all bundled together in a 3-tower chain that's easy to spot... Yeah, so maybe I'm a loser. It DOES make you think about just what all's floating through the air, though, doesn't it? Between radio waves, microwaves, cell phone signals, ground-to-air communication... we've come a looong way from two soup cans and a string, eh?
Anyways, have a great week, all -- I'll get my new column up soon.
(1) I feel absolutely horrible about the wreck on the Centennial Bridge this weekend that, from what I gather, killed two innocents. I hope to God that none of the parties involved were coming to, or leaving from, the club I DJ at on the weekends. PLEASE be careful when you're out on the weekends, all, PLEASE. And not just YOU - watch out for other idiots who might be LESS careful.
(2) So some guy decided to joy-climb the Channel 4 tower in downtown Rock Island earlier today. In a weird, sick way -- I'm jealous. I don't know why, but I've always loved that particular tower. For one, it's old school looking - you don't see too many of those triangular towers any more. Most aerial towers are slender, sleek things held aloft with a bevy of those God-awful support guidewire things (if you don't believe me, go to Bettendorf and check out that housing subdivision due west of the giant KWQC tower -- the big one with the strobe lights. That neighborhood has countless backyards that are totally ruined by the obnoxious support lines to that behemoth.) But I think I like the Channel 4 tower there in Rock Island mostly because of the way that it's lit. I don't know if it's the lights ON the tower, the lights illuminating the tower, or the way that the tower reflects the general light of downtown Rock Island, but the end effect is that the tower looks completely unreal -- almost as if it's made of Legos or some random kid's toy. A lot of weekends in the summer, I hang out on the back patio of 2nd Ave. just staring up at that beast. I don't know why, but it's always been one of my favorite things in the Quad Cities. Part of me wants to be that dude who climbed it today. I'm happy nobody was hurt and the situation was resolved, tho.
(3) Maybe I'm just fascinated by aerial towers as a rule. I try my best to remember the locations of towers in and around the Quad Cities. If you're ever bombing around in the country at night joyriding and get lost, you can fairly easily find your way if you learn to recognize those towers. That monster strobe tower in Bettendorf can be seen 10 miles away on a clear night... outside of Orion, there's a series of towers (also Channel 4 I think?) that are easily identifiable... in Galesburg, the radio stations out there are all bundled together in a 3-tower chain that's easy to spot... Yeah, so maybe I'm a loser. It DOES make you think about just what all's floating through the air, though, doesn't it? Between radio waves, microwaves, cell phone signals, ground-to-air communication... we've come a looong way from two soup cans and a string, eh?
Anyways, have a great week, all -- I'll get my new column up soon.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
COLUMN: Independence
I'm an independent person. Well, either that or it's what I say to defend my long stretches of bachelorhood.
But I AM an only child, and an only child who grew up out in the sticks. There were no kids my age within walking distance to my house. My parents were great companions, but, y'know, they're PARENTS. Parents aren't into D&D or rock music or video games or kid stuff. This meant that from a young age, I had to become fairly adept at keeping myself company.
Nowadays, the independence that I cultivated as a kid still comes in handy. I've got a great set of friends, but they live their own lives. I'm seeing a girl now, but she's all the way up in Chicago and about to leave on a mission to Africa for most of the summer. This kind of relationship would probably make the average mortal's head snap, but I'm kind of okay with it. I mean, I want to see her 24/7, but if I can't, I can deal with it. I'm used to flying solo.
And who better to be my friend than myself? We share the same sense of humor, we always show up places at the same time, and we never quibble over what radio station to listen to. (Actually, I often DO get in fights with myself over radio stations. This will probably prove important in a therapy session one day.)
The point is, most of the time I'm perfectly okay with hanging out by myself. Some folks out there can't seem to exist on their own. I relish it. I've known people too self-conscious to walk into a restaurant by themselves; I eat out almost every day, and usually by myself. To me, it's no big deal. I've gone to clubs by myself, concerts by myself. Heck, once I even went to Colorado by myself.
But there's one thing that freaks even ME out. One place where I have a HUGE problem going by myself: the movies. For some reason, I can't imagine strutting into a cinema with a party of one. But for the sake of journalism -- well, and boredom -- I'm going for it.
As I type this, I'm on vacation from work. By the time you read this, they'll have found me and re-chained me to my desk, but for the time being, I'm a free man.
Problem is, my friends aren't. They didn't have the common courtesy to vacate en masse with me. I'm not at work, but all my friends ARE. Besides, most of my friends are into more highbrow ways to spend the day. In fact, one of my best friends has plans tonight to go see a lecture by a survivor of the Holocaust. That's an admirable event to attend, and certain to be a rare emotional glimpse into one of the most horrific moments of humanity.
I, meanwhile, have opted for flatulence jokes. Sadly, that's MY infantile brain's idea of a well-spent night out. So I'm off to conquer my fear of seeing movies solo by checking out the new Will Ferrell flick, "Blades of Glory." And I'm bringing my notebook to record it all.
- Gulp. Well, I did it. I marched right in the front door of the theatre, went up to the booth, and confidently announced, "One, please." In a swift glance, the ticket girl knew. Her mouth might have said, "There you go, enjoy the show," but I KNOW her brain was pointing and laughing.
- The theatre-plex is nearly empty except for lots of employees and some stragglers, all of whom are likely pointing and laughing at me in their brains. Inspiration hits: I take out my notepad. Now it looks as if I'm a Very Important Movie Critic. I'm not here alone because I'm a loser, I'm here because it's my JOB! Of course, why would a critic be writing in said notepad BEFORE the movie starts? This won't work.
- A better plan is formulated. Before I go to into the movie, I will stand in the lobby and make a big production of looking at my watch, seemingly frustrated. This way I will not appear to be by myself, I will simply be the responsible guy irked at his late slacker buddies. Wait, no. That looks more like the pathetic guy who's getting stood up for a matinee. That's worse than coming in by yourself to begin with.
- Joy! I have slunk into the theatre to find it COMPLETELY EMPTY. Will I have a private screening of the movie? Grrr, no. Just before the movie's scheduled start, a high school couple comes in, heads to the back of the theatre, and giggles. Probably because they're cool and I'm not. I bet they're gonna make out, too. Just two hormonal high schoolers and ME, the de facto lonely pervert. Please let the trailers start soon so I can melt into darkness.
- Trailers. Well, first an ad for Pepsi. And then Hot Pockets. They're not dimming the lights. And then a PSA telling you not to smoke pot, which is pretty pointless in front of a Will Ferrell flick. The lights stay on. And a trailer. And another trailer. Still lights. I bet they're snickering at me. A third trailer. A fourth. Now I'm self-conscious, awkward, AND all I can think about is how badly I want a Hot Pocket.
Finally, the lights dim and the movie starts. Soon, my awkward fears dissipate in a sea of figure skating, bad jokes, and that hot girl from "The Office." I did it. I conquered my Everest. I went to a movie by myself, and I had fun. Granted, I picked an aisle seat 2 steps away from the door, and by the time the closing music swelled, I was already a dust trail making a leap for the exit.
Still, it was one giant leap for Shanekind. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a vacation to attend to.
But I AM an only child, and an only child who grew up out in the sticks. There were no kids my age within walking distance to my house. My parents were great companions, but, y'know, they're PARENTS. Parents aren't into D&D or rock music or video games or kid stuff. This meant that from a young age, I had to become fairly adept at keeping myself company.
Nowadays, the independence that I cultivated as a kid still comes in handy. I've got a great set of friends, but they live their own lives. I'm seeing a girl now, but she's all the way up in Chicago and about to leave on a mission to Africa for most of the summer. This kind of relationship would probably make the average mortal's head snap, but I'm kind of okay with it. I mean, I want to see her 24/7, but if I can't, I can deal with it. I'm used to flying solo.
And who better to be my friend than myself? We share the same sense of humor, we always show up places at the same time, and we never quibble over what radio station to listen to. (Actually, I often DO get in fights with myself over radio stations. This will probably prove important in a therapy session one day.)
The point is, most of the time I'm perfectly okay with hanging out by myself. Some folks out there can't seem to exist on their own. I relish it. I've known people too self-conscious to walk into a restaurant by themselves; I eat out almost every day, and usually by myself. To me, it's no big deal. I've gone to clubs by myself, concerts by myself. Heck, once I even went to Colorado by myself.
But there's one thing that freaks even ME out. One place where I have a HUGE problem going by myself: the movies. For some reason, I can't imagine strutting into a cinema with a party of one. But for the sake of journalism -- well, and boredom -- I'm going for it.
As I type this, I'm on vacation from work. By the time you read this, they'll have found me and re-chained me to my desk, but for the time being, I'm a free man.
Problem is, my friends aren't. They didn't have the common courtesy to vacate en masse with me. I'm not at work, but all my friends ARE. Besides, most of my friends are into more highbrow ways to spend the day. In fact, one of my best friends has plans tonight to go see a lecture by a survivor of the Holocaust. That's an admirable event to attend, and certain to be a rare emotional glimpse into one of the most horrific moments of humanity.
I, meanwhile, have opted for flatulence jokes. Sadly, that's MY infantile brain's idea of a well-spent night out. So I'm off to conquer my fear of seeing movies solo by checking out the new Will Ferrell flick, "Blades of Glory." And I'm bringing my notebook to record it all.
- Gulp. Well, I did it. I marched right in the front door of the theatre, went up to the booth, and confidently announced, "One, please." In a swift glance, the ticket girl knew. Her mouth might have said, "There you go, enjoy the show," but I KNOW her brain was pointing and laughing.
- The theatre-plex is nearly empty except for lots of employees and some stragglers, all of whom are likely pointing and laughing at me in their brains. Inspiration hits: I take out my notepad. Now it looks as if I'm a Very Important Movie Critic. I'm not here alone because I'm a loser, I'm here because it's my JOB! Of course, why would a critic be writing in said notepad BEFORE the movie starts? This won't work.
- A better plan is formulated. Before I go to into the movie, I will stand in the lobby and make a big production of looking at my watch, seemingly frustrated. This way I will not appear to be by myself, I will simply be the responsible guy irked at his late slacker buddies. Wait, no. That looks more like the pathetic guy who's getting stood up for a matinee. That's worse than coming in by yourself to begin with.
- Joy! I have slunk into the theatre to find it COMPLETELY EMPTY. Will I have a private screening of the movie? Grrr, no. Just before the movie's scheduled start, a high school couple comes in, heads to the back of the theatre, and giggles. Probably because they're cool and I'm not. I bet they're gonna make out, too. Just two hormonal high schoolers and ME, the de facto lonely pervert. Please let the trailers start soon so I can melt into darkness.
- Trailers. Well, first an ad for Pepsi. And then Hot Pockets. They're not dimming the lights. And then a PSA telling you not to smoke pot, which is pretty pointless in front of a Will Ferrell flick. The lights stay on. And a trailer. And another trailer. Still lights. I bet they're snickering at me. A third trailer. A fourth. Now I'm self-conscious, awkward, AND all I can think about is how badly I want a Hot Pocket.
Finally, the lights dim and the movie starts. Soon, my awkward fears dissipate in a sea of figure skating, bad jokes, and that hot girl from "The Office." I did it. I conquered my Everest. I went to a movie by myself, and I had fun. Granted, I picked an aisle seat 2 steps away from the door, and by the time the closing music swelled, I was already a dust trail making a leap for the exit.
Still, it was one giant leap for Shanekind. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a vacation to attend to.
Friday, April 13, 2007
COLUMN: Angels?
"There's a feelin' in the air that you can't get anywhere except the Quad Cities... where the rivers flow through the hometowns we know/Friends and neighbors building pride."
Unless you live under a rock, you know those lyrics. They're part of the jingle that local station KWQC uses in their ads and the TV news. Yes, it's super cheezy, and yes, the same jingle is probably employed in twenty other markets around the country ("...that you can't get anywhere except [insert town name here].")
But, in a corny way, I've always kinda liked that tune. There really IS a feelin' in the air that you can't get anywhere but here. We're big city enough to have thriving commerce and a fun nightlife, but we're also small-town enough to be able to stop and watch the river float by. We've got industry and big buildings and multi-lane roads, but we're also less than a five minute drive to a cornfield when the need to escape hits.
And it's this occasional small-town mindframe, rare in a city this size, that makes the Quad Cities twinkle. From trivia fundraisers where total strangers come up and share food... to waiting in line at a gas station and sparking up a temporary friendship with the person next to you... to a show at Music Guild where you can experience a community supporting the arts. Folks, it's the closest this columnist ever gets to warm fuzzies.
But those fuzzies shriveled up in a heartbeat a couple weekends ago. I was on my way to one of those trivia nights in Davenport and had just crossed the Arsenal bridge headed to Brady Street. That was when I saw them: the red berets of the Guardian Angels.
This is one of those subjects that drives people to, at the very least, write very nasty things in the forums of QCOnline. The Guardian Angels have come to Davenport. The streets will soon be patrolled by a batallion of volunteers who have submitted to the Angels' intensive training sessions of martial arts, CPR, self-defense, and First Aid. Vigilante justice, right here in River City.
"No-o-o," say the group's members and supporters, "The Guardian Angels are NOT vigilantes."
Vig•i•lan•te (n.) A member of a volunteer committee organized to suppress and punish crime summarily, as when the processes of law are viewed as inadequate.
That's what Webster's has to say about vigilantes. Sorry, Angels, but what are you if not that?
I remember the first time I ever saw a Guardian Angel. I was fresh out of high school, and a carload of my friends and I decided to drive up and explore Chicago. I've been to the Windy City a jillion times since, but I'll never forget that first trip sans parents. We saw things young Galesburgers hadn't been exposed to outside of cop shows: Projects. Burning cars. Subway rats. And, yes, a Guardian Angel riding in our train.
And what feeling came over me when I first noticed the Angel? A feeling of peace, safety, and security knowing that this guy had our back if something went down? Nope. I thought this: I am in a very, very dangerous place right now. If this subway car needs a beefy dude in a beret to protect its occupants, this is NOT a place for 17-year-old me right now.
Is that the impression we want to make of our communities? What's our new tourism motto to be? "Welcome to the Quad Cities. Don't worry, we have people who can protect you!"
Look, you don't have to tell me that our cities have problems. I work at a newspaper, and I read the headlines for myself. But has it come to THIS? Are our police so ill-prepared and unrespected that we need a volunteer army to wander around and make downtown Davenport look like its under martial law?
The answers shouldn't have to come from the public. They should come from those employed to enforce the law, and THEIR bosses -- our elected officials. We need more police on the streets, we need concentrated social programs to uplift impoverished areas, we need economic development to bring jobs to town. Kids need options OTHER than drugs and guns. It's not an easy road, but it's a road worth walking. As long as we've got brains in our heads, we shouldn't have to fight fire with fire.
I'm not trying to disrespect the guys who have heeded the Angels' call for volunteers. In fact, I applaud them. These are dudes who are SO concerned about their community that they're willing to risk their necks for it. That's commendable. It has to take some serious guts to put one of those berets on. But it shouldn't have to come to this. Not here, not where the rivers flow through the hometowns we know.
I'm not the guy with the answers. I'm just one voice that happens to have a newspaper column that I can occasionally turn into a soapbox. We DO desperately need to curb violent crime, but by turning our problems over to the Angels, we're no longer friends and neighbors building pride, we're just people building anxiety, paranoia, and consternation. And those are some pretty sucky words to have to rhyme a new jingle to.
Unless you live under a rock, you know those lyrics. They're part of the jingle that local station KWQC uses in their ads and the TV news. Yes, it's super cheezy, and yes, the same jingle is probably employed in twenty other markets around the country ("...that you can't get anywhere except [insert town name here].")
But, in a corny way, I've always kinda liked that tune. There really IS a feelin' in the air that you can't get anywhere but here. We're big city enough to have thriving commerce and a fun nightlife, but we're also small-town enough to be able to stop and watch the river float by. We've got industry and big buildings and multi-lane roads, but we're also less than a five minute drive to a cornfield when the need to escape hits.
And it's this occasional small-town mindframe, rare in a city this size, that makes the Quad Cities twinkle. From trivia fundraisers where total strangers come up and share food... to waiting in line at a gas station and sparking up a temporary friendship with the person next to you... to a show at Music Guild where you can experience a community supporting the arts. Folks, it's the closest this columnist ever gets to warm fuzzies.
But those fuzzies shriveled up in a heartbeat a couple weekends ago. I was on my way to one of those trivia nights in Davenport and had just crossed the Arsenal bridge headed to Brady Street. That was when I saw them: the red berets of the Guardian Angels.
This is one of those subjects that drives people to, at the very least, write very nasty things in the forums of QCOnline. The Guardian Angels have come to Davenport. The streets will soon be patrolled by a batallion of volunteers who have submitted to the Angels' intensive training sessions of martial arts, CPR, self-defense, and First Aid. Vigilante justice, right here in River City.
"No-o-o," say the group's members and supporters, "The Guardian Angels are NOT vigilantes."
Vig•i•lan•te (n.) A member of a volunteer committee organized to suppress and punish crime summarily, as when the processes of law are viewed as inadequate.
That's what Webster's has to say about vigilantes. Sorry, Angels, but what are you if not that?
I remember the first time I ever saw a Guardian Angel. I was fresh out of high school, and a carload of my friends and I decided to drive up and explore Chicago. I've been to the Windy City a jillion times since, but I'll never forget that first trip sans parents. We saw things young Galesburgers hadn't been exposed to outside of cop shows: Projects. Burning cars. Subway rats. And, yes, a Guardian Angel riding in our train.
And what feeling came over me when I first noticed the Angel? A feeling of peace, safety, and security knowing that this guy had our back if something went down? Nope. I thought this: I am in a very, very dangerous place right now. If this subway car needs a beefy dude in a beret to protect its occupants, this is NOT a place for 17-year-old me right now.
Is that the impression we want to make of our communities? What's our new tourism motto to be? "Welcome to the Quad Cities. Don't worry, we have people who can protect you!"
Look, you don't have to tell me that our cities have problems. I work at a newspaper, and I read the headlines for myself. But has it come to THIS? Are our police so ill-prepared and unrespected that we need a volunteer army to wander around and make downtown Davenport look like its under martial law?
The answers shouldn't have to come from the public. They should come from those employed to enforce the law, and THEIR bosses -- our elected officials. We need more police on the streets, we need concentrated social programs to uplift impoverished areas, we need economic development to bring jobs to town. Kids need options OTHER than drugs and guns. It's not an easy road, but it's a road worth walking. As long as we've got brains in our heads, we shouldn't have to fight fire with fire.
I'm not trying to disrespect the guys who have heeded the Angels' call for volunteers. In fact, I applaud them. These are dudes who are SO concerned about their community that they're willing to risk their necks for it. That's commendable. It has to take some serious guts to put one of those berets on. But it shouldn't have to come to this. Not here, not where the rivers flow through the hometowns we know.
I'm not the guy with the answers. I'm just one voice that happens to have a newspaper column that I can occasionally turn into a soapbox. We DO desperately need to curb violent crime, but by turning our problems over to the Angels, we're no longer friends and neighbors building pride, we're just people building anxiety, paranoia, and consternation. And those are some pretty sucky words to have to rhyme a new jingle to.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
The Music Nerd in Me Requires Your Attention
So if you're a regular fan of my column/blog, you should know that I'm a huge music nerd and often try to push bands on you guys that you've probably never heard of before. You might even recall that my favorite underground band still making music is a poptastic little combo from Athens, GA who go by the name OF MONTREAL.
Well, if you've ever wanted to know more about the crazy world of Shane, you've got your chance. THURSDAY NIGHT -- that's TODAY for most of you -- Of Montreal will be making their national television debut on Late Night with Conan O'Brien.
This is a MUST-WATCH EVENT. This band will NOT let this opportunity pass without some sincere weirdness.
Don't believe me? Check out their new video:
Well, if you've ever wanted to know more about the crazy world of Shane, you've got your chance. THURSDAY NIGHT -- that's TODAY for most of you -- Of Montreal will be making their national television debut on Late Night with Conan O'Brien.
This is a MUST-WATCH EVENT. This band will NOT let this opportunity pass without some sincere weirdness.
Don't believe me? Check out their new video:
COLUMN: Dreams
As the owner of a fairly uneventful and boring life, it's good to have a sub-conscious that keeps things interesting.
I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis. There are some seriously accredited psychologist types out there convinced that dreams can be the key to unlocking one's hidden innermost thoughts and desires. Of course, in order to accomplish said unlocking, you usually need to buy the seriously accredited and seriously overpriced book that can tell you, without hesitation, that the dream you had last week about the giant killer platypus is, actually, a sign that you dwell on your emotions too much.
Think I'm kidding? That really IS what dreaming of a platypus is supposed to mean. I looked it up on the Web. Me, I can barely think of what a platypus LOOKS like, let alone cast one in a starring role in my midnight hallucinations. Like I said, I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis, because it's one of the silliest and most pointless sciences out there.
The same website that tells us of the emotion-dwelling platypus also shares that dreaming of mashed potatoes is simply your subconscious expressing concern over financial matters. Me, I just thought it was my subconscious getting hungry. Apparantly not. Truth be told, I hit that website up because I need answers to the recurring dream I'VE been having for the last week:
In this dream, I still live in my apartment, except it now has a second bedroom, and I find myself with a fictional roommate named Tony. In some of the dreams, Tony is a guy; in others, Tony is a girl. But Tony is always named Tony, and weirder still, Tony is always a contestant on my least favorite TV show EVER, "Dancing With The Stars."
I accompany Tony to a taping of the show, and all goes well until Tony realizes that he/she has left the required costume at home, and I am sent on an errand to retrieve it. And invariably, when I re-enter the apartment, John Ratzenberger is stealing my TV.
Yes, THAT John Ratzenerger -- Cliffy from "Cheers" and one of the stars of this season's "Dancing With the Stars." Stealing my TV. This begs several questions, among them:
• Why John Ratzenberger?
• Doesn't he have a TV of his own?
• If he's ON "Dancing With the Stars," and if I've just left a taping of the show, shouldn't he be there?
• What HAVE I been eating before bed, and isn't it time to stop it?
But those questions can wait, because now I have a robbery to foil. As I enter the apartment and startle John Ratzenberger, he, naturally, drops the TV and engages me in melee combat.
You might have seen John Ratzenberger on "Cheers" or doing the cha-cha on "Dancing With the Stars," but what you might not know is that, at least in MY dreams, he's also quite adept at hand-to-hand combat -- and proceeds to mercilessly pummel me until I invariably wake up in a cold sweat. The end. Analyze THAT.
The first time I had this dream, I laughed. A lot. The SECOND time I had this dream, I was less amused. By the THIRD time, I was questioning my sanity. However, it must be said that my subconscious DOES like to even the odds a little bit. In the third dream, I once again catch him stealing the TV, and he once again rushes at me. HOWEVER this time, I calmly reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of NUNCHUCKS -- as though it's perfectly natural for me to wander around at all times with ninja weaponry in my pockets -- and we proceed to beat EACH OTHER mercilessly until I wake up.
Now, my extensive background training in martial arts consists of exactly: one day in college, when my friend and I decided it would be good fun to waste a gym credit on a Tae Kwon Do class. Or maybe it was Kuk Sool Won. Truth is, it was so long ago, it could have been anything, but from what I recall, it was really called Intro to Vomit 101. We showed up on the first day of class after an ill-advised long night at the frat house. All I remember is the instructor making us do a flip of some kind, me landing Homer Simpson-style (Tae-Kwon-D'oh!), and I was outta there within 5 minutes.
Yet this five minutes of ninja training was enough to at least give Cliff Clavin a taste of his own medicine in my dream, so there's something to be said for those 5 minutes, apparantly. I can now defend myself against subconscious evil-doers.
The whole thing scares me a bit, though. Mostly in the realization that part of my subconscious is SO impacted by "Dancing With the Stars" -- THE worst show on television since the one where people battled each other with giant Q-Tips -- that it's now invading my dreams. If you've got ANY clue how to analyze this one, I'm all ears. Personally, I'm hoping this column will exorcise this dream from my inner psyche. If not, your faithful columnist may seek professional help.
I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis. There are some seriously accredited psychologist types out there convinced that dreams can be the key to unlocking one's hidden innermost thoughts and desires. Of course, in order to accomplish said unlocking, you usually need to buy the seriously accredited and seriously overpriced book that can tell you, without hesitation, that the dream you had last week about the giant killer platypus is, actually, a sign that you dwell on your emotions too much.
Think I'm kidding? That really IS what dreaming of a platypus is supposed to mean. I looked it up on the Web. Me, I can barely think of what a platypus LOOKS like, let alone cast one in a starring role in my midnight hallucinations. Like I said, I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis, because it's one of the silliest and most pointless sciences out there.
The same website that tells us of the emotion-dwelling platypus also shares that dreaming of mashed potatoes is simply your subconscious expressing concern over financial matters. Me, I just thought it was my subconscious getting hungry. Apparantly not. Truth be told, I hit that website up because I need answers to the recurring dream I'VE been having for the last week:
In this dream, I still live in my apartment, except it now has a second bedroom, and I find myself with a fictional roommate named Tony. In some of the dreams, Tony is a guy; in others, Tony is a girl. But Tony is always named Tony, and weirder still, Tony is always a contestant on my least favorite TV show EVER, "Dancing With The Stars."
I accompany Tony to a taping of the show, and all goes well until Tony realizes that he/she has left the required costume at home, and I am sent on an errand to retrieve it. And invariably, when I re-enter the apartment, John Ratzenberger is stealing my TV.
Yes, THAT John Ratzenerger -- Cliffy from "Cheers" and one of the stars of this season's "Dancing With the Stars." Stealing my TV. This begs several questions, among them:
• Why John Ratzenberger?
• Doesn't he have a TV of his own?
• If he's ON "Dancing With the Stars," and if I've just left a taping of the show, shouldn't he be there?
• What HAVE I been eating before bed, and isn't it time to stop it?
But those questions can wait, because now I have a robbery to foil. As I enter the apartment and startle John Ratzenberger, he, naturally, drops the TV and engages me in melee combat.
You might have seen John Ratzenberger on "Cheers" or doing the cha-cha on "Dancing With the Stars," but what you might not know is that, at least in MY dreams, he's also quite adept at hand-to-hand combat -- and proceeds to mercilessly pummel me until I invariably wake up in a cold sweat. The end. Analyze THAT.
The first time I had this dream, I laughed. A lot. The SECOND time I had this dream, I was less amused. By the THIRD time, I was questioning my sanity. However, it must be said that my subconscious DOES like to even the odds a little bit. In the third dream, I once again catch him stealing the TV, and he once again rushes at me. HOWEVER this time, I calmly reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of NUNCHUCKS -- as though it's perfectly natural for me to wander around at all times with ninja weaponry in my pockets -- and we proceed to beat EACH OTHER mercilessly until I wake up.
Now, my extensive background training in martial arts consists of exactly: one day in college, when my friend and I decided it would be good fun to waste a gym credit on a Tae Kwon Do class. Or maybe it was Kuk Sool Won. Truth is, it was so long ago, it could have been anything, but from what I recall, it was really called Intro to Vomit 101. We showed up on the first day of class after an ill-advised long night at the frat house. All I remember is the instructor making us do a flip of some kind, me landing Homer Simpson-style (Tae-Kwon-D'oh!), and I was outta there within 5 minutes.
Yet this five minutes of ninja training was enough to at least give Cliff Clavin a taste of his own medicine in my dream, so there's something to be said for those 5 minutes, apparantly. I can now defend myself against subconscious evil-doers.
The whole thing scares me a bit, though. Mostly in the realization that part of my subconscious is SO impacted by "Dancing With the Stars" -- THE worst show on television since the one where people battled each other with giant Q-Tips -- that it's now invading my dreams. If you've got ANY clue how to analyze this one, I'm all ears. Personally, I'm hoping this column will exorcise this dream from my inner psyche. If not, your faithful columnist may seek professional help.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Sucks to be Imus
I never thought I'd feel bad for Don Imus.
If you've been under a rock, here's the story thus far: The other day, Don Imus, one of the true legends of syndicated radio, whose show is not just aired nationwide but also broadcast on MSNBC TV every morning, made a colossal screw up.
During a riff while he and his sportscaster were talking about the Rutgers-Tennessee women's basketball final, Imus was trying to make a point about how -- well, heck, let's just say it -- how butch & bad-a** the Rutgers team looked compared to the more, err, lady-like Tennessee Lady Vols. Imus picked the wrong words to use.
"Those are some nappy-headed ho's."
Famous last words, indeed. LAST words because Imus is presently being crucified by every African-American rights group on planet Earth. LAST words because Imus just got suspended for 2 weeks.
And -- I can't believe I'm saying this, because I really, really, REALLY can't stand Imus -- but I'm taking his side on this one.
I'm taking his side not in saying that there was nothing wrong with his choice of words, because there certainly WAS. There are some things that we pigmentally-challenged of the world simply can't say -- the "n" word obviously being the Big Bad Daddy of them all -- and calling ANYONE "nappy-headed", let alone an innocent girl's basketball team, is pretty offensive.
But now you've got Al Sharpton demanding that Imus be fired for his blatantly racist attack... and that's a joke.
Folks, Imus wasn't being racist, and he wasn't making an attack, other than making fun of how macho and athletic the Rutgers team was. The problem, I think, is simply that Imus is an old, out-of-touch dude.
He was trying to be cute on the air. You could tell. He was trying to adapt street lingo in order to seem a little bit cooler when talking about basketball.
It was a case of simple ignorance, not unlike something I saw on TV the other day. It was the story of some black student who took great offense when one of his white teachers called him THE N-WORD. Whoa. Big no-no on that guy's part.
But then they let the teacher on to defend himself. And this teacher proceeded to attempt to explain that he didn't say the dreaded N-word... but instead said the word "nigga," which the teacher took to be a common colloquialization of less offense, used in the same context as I would if I were to call you "dude" or "brother."
Of course, the teacher looked even more and more like a jackass every time he used the "nigga" variant on the show - it was one of the most cringe-worthy things I had ever seen.
But the point is: the teacher really didn't think he was doing anything wrong. Not because he was racist -- a dictionary doesn't make you racist -- but because he was so chronically un-hip that he didn't even register the offensive context of the word.
Deplorable? Heck yes. Stupid? Arguably. But RACIST? Naw.
I've never understood racism. Not even slightly. And I'm HORRIBLY aghast and offended when a white person within earshot cracks a racist joke. But... at the same time... I'm equally offended when Al Sharpton and his cronies assume that every white guy on the planet is out to oppress the black race.
Mr. Imus works in radio. Radio requires you to think on your feet, and think fast. For years and years, Imus has existed on the air without offending anyone more than your token shock-jock does. But now, after one poor vocabulary choice, you're demanding that his career be ruined? RIDICULOUS.
Look, I feel for Imus. I was once kinda sorta in his shoes. No, I've never said anything (to my knowledge) that someone took to be racist. But one time, I DID speak before thinking on the radio.
It was back in Galesburg, when I used to work for a Top 40 station, Q-93. It was a Saturday morning, the 4th of July in fact. The year prior, Galesburg's 4th of July celebrations were marred by the death of a girl. I can't remember now what even happened - if she drowned or was murdered or her body washed up onshore or what - but it was a Big News Story the year before.
So a year later, I'm on the air and riffing with our morning news girl. "How's your 4th of July, Shane?" she asked.
"Pretty good," I said, "so far, nobody's dead for a change."
Which is probably quite innocent for someone like Imus or Howard Stern. And I thought then (and still do today) that it was kinda funny. But in a small town like Galesburg, and on a cheezy Top 40 station that pretty much everybody in town listened to, it's probably not best to make a flippant comment about tragedy.
The news girl did her job and quickly got us off-topic, and never said anything to me about it. When I got home, my mom (who had been listening) asked if I still had a job. Until that moment, I didn't even realize that what I'd said might have offended some people.
Happily, no one ever said a THING to me about it. I bet my bosses were dead asleep - it WAS a Saturday and it was like 8 a.m. But -- as hokey and innocent as it sounds -- I bet if my bosses WERE listening, or if anyone had called in and complained, I might HAVE been fired.
The point is this: it's easy to slip up and say the wrong thing in radio. And once it's out there, it's out there. It's not like my column where I can hit the backspace key and no one realizes what an idiot I really AM.
Imus wasn't trying to be racist. He was trying to be cool. He failed miserably at both. But he shouldn't be fired, and I bet even ol' Al Sharpton believes that, too. But Sharpton will use ANY vehicle to bring the black struggle to the headlines, and it doesn't matter how many innocents are left in his wake.
You know who I'm starting to gain a newfound respect for? WHITE RAPPERS. Seriously. Imagine how tough it must be for dudes like Paul Wall & Bubba Sparxxx who have to do raps -- a lot of them freestyle and off the top of their heads -- that appeal to black culture WITHOUT accidentally slipping up and offending somebody. Honestly, in this crazy P.C. world, it's gotta be tough.
It's one thing to be racist, and altogether another thing to SCREW UP ROYALLY and say something stupid. THAT'S Imus' crime. Don't slaughter the guy for it. He's apologizing left and right. We need to forgive him and move on.
If you've been under a rock, here's the story thus far: The other day, Don Imus, one of the true legends of syndicated radio, whose show is not just aired nationwide but also broadcast on MSNBC TV every morning, made a colossal screw up.
During a riff while he and his sportscaster were talking about the Rutgers-Tennessee women's basketball final, Imus was trying to make a point about how -- well, heck, let's just say it -- how butch & bad-a** the Rutgers team looked compared to the more, err, lady-like Tennessee Lady Vols. Imus picked the wrong words to use.
"Those are some nappy-headed ho's."
Famous last words, indeed. LAST words because Imus is presently being crucified by every African-American rights group on planet Earth. LAST words because Imus just got suspended for 2 weeks.
And -- I can't believe I'm saying this, because I really, really, REALLY can't stand Imus -- but I'm taking his side on this one.
I'm taking his side not in saying that there was nothing wrong with his choice of words, because there certainly WAS. There are some things that we pigmentally-challenged of the world simply can't say -- the "n" word obviously being the Big Bad Daddy of them all -- and calling ANYONE "nappy-headed", let alone an innocent girl's basketball team, is pretty offensive.
But now you've got Al Sharpton demanding that Imus be fired for his blatantly racist attack... and that's a joke.
Folks, Imus wasn't being racist, and he wasn't making an attack, other than making fun of how macho and athletic the Rutgers team was. The problem, I think, is simply that Imus is an old, out-of-touch dude.
He was trying to be cute on the air. You could tell. He was trying to adapt street lingo in order to seem a little bit cooler when talking about basketball.
It was a case of simple ignorance, not unlike something I saw on TV the other day. It was the story of some black student who took great offense when one of his white teachers called him THE N-WORD. Whoa. Big no-no on that guy's part.
But then they let the teacher on to defend himself. And this teacher proceeded to attempt to explain that he didn't say the dreaded N-word... but instead said the word "nigga," which the teacher took to be a common colloquialization of less offense, used in the same context as I would if I were to call you "dude" or "brother."
Of course, the teacher looked even more and more like a jackass every time he used the "nigga" variant on the show - it was one of the most cringe-worthy things I had ever seen.
But the point is: the teacher really didn't think he was doing anything wrong. Not because he was racist -- a dictionary doesn't make you racist -- but because he was so chronically un-hip that he didn't even register the offensive context of the word.
Deplorable? Heck yes. Stupid? Arguably. But RACIST? Naw.
I've never understood racism. Not even slightly. And I'm HORRIBLY aghast and offended when a white person within earshot cracks a racist joke. But... at the same time... I'm equally offended when Al Sharpton and his cronies assume that every white guy on the planet is out to oppress the black race.
Mr. Imus works in radio. Radio requires you to think on your feet, and think fast. For years and years, Imus has existed on the air without offending anyone more than your token shock-jock does. But now, after one poor vocabulary choice, you're demanding that his career be ruined? RIDICULOUS.
Look, I feel for Imus. I was once kinda sorta in his shoes. No, I've never said anything (to my knowledge) that someone took to be racist. But one time, I DID speak before thinking on the radio.
It was back in Galesburg, when I used to work for a Top 40 station, Q-93. It was a Saturday morning, the 4th of July in fact. The year prior, Galesburg's 4th of July celebrations were marred by the death of a girl. I can't remember now what even happened - if she drowned or was murdered or her body washed up onshore or what - but it was a Big News Story the year before.
So a year later, I'm on the air and riffing with our morning news girl. "How's your 4th of July, Shane?" she asked.
"Pretty good," I said, "so far, nobody's dead for a change."
Which is probably quite innocent for someone like Imus or Howard Stern. And I thought then (and still do today) that it was kinda funny. But in a small town like Galesburg, and on a cheezy Top 40 station that pretty much everybody in town listened to, it's probably not best to make a flippant comment about tragedy.
The news girl did her job and quickly got us off-topic, and never said anything to me about it. When I got home, my mom (who had been listening) asked if I still had a job. Until that moment, I didn't even realize that what I'd said might have offended some people.
Happily, no one ever said a THING to me about it. I bet my bosses were dead asleep - it WAS a Saturday and it was like 8 a.m. But -- as hokey and innocent as it sounds -- I bet if my bosses WERE listening, or if anyone had called in and complained, I might HAVE been fired.
The point is this: it's easy to slip up and say the wrong thing in radio. And once it's out there, it's out there. It's not like my column where I can hit the backspace key and no one realizes what an idiot I really AM.
Imus wasn't trying to be racist. He was trying to be cool. He failed miserably at both. But he shouldn't be fired, and I bet even ol' Al Sharpton believes that, too. But Sharpton will use ANY vehicle to bring the black struggle to the headlines, and it doesn't matter how many innocents are left in his wake.
You know who I'm starting to gain a newfound respect for? WHITE RAPPERS. Seriously. Imagine how tough it must be for dudes like Paul Wall & Bubba Sparxxx who have to do raps -- a lot of them freestyle and off the top of their heads -- that appeal to black culture WITHOUT accidentally slipping up and offending somebody. Honestly, in this crazy P.C. world, it's gotta be tough.
It's one thing to be racist, and altogether another thing to SCREW UP ROYALLY and say something stupid. THAT'S Imus' crime. Don't slaughter the guy for it. He's apologizing left and right. We need to forgive him and move on.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
COLUMN: Stiff Neck
My life has sadly turned into a routine: Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat until dead.
Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. Sometimes I squeeze "play with cats" or "defeat alien menace on PS3" in there. I'm becoming a tad over-complacent with reality lately. I need to spice things up a bit. Kick caution to the wind. Do the Dew.
I decided to start this little rebellious phase with an interesting proposition: What would happen if I were to accidentally fall asleep NOT on the bed (no, no -- beds are for boring, normal people), but instead accidentally fall asleep on my couch with my head tilted at approximately a 90 degree angle to the rest of my body?
Answer: Nothing good.
Yes, it's always a true joy when your first conscious thought of the day is "OW!" I'm pretty sure that while I was asleep, a team of highly skilled ninjas had broken into my apartment and tied every muscle in my neck into a Windsor knot.
You would think that a smart brain would have the sense to wake itself up in the middle of the night and go, "Umm, hey, just so you know, you're doing some serious damage to your neck laying like this." My brain? Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Until, that is, I woke up with the mobility of a statue.
Now, I've had stiff necks in the past, but this one was epic. I tried my usual Shane-tested method: pop a couple Advil and get under a hot shower. But an hour later, I was at work and still stiff as a board, and a painful board at that. I begged a massage out of one of my co-workers, but somehow that just made it worse. I had no choice but to shift into Phase 2 of my coping mechanism:
WHINE. Incessantly. All day long. "Wow, does my neck hurt!" "I'm not kidding, my neck sure does hurt!" "Necks are WEIRD, aren't they?" "Ow!"
By the end of the day, I could at least take comfort in knowing that I wasn't the only one who had to work all day with a pain in the neck. Yet as much as my co-workers wanted to kill me, they also offered a slew of advice. It went a little like this:
"Put ice on it!" "No, use heat!" "No, use ice!" "Heat!" "Ice!" "Less filling!" "Tastes great!"
I wanted an answer, so I called one of those nurse helplines to solve the heat/cold dilemma. "You could try either way and see what works best," the nurse said. Hrm, helpful. Of course, she DID add to the fun of the afternoon by reminding me that stiff necks are often an early sign of meningitis. Now THERE'S something to tell a neurotic like me. Within an hour, I was pretty sure I was developing both sensitivity to light and lockjaw. Were it not for the sanity of my co-workers, I would have talked my way into meningitis within an hour.
Instead, one of my co-workers said the words I knew were coming but dreaded to hear regardless:
"You should go see a chiro."
Gulp. I've gotta be honest on this one, folks: Chiropractors scare the bejeebies out of me.
And yes, I realize that them's fightin' words in the ol' QCA. Chiropractic medicine was INVENTED here, and if you don't believe me, you can drive to downtown Davenport and see the sign on the sidewalk commemorating the spot of the world's first chiropractic adjustment. I know what a fantastic legacy ol' Doc Palmer brought to Davenport, but whenever I see that sign, I can't help but envision a cloak-clad Doc Palmer sneaking up on some hapless pedestrian on that street corner, grabbing them from the back, and -- CRACK! -- science is born.
Thanks to Palmer College, every third person roaming the Quad City streets is a licensed chiropractor. And before each one of you writes in to chew me out, let me be clear: I believe in chiropractic medicine. I really do. I just also happen to believe that it's not for me.
There's just something a little barbaric about the whole process. I don't care if there are X-rays and textbooks and years of science to support it -- at the end of the day, it's still someone grabbing your spine and going CRACK. Well, no thanks. It's just a tad too violent for me. I get nauseous when I accidentally crack a knuckle; if my whole back got popped, it'd be last train to Pukesville for THIS wussyboy.
But the stiff neck I had last week made me finally walk through the doors of the chiro across the street from work. And he was nice, and he understood my terror. He told me what to do (ice, not heat.) He sold me a bottle of Biofreeze, which is basically menthol at a heavenly nuclear dosage. He showed me exercises to do. And he didn't try to sneak up behind me and crack my back, not even once.
Within a couple days, I could move my neck. Within a week, the pain was gone. Finally I could get back to what I do best: Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. Sometimes I squeeze "play with cats" or "defeat alien menace on PS3" in there. I'm becoming a tad over-complacent with reality lately. I need to spice things up a bit. Kick caution to the wind. Do the Dew.
I decided to start this little rebellious phase with an interesting proposition: What would happen if I were to accidentally fall asleep NOT on the bed (no, no -- beds are for boring, normal people), but instead accidentally fall asleep on my couch with my head tilted at approximately a 90 degree angle to the rest of my body?
Answer: Nothing good.
Yes, it's always a true joy when your first conscious thought of the day is "OW!" I'm pretty sure that while I was asleep, a team of highly skilled ninjas had broken into my apartment and tied every muscle in my neck into a Windsor knot.
You would think that a smart brain would have the sense to wake itself up in the middle of the night and go, "Umm, hey, just so you know, you're doing some serious damage to your neck laying like this." My brain? Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Until, that is, I woke up with the mobility of a statue.
Now, I've had stiff necks in the past, but this one was epic. I tried my usual Shane-tested method: pop a couple Advil and get under a hot shower. But an hour later, I was at work and still stiff as a board, and a painful board at that. I begged a massage out of one of my co-workers, but somehow that just made it worse. I had no choice but to shift into Phase 2 of my coping mechanism:
WHINE. Incessantly. All day long. "Wow, does my neck hurt!" "I'm not kidding, my neck sure does hurt!" "Necks are WEIRD, aren't they?" "Ow!"
By the end of the day, I could at least take comfort in knowing that I wasn't the only one who had to work all day with a pain in the neck. Yet as much as my co-workers wanted to kill me, they also offered a slew of advice. It went a little like this:
"Put ice on it!" "No, use heat!" "No, use ice!" "Heat!" "Ice!" "Less filling!" "Tastes great!"
I wanted an answer, so I called one of those nurse helplines to solve the heat/cold dilemma. "You could try either way and see what works best," the nurse said. Hrm, helpful. Of course, she DID add to the fun of the afternoon by reminding me that stiff necks are often an early sign of meningitis. Now THERE'S something to tell a neurotic like me. Within an hour, I was pretty sure I was developing both sensitivity to light and lockjaw. Were it not for the sanity of my co-workers, I would have talked my way into meningitis within an hour.
Instead, one of my co-workers said the words I knew were coming but dreaded to hear regardless:
"You should go see a chiro."
Gulp. I've gotta be honest on this one, folks: Chiropractors scare the bejeebies out of me.
And yes, I realize that them's fightin' words in the ol' QCA. Chiropractic medicine was INVENTED here, and if you don't believe me, you can drive to downtown Davenport and see the sign on the sidewalk commemorating the spot of the world's first chiropractic adjustment. I know what a fantastic legacy ol' Doc Palmer brought to Davenport, but whenever I see that sign, I can't help but envision a cloak-clad Doc Palmer sneaking up on some hapless pedestrian on that street corner, grabbing them from the back, and -- CRACK! -- science is born.
Thanks to Palmer College, every third person roaming the Quad City streets is a licensed chiropractor. And before each one of you writes in to chew me out, let me be clear: I believe in chiropractic medicine. I really do. I just also happen to believe that it's not for me.
There's just something a little barbaric about the whole process. I don't care if there are X-rays and textbooks and years of science to support it -- at the end of the day, it's still someone grabbing your spine and going CRACK. Well, no thanks. It's just a tad too violent for me. I get nauseous when I accidentally crack a knuckle; if my whole back got popped, it'd be last train to Pukesville for THIS wussyboy.
But the stiff neck I had last week made me finally walk through the doors of the chiro across the street from work. And he was nice, and he understood my terror. He told me what to do (ice, not heat.) He sold me a bottle of Biofreeze, which is basically menthol at a heavenly nuclear dosage. He showed me exercises to do. And he didn't try to sneak up behind me and crack my back, not even once.
Within a couple days, I could move my neck. Within a week, the pain was gone. Finally I could get back to what I do best: Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Things That Make Me A Happy Shane
(1) You know it's my pick for the funniest place on Earth: TACO BELL. Once again, the Bell never fails to make me smile, visit after visit. I just noticed tonight when I breezed thru for some tacos that the poor folks working the drive-thru aren't just employees... they aren't crew members... they aren't Sandwich Artists... According to the name-tag on the dude working the drive-thru tonight, they are...
FOOD CHAMPIONS!
That's right, I was waited on tonight by DOUG, FOOD CHAMPION.
I wanna be a champion of food!
Taco Bell, I don't wanna make fun of you incessantly because I love your tacos. But you just make it sooooo darn easy.
(2) If anybody's in the neighborhood of the Mother Hubbard's Cupboard on 18th Ave. in Rock Island over by Longview Park, check out the front counter. They're now selling stylish DO-RAGS at the counter. Classy, eh? But it gets better. When you think do-rags, you usually think: Gangsta. Thug. Rebel. Dangerous. If I was running Acme Do-Rag Inc., I'd probably try and capitalize on that theme for marketing purposes, right? At least to a tactful degree. Well then, explain to me WHY the do-rags on sale at MoHu's come with the picture they do on the cover. I can't... words just can't describe it, you've gotta stop in and see it for yourself. But the dude on the front of the package looks like... ummm... he's really excited because tickets for Cher just went on sale. Or perhaps he's auditioning for La Cage Aux Falles. It is, without doubt, THE most inappropriate picture imaginable to sell do-rags to wayward Rock Islanders. You've just got to see it.
ADDENDUM: In fact, here it is:
It makes me want to write a musical, "I've Got a Spanky New Du-Rag!"
FOOD CHAMPIONS!
That's right, I was waited on tonight by DOUG, FOOD CHAMPION.
I wanna be a champion of food!
Taco Bell, I don't wanna make fun of you incessantly because I love your tacos. But you just make it sooooo darn easy.
(2) If anybody's in the neighborhood of the Mother Hubbard's Cupboard on 18th Ave. in Rock Island over by Longview Park, check out the front counter. They're now selling stylish DO-RAGS at the counter. Classy, eh? But it gets better. When you think do-rags, you usually think: Gangsta. Thug. Rebel. Dangerous. If I was running Acme Do-Rag Inc., I'd probably try and capitalize on that theme for marketing purposes, right? At least to a tactful degree. Well then, explain to me WHY the do-rags on sale at MoHu's come with the picture they do on the cover. I can't... words just can't describe it, you've gotta stop in and see it for yourself. But the dude on the front of the package looks like... ummm... he's really excited because tickets for Cher just went on sale. Or perhaps he's auditioning for La Cage Aux Falles. It is, without doubt, THE most inappropriate picture imaginable to sell do-rags to wayward Rock Islanders. You've just got to see it.
ADDENDUM: In fact, here it is:
It makes me want to write a musical, "I've Got a Spanky New Du-Rag!"
Saturday, March 24, 2007
No column this week.
Heya guys... just wanted to let ya know in case you were missing my incredibly down-trodden face in the paper this week... I took this weekend off from the column for a battery recharge. In the past 2 weeks I've had to deal with a nasty cold, a crippling stiff neck, and the passing of my grandmother, so it's been a bit hairy lately. Don't worry, tho -- I'll be back next week, and if anything amusing happens between now & then, I'll post it here...
Monday, March 19, 2007
COLUMN: Concert Idiots
For once, it was a news story I could really get into. Last weekend, singer-songwriter John Prine played a show at the Adler that was marred by violence. In the crowd, a guy was watching the gig when, from the row behind him, a female fan began singing along to the concert. After allegedly confronting the fan, he then did the unthinkable: he allegedly socked her in her alleged eye. And now he's in alleged trouble bigtime.
The public response, via our newspaper's blog and elsewhere, was swift and shameful. But nowhere in the public outcry was the true villain of the story exposed: John Prine. That's right, if we can blame suicides on the music of Judas Priest and school shootings on Marilyn Manson, then let me be the first to claim the obvious truth that JOHN PRINE DRIVES PEOPLE TO VIOLENCE.
Don't believe me? Have a gander at some of John Prine's twisted, evil lyrics: "Father forgive us for what we must do, you forgive us, we'll forgive you, we'll forgive each other 'til we both turn blue, then we'll just whistle and go fishing in heaven." I ask you, Quad Cities, is that the folk-like whimsy of a gentle bard or the ramblings of a lunatic hell-bent on anarchic savagery??
Eh? Oh -- it IS folk-like whimsy, sorry. Okay, so maybe John Prine's not at fault (though, sorry John Prine fans: If I were trapped at one of his concerts, I'd likely want to hurt somebody, too.) And yes, violence is perfectly unacceptable unless you're in a ring and we're paying you to be violent. And hitting a woman is unspeakably awful and a horrific crime. But I've gotta be honest with you guys on this one: While this guy's actions were reprehensible, I can kinda sorta understand the emotions at play.
I'm a huge music nerd. As such, I've been to hundreds and hundreds of concerts. And in this capacity as a self-proclaimed expert, I can thusly share with you Shane's Theory of Concert Relativity: For every amount of love I hold for whoever's on stage, there will be an equal and opposite hatred for someone in the crowd making an arse of themselves.
Look around you now: odds are good that someone in your field of vision right now holds a secret identity of a Concert Idiot. They might look mild-mannered now, but they're just 3 adult beverages and 1 funky bassline away from irritating anyone within a 20' radius. Odds are good they'll fall into one of these categories:
• THE AMERICAN IDOL AUDITIONER: To them, it's not a concert, it's just one big ol' karaoke jam session with some other guy hogging the mic. No worries, they can freakishly sing louder than the P.A. system. And usually straight in your ear. Who cares if the words are right, just as long as everything they sing is as off-key as possible.
• THE DRUNKEN FRAT-BOY: You could be listening to the gutteral chants of Tibetan monks, and there he'll be, precariously holding at least 3 of the World's Fullest Beers while high-fiving his buddies and occasionally yelling out "Freebird!" (despite the fact that he's at least 10 years too young to even know what "freebird" means, other than maybe it's something like "Free Tibet.")
• THE HIPPIE DANCER: Again, you could be at ANY show, even a symphony orchestra -- but if there's a drummer involved, somewhere in the crowd is a girl in a sundress who may or may be not be named Moonchild willing to jump into the aisle and do a shuffle that's part Chief Illiniwek, part astral projection, completely nowhere on beat, and an elbow that WILL make direct contact with one of your kidneys by night's end.
• THE CLOSE, PERSONAL FRIEND OF THE BAND: You're in the front row of a packed concert. Onstage is a musician deep in the middle of a heart-felt song. Why, what better time to attempt small talk? "Duuuuuuuude," they will shout to the stage, "Yooou rooooock!" Or, to show that they are, in fact, the band's #1 fan, they will use the greatest weapon in their arsenal: Yelling out the band member's first names as though they have developed a close relationship with the artist somewhere between lights-out and the first encore.
True story: Once I went to a show by the Welsh band Super Furry Animals. You've never heard of them, but you should.
(In fact, here's one of their videos:)
Anyways, we were positioned in the front row at the guitarist's feet when suddenly, the mild-mannered kid next to me starts idiotically screaming what sounds like, "Shawwwn! Shawwwn! Shawwwn!" to no avail.
"Dude, why won't he look at me?" he asked the air.
"Because," I explained in my brain, "in Welsh, the name C-I-A-N is pronounced 'Key-an.'" But it was okay, I let the idiot keep on yelling out a random name to a rather befuddled Welshman.
Moral of the story is: Concert Idiots need to be thwarted at all costs. Well, not via the public shame and disgraceful lunacy of socking someone -- especially a girl -- in the eye. Still, though, the evil part of me -- heck, the ROCK N ROLL part of me -- relishes the fact that, despite this guy's awful and inane actions, maybe more than one person learned a lesson that night.
The public response, via our newspaper's blog and elsewhere, was swift and shameful. But nowhere in the public outcry was the true villain of the story exposed: John Prine. That's right, if we can blame suicides on the music of Judas Priest and school shootings on Marilyn Manson, then let me be the first to claim the obvious truth that JOHN PRINE DRIVES PEOPLE TO VIOLENCE.
Don't believe me? Have a gander at some of John Prine's twisted, evil lyrics: "Father forgive us for what we must do, you forgive us, we'll forgive you, we'll forgive each other 'til we both turn blue, then we'll just whistle and go fishing in heaven." I ask you, Quad Cities, is that the folk-like whimsy of a gentle bard or the ramblings of a lunatic hell-bent on anarchic savagery??
Eh? Oh -- it IS folk-like whimsy, sorry. Okay, so maybe John Prine's not at fault (though, sorry John Prine fans: If I were trapped at one of his concerts, I'd likely want to hurt somebody, too.) And yes, violence is perfectly unacceptable unless you're in a ring and we're paying you to be violent. And hitting a woman is unspeakably awful and a horrific crime. But I've gotta be honest with you guys on this one: While this guy's actions were reprehensible, I can kinda sorta understand the emotions at play.
I'm a huge music nerd. As such, I've been to hundreds and hundreds of concerts. And in this capacity as a self-proclaimed expert, I can thusly share with you Shane's Theory of Concert Relativity: For every amount of love I hold for whoever's on stage, there will be an equal and opposite hatred for someone in the crowd making an arse of themselves.
Look around you now: odds are good that someone in your field of vision right now holds a secret identity of a Concert Idiot. They might look mild-mannered now, but they're just 3 adult beverages and 1 funky bassline away from irritating anyone within a 20' radius. Odds are good they'll fall into one of these categories:
• THE AMERICAN IDOL AUDITIONER: To them, it's not a concert, it's just one big ol' karaoke jam session with some other guy hogging the mic. No worries, they can freakishly sing louder than the P.A. system. And usually straight in your ear. Who cares if the words are right, just as long as everything they sing is as off-key as possible.
• THE DRUNKEN FRAT-BOY: You could be listening to the gutteral chants of Tibetan monks, and there he'll be, precariously holding at least 3 of the World's Fullest Beers while high-fiving his buddies and occasionally yelling out "Freebird!" (despite the fact that he's at least 10 years too young to even know what "freebird" means, other than maybe it's something like "Free Tibet.")
• THE HIPPIE DANCER: Again, you could be at ANY show, even a symphony orchestra -- but if there's a drummer involved, somewhere in the crowd is a girl in a sundress who may or may be not be named Moonchild willing to jump into the aisle and do a shuffle that's part Chief Illiniwek, part astral projection, completely nowhere on beat, and an elbow that WILL make direct contact with one of your kidneys by night's end.
• THE CLOSE, PERSONAL FRIEND OF THE BAND: You're in the front row of a packed concert. Onstage is a musician deep in the middle of a heart-felt song. Why, what better time to attempt small talk? "Duuuuuuuude," they will shout to the stage, "Yooou rooooock!" Or, to show that they are, in fact, the band's #1 fan, they will use the greatest weapon in their arsenal: Yelling out the band member's first names as though they have developed a close relationship with the artist somewhere between lights-out and the first encore.
True story: Once I went to a show by the Welsh band Super Furry Animals. You've never heard of them, but you should.
(In fact, here's one of their videos:)
Anyways, we were positioned in the front row at the guitarist's feet when suddenly, the mild-mannered kid next to me starts idiotically screaming what sounds like, "Shawwwn! Shawwwn! Shawwwn!" to no avail.
"Dude, why won't he look at me?" he asked the air.
"Because," I explained in my brain, "in Welsh, the name C-I-A-N is pronounced 'Key-an.'" But it was okay, I let the idiot keep on yelling out a random name to a rather befuddled Welshman.
Moral of the story is: Concert Idiots need to be thwarted at all costs. Well, not via the public shame and disgraceful lunacy of socking someone -- especially a girl -- in the eye. Still, though, the evil part of me -- heck, the ROCK N ROLL part of me -- relishes the fact that, despite this guy's awful and inane actions, maybe more than one person learned a lesson that night.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
New Stuff, Bad Stuff, Good Stuff
Tonight was an interesting evening in Pop Culture Land.
(1) The debut of "Andy Barker, P.I." on NBC. What could be better than a show not just exec produced but also WRITTEN by Conan O'Brien AND starring former Conan sidekick Andy Richter? Well, pretty much ANYTHING. What a HUUUUUUGE disappointment, especially since I'd been hearing good buzz about the show. But everything was formulaic, the jokes were super thin, and the potential is baaaad. After the show, the exec producers did a live blog on the NBC website -- and when I stopped by, it was comment after comment about how awful the show was. I'm not a huuuge fan of "30 Rock," but this show makes me miss it.
(2) The debut of the new Jeff Goldblum show on NBC. What could be more irritating than Jeff Goldblum -- perhaps the hammiest actor on the planet -- as a detective who hallucinates conversations with murder victims? Well, pretty much ANYTHING. I was NOT expecting this show to be good. Hell, I wasn't even expecting to WATCH it. But it came on after the Richter thing... I was bored... and by the second commercial break, I was captivated. GREAT writing, MILES better than I had expected. Future episodes might be suckfests, but I'm intrigued enough to keep watchin'.
(3) Phil Hare on Colbert. I knew there was a reason I voted for the guy. Classy move, a fun and funny distraction, and it's good to know at least one local politico isn't above making fun of himself a little bit.
(4) If you want to see something TRULY brilliant, check out the videos on this page: http://www.watchme.tv/search/?tg=3267. When one of my favorite bands, Of Montreal, played Chicago almost a decade ago, they brought with them a band "assigned" to open for them on a recent Japanese tour. That band was ELEKIBASS. And that night, Elekibass stole the show out from under Of Montreal. Imagine a cross between "Sgt. Pepper"-era Beatles and the soundtrack of the Muppet Movie, all performed by a Japanese band with a VERY thin grasp of the English language who had never stepped foot on American soil before. Between every song, the band would pull out cameras, take pics of the crowd, and yell things like, "We Elekibass LOVE you to rock!" In short, it was one of the most brilliant things I'd ever seen. And, while Elekibass remain virtual unknowns in the States AND in Japan, I've followed their career with interest (or as much interest as you can develop while trying to surf Japanese websites.) When the band mounted a small U.S. tour on their own a few years ago, I was instrumental in bringing them to Ribco... and while the crowd that night was thin, people STILL come up and tell me how much fun they had that night.
Anyways, this past month, almost a decade after it first happened, Of Montreal brought Elekibass back over from Japan to open for a few shows in the Deep South. And this time, Elekibass came over with video cameras in tow and filmed a boatload of short movies of performances & life on the road. It's one of the coolest things I've seen in a loooong while and perfectly captures what made me fall in love with the group... http://www.watchme.tv/search/?tg=3267 to get to their videos (and yes, the site's in Japanese, just start clickin' on the thumbnails and you'll figure it out.)
(1) The debut of "Andy Barker, P.I." on NBC. What could be better than a show not just exec produced but also WRITTEN by Conan O'Brien AND starring former Conan sidekick Andy Richter? Well, pretty much ANYTHING. What a HUUUUUUGE disappointment, especially since I'd been hearing good buzz about the show. But everything was formulaic, the jokes were super thin, and the potential is baaaad. After the show, the exec producers did a live blog on the NBC website -- and when I stopped by, it was comment after comment about how awful the show was. I'm not a huuuge fan of "30 Rock," but this show makes me miss it.
(2) The debut of the new Jeff Goldblum show on NBC. What could be more irritating than Jeff Goldblum -- perhaps the hammiest actor on the planet -- as a detective who hallucinates conversations with murder victims? Well, pretty much ANYTHING. I was NOT expecting this show to be good. Hell, I wasn't even expecting to WATCH it. But it came on after the Richter thing... I was bored... and by the second commercial break, I was captivated. GREAT writing, MILES better than I had expected. Future episodes might be suckfests, but I'm intrigued enough to keep watchin'.
(3) Phil Hare on Colbert. I knew there was a reason I voted for the guy. Classy move, a fun and funny distraction, and it's good to know at least one local politico isn't above making fun of himself a little bit.
(4) If you want to see something TRULY brilliant, check out the videos on this page: http://www.watchme.tv/search/?tg=3267. When one of my favorite bands, Of Montreal, played Chicago almost a decade ago, they brought with them a band "assigned" to open for them on a recent Japanese tour. That band was ELEKIBASS. And that night, Elekibass stole the show out from under Of Montreal. Imagine a cross between "Sgt. Pepper"-era Beatles and the soundtrack of the Muppet Movie, all performed by a Japanese band with a VERY thin grasp of the English language who had never stepped foot on American soil before. Between every song, the band would pull out cameras, take pics of the crowd, and yell things like, "We Elekibass LOVE you to rock!" In short, it was one of the most brilliant things I'd ever seen. And, while Elekibass remain virtual unknowns in the States AND in Japan, I've followed their career with interest (or as much interest as you can develop while trying to surf Japanese websites.) When the band mounted a small U.S. tour on their own a few years ago, I was instrumental in bringing them to Ribco... and while the crowd that night was thin, people STILL come up and tell me how much fun they had that night.
Anyways, this past month, almost a decade after it first happened, Of Montreal brought Elekibass back over from Japan to open for a few shows in the Deep South. And this time, Elekibass came over with video cameras in tow and filmed a boatload of short movies of performances & life on the road. It's one of the coolest things I've seen in a loooong while and perfectly captures what made me fall in love with the group... http://www.watchme.tv/search/?tg=3267 to get to their videos (and yes, the site's in Japanese, just start clickin' on the thumbnails and you'll figure it out.)
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
COLUMN: The Ice Storm
Diary of An Ice Storm
Once Upon A Not-So-Distant Saturday:
Noon-ish: Yawn, it's too early. I'm going back to bed.
1-ish: That's better. Our trusty weatherguys have called for an 80% chance of the end of the world today, but so far it looks alright. Well, it's sleeting a little, but hey, sleet's just rain having a bad day. I'm a macho dude. It can sleet all it wants.
2-ish: The alien menace proves to be no challenge for me and my carpal-tunnel-hindered wrists of fury. It's a good afternoon on the X-Box. I wish I could play all day, but I've got a trivia night fundraiser to dominate tonight.
3-ish: I don't have a trivia night fundraiser to dominate tonight. It's been cancelled due to the weather. That's funny, everything just looks a little wet outside. Those over-reacting weenies. Now I need to find something to do until I have to DJ at the club later tonight.
4-ish: I don't have to DJ at the club later tonight. It's been cancelled, too. Maybe I need to take a look-see outside.
4:15-ish: I take a step outside... and promptly fall down. It's icy out. REAL icy. The kind of icy you only see in comic books where some nefarious supervillain has a machine that controls the weather. Sadly, I see no Superman. I'm starting to be VERY glad that I've got a frozen pizza in my fridge.
4:45-ish: I'm even happier now that the frozen pizza is out of the fridge and in my belly. The TV says that basically anything going on anywhere has been cancelled. And the cancellation scrawl is ruining my otherwise hi-def picture. Sheesh. The news is talking about people losing power. I crank my heat up to max in case it happens here.
5:30-ish: I'm sooooo bored. Can I get out and go anywhere? I walk/skate out to my apartment's steep uphill Driveway o' Doom. There's no way anyone's getting up it. And I'm not risking my neck going down it.
6:00-ish: I call up friend Jason. "Sure, man, come on over. The driveway? It'll be fiiine."
6:30-ish: It is not fine. Jason calls from his cellphone. From his car. From my driveway. Which he is now sideways on. I walk/skate out to help. I help by getting into the passenger seat and laughing uproariously when we ditch the car over and over again.
7:00-ish: We give up and park Jason's car 3 blocks away and hike back to my apartment complex. Whew. At least I won't be bored tonight. I've got a friend over and a video game aching to be played. Life is sweet. Time for a little
BZZZF!
7:01-ish. It is dark. Real dark. Someone asks if I've got any candles. I sure hope it's Jason.
8-ish. Milton Bradley describes the game of Rack-o as "keen competition for 2-4 players." As Jason and I struggle to play via candlelight, it doesn't seem so keen.
9-ish. Jason asks that I not write a newspaper column about two macho single guys spending a Saturday night playing Rack-o by candlelight. I tell him not to worry, I wouldn't dream of it.
10-ish. Jason leaves. More specifically, Jason leaves me in the dark. And boooored. Strangely, it's not much different than playing Rack-o.
10:01-ish. REEEEEEALY bored. And really quiet. I can hear my cats breathing.
11:30-ish. Bored enough to watch the entire third season of "The Office" on my miraculously fully-charged iPod, it turns out. The upstairs neighbors are celebrating the blackout by -- whoa, Shane, it's a family newspaper -- jumping up and down on their bed really fast over and over again. Ha ha, those silly neighbors and their jumping!
Midnight-ish. I return from navigating to the bathroom to find my cat. More specifically, to find my cat ON FIRE. Apparantly, she thought that the three molten candles on the table might want to be her friends. She was wrong, and now has the scorch marks on her side to prove it. She's fine, but the whole place smells of burnt cat.
1:00-ish. How did human beings survive without power? No TV... no internet... no surround sound stereo. My life has no meaning. I fear I may be losing my mind.
2:00-ish. All dark and no light makes shane a dull boy. All dark and no light makes Shane a dull boy. All dark and no light makes Shane a dull...
8:00-ish-a.m. Happily I must have fallen asleep before I could go into a murderous rampage. Unhappily, I'm still without power, and now its cold in here. Grr. And brr. Grr-brr.
Noon-ish. Enough's enough. I pick up the phone and call the power company. Some dude named Tim answers. Tim does NOT sound well. Tim sounds like he's about 3 calls away from going postal. Tim tells me he has no idea how long it'll be, then reads me some corporate-written speech about work crews doing the best they can yada yada. I feel bad for Tim. Rather than thanking him, I instead compliment him on doing a good job under pressure. Tim brightens up. I may have just saved the lives of countless call center employees.
My power eventually came back on Sunday night just in time for the Oscars. And yeah, I know that a lot of other people had it MUCH worse than I did, so I'm grateful for only being powerless for a day. I guess I just didn't know how literal the word "powerless" would be.
Once Upon A Not-So-Distant Saturday:
Noon-ish: Yawn, it's too early. I'm going back to bed.
1-ish: That's better. Our trusty weatherguys have called for an 80% chance of the end of the world today, but so far it looks alright. Well, it's sleeting a little, but hey, sleet's just rain having a bad day. I'm a macho dude. It can sleet all it wants.
2-ish: The alien menace proves to be no challenge for me and my carpal-tunnel-hindered wrists of fury. It's a good afternoon on the X-Box. I wish I could play all day, but I've got a trivia night fundraiser to dominate tonight.
3-ish: I don't have a trivia night fundraiser to dominate tonight. It's been cancelled due to the weather. That's funny, everything just looks a little wet outside. Those over-reacting weenies. Now I need to find something to do until I have to DJ at the club later tonight.
4-ish: I don't have to DJ at the club later tonight. It's been cancelled, too. Maybe I need to take a look-see outside.
4:15-ish: I take a step outside... and promptly fall down. It's icy out. REAL icy. The kind of icy you only see in comic books where some nefarious supervillain has a machine that controls the weather. Sadly, I see no Superman. I'm starting to be VERY glad that I've got a frozen pizza in my fridge.
4:45-ish: I'm even happier now that the frozen pizza is out of the fridge and in my belly. The TV says that basically anything going on anywhere has been cancelled. And the cancellation scrawl is ruining my otherwise hi-def picture. Sheesh. The news is talking about people losing power. I crank my heat up to max in case it happens here.
5:30-ish: I'm sooooo bored. Can I get out and go anywhere? I walk/skate out to my apartment's steep uphill Driveway o' Doom. There's no way anyone's getting up it. And I'm not risking my neck going down it.
6:00-ish: I call up friend Jason. "Sure, man, come on over. The driveway? It'll be fiiine."
6:30-ish: It is not fine. Jason calls from his cellphone. From his car. From my driveway. Which he is now sideways on. I walk/skate out to help. I help by getting into the passenger seat and laughing uproariously when we ditch the car over and over again.
7:00-ish: We give up and park Jason's car 3 blocks away and hike back to my apartment complex. Whew. At least I won't be bored tonight. I've got a friend over and a video game aching to be played. Life is sweet. Time for a little
BZZZF!
7:01-ish. It is dark. Real dark. Someone asks if I've got any candles. I sure hope it's Jason.
8-ish. Milton Bradley describes the game of Rack-o as "keen competition for 2-4 players." As Jason and I struggle to play via candlelight, it doesn't seem so keen.
9-ish. Jason asks that I not write a newspaper column about two macho single guys spending a Saturday night playing Rack-o by candlelight. I tell him not to worry, I wouldn't dream of it.
10-ish. Jason leaves. More specifically, Jason leaves me in the dark. And boooored. Strangely, it's not much different than playing Rack-o.
10:01-ish. REEEEEEALY bored. And really quiet. I can hear my cats breathing.
11:30-ish. Bored enough to watch the entire third season of "The Office" on my miraculously fully-charged iPod, it turns out. The upstairs neighbors are celebrating the blackout by -- whoa, Shane, it's a family newspaper -- jumping up and down on their bed really fast over and over again. Ha ha, those silly neighbors and their jumping!
Midnight-ish. I return from navigating to the bathroom to find my cat. More specifically, to find my cat ON FIRE. Apparantly, she thought that the three molten candles on the table might want to be her friends. She was wrong, and now has the scorch marks on her side to prove it. She's fine, but the whole place smells of burnt cat.
1:00-ish. How did human beings survive without power? No TV... no internet... no surround sound stereo. My life has no meaning. I fear I may be losing my mind.
2:00-ish. All dark and no light makes shane a dull boy. All dark and no light makes Shane a dull boy. All dark and no light makes Shane a dull...
8:00-ish-a.m. Happily I must have fallen asleep before I could go into a murderous rampage. Unhappily, I'm still without power, and now its cold in here. Grr. And brr. Grr-brr.
Noon-ish. Enough's enough. I pick up the phone and call the power company. Some dude named Tim answers. Tim does NOT sound well. Tim sounds like he's about 3 calls away from going postal. Tim tells me he has no idea how long it'll be, then reads me some corporate-written speech about work crews doing the best they can yada yada. I feel bad for Tim. Rather than thanking him, I instead compliment him on doing a good job under pressure. Tim brightens up. I may have just saved the lives of countless call center employees.
My power eventually came back on Sunday night just in time for the Oscars. And yeah, I know that a lot of other people had it MUCH worse than I did, so I'm grateful for only being powerless for a day. I guess I just didn't know how literal the word "powerless" would be.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
I Loves A Good Headline
So was I the only one who thought something different when I saw THIS headline on QCOnline today?
B&B moving into former Milan Hy-Vee
I would TOTALLY go to a bed & breakfast that was once a Hy-Vee.
B&B moving into former Milan Hy-Vee
I would TOTALLY go to a bed & breakfast that was once a Hy-Vee.
Monday, March 05, 2007
COLUMN: Illiniwek
Yay! I did it! I think, for the very first time EVER, one of my columns made the "most commented story" over the weekend on QCOnline. And it was a column that came with a heck of a fight...
See, I've got a size limit that I have to work within every week. Many of the full-time writers get the benefit of using software at work wherein you type in your story, hit a button, and -- presto -- it tells you the exact # of column inches your piece is taking up. Well, for somebody like me who simply writes on the side, I don't have the privilege of knowing my column's size in inches while I'm writing it -- but I do know to aim for around 800 words, and that usually gets me in the neighborhood.
Problem is, I don't have any software at home that counts words. I don't use Microsoft Word at home -- I use the crappy word processor on Microsoft Works (I realize Works is antiquated, but years ago I started my music inventory on a Works database, so when I got my new computer a couple years back, I opted for Works over Word in order to NOT re-do my music inventory!)
Anyways, sorry to babble. Point is, I have NO way of judging my column length other than simply eyeballing it every week. And sometimes, when I get on a roll, my eyeballing sucks and I wax poetic for paragraphs on end.
THAT'S why I somehow managed to go almost 200 words over my limit this week. Add to that concerns by some editors that my column might unintentionally offend, and... long story short... my column got munched by the copy editors this week.
Which is why I love this blog... because I can give you the column here the way it was intended: long -- and maybe unintentionally offensive. Regardless, enjoy......
When I was DJ'ing parties back in the post-college daze, I used to play a song called "Killing in the Name Of" by the band Rage Against the Machine. Rage was a fairly earnest band, so the song was probably about some random heart-breaking socio-political cause of the moment.
Sadly, we didn't learn about a cause, because thanks to the band's excruciatingly indescipherable delivery, all we ever heard was, "Shout-y! Angry yell-y shout-y! Screeeeeam!"
Until, that is, the last minute of the song. That's when you could understand ONE line -- "F*** you! I won't do what you tell me!" -- which repeats over and over again at the song's conclusion. This was the inevitable cue for even the most middle-class, non-threatening, trouble-free dudes in the bar to suddenly start high-fiving strangers, pouncing around angrily, and screaming along as though it were the most essential act of rebellion in their entire lives.
Me? I'd just sit in the DJ booth and laugh. "I won't do what you tell me!" Who's supposed to be the 'you'? The girlfriend? Mommy and daddy? Your boss at the pizza joint? Why the angst, Rebel Rebel? What are you raging against? Curfew? Was Kwik Shop out of Diet Coke?
I have ALWAYS found humor in people getting unnecessarily riled up... and that's why this has been a banner week for me.
What's been getting people in a needless tizzy these days? Iraq? Nope. Global warming? No, sir. It's not even bald Britney or the many daddies of Dannilynn. No, the thing that's been taking front page in our news lately, the item that's caused mild-mannered couch potatos to stand up and scream heresy... is some kid named Dan.
Dan lost his job the other day... and it seems like half the world is up in arms over it. Now, I won't pretend that it isn't sad when someone becomes unemployed. It's a bummer. But it shouldn't be the sort of thing to cause literally HUNDREDS of comments on our newspaper blog. But Dan's different.
You see, it was Dan's job to paint his face and dance around at U of I games. You might know Dan as the last Chief Illiniwek.
I don't get the big deal about the university's decision to oblige the NCAA's request to do away with the mascot. To me, it's just common sense. Native Americans and others have taken offense to the college's use of a Native mascot, and I can't blame 'em.
People opposed to the Chief throw around words like racism and hatred. I'm not opening that can of worms. But just imagine it like this:
Let's say that the Galesburg Silver Streaks suddenly decided to change their name to the Galesburg Fightin' Rock Islanders. And they had a mascot who came out at halftime dressed in a John Deere outfit and danced around with a Harris Pizza in one hand and Whitey's ice cream in the other. Would you get slightly miffed at the stereotype? I would (even though I often do the pizza-n-ice-cream dance in the privacy of my kitchen.)
"But Shane," you say, "Chief Illiniwek celebrates the Native American culture! Our man Dan had to study with elders to replicate the historical war dance of the Illini!"
So what. It comes down to perception. Sure, there might be some people watching the game going, "Wow, what a respectful tradition." But let's be honest -- there's probably a lot MORE people watching the game going, "Hehehe. Lookit the funny Injun dancin'!" And that's just patentedly offensive.
Yet when Chief Illiniwek came out and did his last dance the other day, cameras showed people WEEPING in the stands. WEEPING. I don't get it. It's a MASCOT. I thought the mascot's official job was to annoy the crowd so much that they forget how many irritating delays there are in a game. And maybe, if you're lucky, you'll get a free t-shirt out of the deal.
Besides, mascots should be cute and fuzzy and kid-appropriate. No offense, Chief Illiniwek, but if I were a little kid at an Illini game, you would CREEP ME OUT with your stern face and your war dance. I guess I've just never paid appreciation towards the mascot. I've been too busy, umm, watching the game.
I'll admit it -- it's always a sticky situation when it comes to being politically correct. No matter what you do, there's likely to be someone out there who gets offended by it. If you came out with a hamster for a mascot, there'd be some offended guy whose great-great-grandpappy was tragically killed by a pack of roving hamsters. Heck, my column last week was an innocuous little piece on Valentine's Day and I had a guy send me an e-mail calling me a... storage device for a feminine hygiene product. To each their own offenses, I guess.
So I say if U of I is THAT peeved about losing their cherished yet offensive mascot, here's what they should do. I propose that NEXT year they roll out their NEW mascot: Bob the Non-Threatening Politically Correct Amorphous Grey Blob.
Literally roll him out at halftime, dump him at center court, and let him just sit there and maybe hop once or twice. Then just roll him off again, with maybe a photo op for the kiddies or some miniature souvenir amorphous grey blobs to take home. Let's see someone get offended by THAT.
In the meantime, I hope we as a people can move on. I hope the Native Americans can take a little more pride in our great state college. I hope the fans of Chief Illiniwek can come to terms with the reality of the situation. I hope Dan finds a new job. And most of all, I hope the Illini can survive March Madness in the post-Dee Brown era.
See, I've got a size limit that I have to work within every week. Many of the full-time writers get the benefit of using software at work wherein you type in your story, hit a button, and -- presto -- it tells you the exact # of column inches your piece is taking up. Well, for somebody like me who simply writes on the side, I don't have the privilege of knowing my column's size in inches while I'm writing it -- but I do know to aim for around 800 words, and that usually gets me in the neighborhood.
Problem is, I don't have any software at home that counts words. I don't use Microsoft Word at home -- I use the crappy word processor on Microsoft Works (I realize Works is antiquated, but years ago I started my music inventory on a Works database, so when I got my new computer a couple years back, I opted for Works over Word in order to NOT re-do my music inventory!)
Anyways, sorry to babble. Point is, I have NO way of judging my column length other than simply eyeballing it every week. And sometimes, when I get on a roll, my eyeballing sucks and I wax poetic for paragraphs on end.
THAT'S why I somehow managed to go almost 200 words over my limit this week. Add to that concerns by some editors that my column might unintentionally offend, and... long story short... my column got munched by the copy editors this week.
Which is why I love this blog... because I can give you the column here the way it was intended: long -- and maybe unintentionally offensive. Regardless, enjoy......
When I was DJ'ing parties back in the post-college daze, I used to play a song called "Killing in the Name Of" by the band Rage Against the Machine. Rage was a fairly earnest band, so the song was probably about some random heart-breaking socio-political cause of the moment.
Sadly, we didn't learn about a cause, because thanks to the band's excruciatingly indescipherable delivery, all we ever heard was, "Shout-y! Angry yell-y shout-y! Screeeeeam!"
Until, that is, the last minute of the song. That's when you could understand ONE line -- "F*** you! I won't do what you tell me!" -- which repeats over and over again at the song's conclusion. This was the inevitable cue for even the most middle-class, non-threatening, trouble-free dudes in the bar to suddenly start high-fiving strangers, pouncing around angrily, and screaming along as though it were the most essential act of rebellion in their entire lives.
Me? I'd just sit in the DJ booth and laugh. "I won't do what you tell me!" Who's supposed to be the 'you'? The girlfriend? Mommy and daddy? Your boss at the pizza joint? Why the angst, Rebel Rebel? What are you raging against? Curfew? Was Kwik Shop out of Diet Coke?
I have ALWAYS found humor in people getting unnecessarily riled up... and that's why this has been a banner week for me.
What's been getting people in a needless tizzy these days? Iraq? Nope. Global warming? No, sir. It's not even bald Britney or the many daddies of Dannilynn. No, the thing that's been taking front page in our news lately, the item that's caused mild-mannered couch potatos to stand up and scream heresy... is some kid named Dan.
Dan lost his job the other day... and it seems like half the world is up in arms over it. Now, I won't pretend that it isn't sad when someone becomes unemployed. It's a bummer. But it shouldn't be the sort of thing to cause literally HUNDREDS of comments on our newspaper blog. But Dan's different.
You see, it was Dan's job to paint his face and dance around at U of I games. You might know Dan as the last Chief Illiniwek.
I don't get the big deal about the university's decision to oblige the NCAA's request to do away with the mascot. To me, it's just common sense. Native Americans and others have taken offense to the college's use of a Native mascot, and I can't blame 'em.
People opposed to the Chief throw around words like racism and hatred. I'm not opening that can of worms. But just imagine it like this:
Let's say that the Galesburg Silver Streaks suddenly decided to change their name to the Galesburg Fightin' Rock Islanders. And they had a mascot who came out at halftime dressed in a John Deere outfit and danced around with a Harris Pizza in one hand and Whitey's ice cream in the other. Would you get slightly miffed at the stereotype? I would (even though I often do the pizza-n-ice-cream dance in the privacy of my kitchen.)
"But Shane," you say, "Chief Illiniwek celebrates the Native American culture! Our man Dan had to study with elders to replicate the historical war dance of the Illini!"
So what. It comes down to perception. Sure, there might be some people watching the game going, "Wow, what a respectful tradition." But let's be honest -- there's probably a lot MORE people watching the game going, "Hehehe. Lookit the funny Injun dancin'!" And that's just patentedly offensive.
Yet when Chief Illiniwek came out and did his last dance the other day, cameras showed people WEEPING in the stands. WEEPING. I don't get it. It's a MASCOT. I thought the mascot's official job was to annoy the crowd so much that they forget how many irritating delays there are in a game. And maybe, if you're lucky, you'll get a free t-shirt out of the deal.
Besides, mascots should be cute and fuzzy and kid-appropriate. No offense, Chief Illiniwek, but if I were a little kid at an Illini game, you would CREEP ME OUT with your stern face and your war dance. I guess I've just never paid appreciation towards the mascot. I've been too busy, umm, watching the game.
I'll admit it -- it's always a sticky situation when it comes to being politically correct. No matter what you do, there's likely to be someone out there who gets offended by it. If you came out with a hamster for a mascot, there'd be some offended guy whose great-great-grandpappy was tragically killed by a pack of roving hamsters. Heck, my column last week was an innocuous little piece on Valentine's Day and I had a guy send me an e-mail calling me a... storage device for a feminine hygiene product. To each their own offenses, I guess.
So I say if U of I is THAT peeved about losing their cherished yet offensive mascot, here's what they should do. I propose that NEXT year they roll out their NEW mascot: Bob the Non-Threatening Politically Correct Amorphous Grey Blob.
Literally roll him out at halftime, dump him at center court, and let him just sit there and maybe hop once or twice. Then just roll him off again, with maybe a photo op for the kiddies or some miniature souvenir amorphous grey blobs to take home. Let's see someone get offended by THAT.
In the meantime, I hope we as a people can move on. I hope the Native Americans can take a little more pride in our great state college. I hope the fans of Chief Illiniwek can come to terms with the reality of the situation. I hope Dan finds a new job. And most of all, I hope the Illini can survive March Madness in the post-Dee Brown era.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Random Thoughts
It's moments like this when I come home from the DJ gig in the wee hours o' the morn that random stuff pops thru my head... and hey, what's a blog good for if not random thoughts?
That said...
(1) RIP to the Coffee Artist Cafe in downtown Moline, who announced their closing earlier tonight on Myspace. I've known Mona for a few years, and she's one of the most earnest people out there. They made a heck of a go at it, and the place will be sorely missed. They're carrying on as a catering service and mobile coffee bar, so if anyone's in need, I encourage you to look 'em up.
(2) Republican bloggers (and I know you're out there) -- can YOU guys even stand Ann Coulter? I've long subscribed to the notion that she is, in fact, the Antichrist... but even for her, MAN did she ever cross the line the other day when she inferred John Edwards to be a "faggot" (her words, not mine) at a speech that was carried on C-Span. Talk about a low class bigot. She's first against the wall when the revolution comes.
(3) SECOND against the wall will be the Evangelicals responsible for "Jesus Camp." I finally watched the much-discussed documentary last night... and it's absolutely stomach-turning. What they're doing isn't empowering, it isn't teaching, it isn't guiding... it's BRAINWASHING, pure and simple. They shouldn't just be ashamed for what they're doing to these kids, they should be JAILED. I'm all for freedom of religion -- and even if I don't buy in to your particular belief system, I RESPECT it -- but when you're taking kids not yet old enough to think for themselves and ingraining them SO heavily with fear and blind righteousness instead of spirituality and choice, you're just SICK. Go watch the movie yourselves and tell me that you don't sit there open-mouthed in horror.
(4) For those of you that ARE religious, do me a favor and say a little prayer today for my grandma down in Florida, whose 101 years of living life to the fullest are finally catching up to her. It's not lookin' so good at the moment... but I can find peace in the knowledge that, until just days ago, the woman lived on her own, walked daily, and did things at 100 that I probably won't be able to at 50. How did she celebrate her 100th birthday? Hanging out with dolphins at Sea World. That's pretty cool.
(5) Stranger Than Fiction is one of the best movies I've seen in a loooong time. After finally catching it on DVD this week, it simply made me feel awful that I didn't see it when it was in theatres. It's a truly inspirational flick.
And now to what should prove to be nightmarishly awful 4 a.m. channel flipping. Have a great weekend, all.
That said...
(1) RIP to the Coffee Artist Cafe in downtown Moline, who announced their closing earlier tonight on Myspace. I've known Mona for a few years, and she's one of the most earnest people out there. They made a heck of a go at it, and the place will be sorely missed. They're carrying on as a catering service and mobile coffee bar, so if anyone's in need, I encourage you to look 'em up.
(2) Republican bloggers (and I know you're out there) -- can YOU guys even stand Ann Coulter? I've long subscribed to the notion that she is, in fact, the Antichrist... but even for her, MAN did she ever cross the line the other day when she inferred John Edwards to be a "faggot" (her words, not mine) at a speech that was carried on C-Span. Talk about a low class bigot. She's first against the wall when the revolution comes.
(3) SECOND against the wall will be the Evangelicals responsible for "Jesus Camp." I finally watched the much-discussed documentary last night... and it's absolutely stomach-turning. What they're doing isn't empowering, it isn't teaching, it isn't guiding... it's BRAINWASHING, pure and simple. They shouldn't just be ashamed for what they're doing to these kids, they should be JAILED. I'm all for freedom of religion -- and even if I don't buy in to your particular belief system, I RESPECT it -- but when you're taking kids not yet old enough to think for themselves and ingraining them SO heavily with fear and blind righteousness instead of spirituality and choice, you're just SICK. Go watch the movie yourselves and tell me that you don't sit there open-mouthed in horror.
(4) For those of you that ARE religious, do me a favor and say a little prayer today for my grandma down in Florida, whose 101 years of living life to the fullest are finally catching up to her. It's not lookin' so good at the moment... but I can find peace in the knowledge that, until just days ago, the woman lived on her own, walked daily, and did things at 100 that I probably won't be able to at 50. How did she celebrate her 100th birthday? Hanging out with dolphins at Sea World. That's pretty cool.
(5) Stranger Than Fiction is one of the best movies I've seen in a loooong time. After finally catching it on DVD this week, it simply made me feel awful that I didn't see it when it was in theatres. It's a truly inspirational flick.
And now to what should prove to be nightmarishly awful 4 a.m. channel flipping. Have a great weekend, all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)