I've always considered myself to be somewhat of a "worldly" person. I'm not saying that I know my way around the Louvre or that I'm familiar with the customs of Aboriginal tribesmen. I've never learned a single Japanese character, and I've never climbed the cloudy steps of Machu Picchu.
But I still like to think of myself as being fairly clued in. After all, I watch a whole lot of TV. Between the Travel Channel, BBC America, and Discovery, you can take a vacation from your living room. Every week, the folks at Borders hold the newest British import music magazines for me. I'd die without daily access to CNN.com and news from around the world. I have e-mail buddies everywhere from London to Sydney to Tokyo.
And yet, other than 2 ill-advised hours in Ontario, I've never left the USA. I've always wished that I had the guts to just pack a bag and fly off to some strange and exciting landscape. But, since me and airplanes don't get along well (there's another column for another day,) I instead play Armchair World Traveler and live vicariously through the travels of my friends.
This is where I've rapidly learned that I've been a bit naive in my "worldliness." A friend of mine just left Illinois for Beijing, where she's going to be teaching conversational English to a Chinese classroom for five months. Since her departure last week, she's been sending near-daily e-mails that have raised my eyebrows on more than a few occasions.
Principally, THIS sentence: "I'm very relieved to find that my apartment has Western toilets." Umm, what? Until the PRECISE moment that I read this statement, I was blissfully unaware that toilets differentiated from one culture to another. Sure, there are those fancy ones that shoot water onto your nether-regions, but I'm talking BASIC toilet construction here.
That's when I made a VERY dumb move. I did a Google image search for "Chinese toilets." Here's a helpful and fun tip to remember: Never, under any circumstances, do a Google image search for "Chinese toilets." Unless, of course, you're an aspiring bulemic and need some good purging incentives. Suffice to say, you'll never turn your nose at a Port-a-potty again. The results, while thoroughly disgusting, were insightful.
I learned about traditional Asian toilets, which most English-speaking folk refer to as "squatters." That's right, you heard me -- squatters. Some appear to be porcelain, others appears to be little more than holes in the ground. But one thing is perfectly clear: One does not sit. One squats.
This is, quite obviously, insane. I've been obsessing on this to all of my friends for the past week, and some have politely reminded me that once upon a time, even here in America, toilets were of the squat variety. As though that makes it acceptable or something. Pshaw.
Common sense dictates that toilets should have seats. In fact, the inventions that our cave-dwelling ancestors should have focused on are, in order: (1) Fire. (2) The wheel. (3) The toilet seat. (4) The X-Box 360.
The question becomes: If push came to shove, could I accomplish aforementioned squat manoeuvre? I'm not so thoroughly convinced. First off, I'm an uncoordinated boob. If I lived in Beijing, I would be voted Most Likely To Fall Into The Squatter. At the very least, I would require some form of safety/balancing handrails, and even then, the results could be iffy. Looking at these photos of squatters, I wasn't quite positive how you even USED them. There had better be a diagram.
Without a toilet seat, there's no lap. And without a lap, there's no place to put the Sports section. Without the Sports section, guys everywhere would be cancelling their newspaper subscriptions and -- BAM! -- suddenly I'm unemployed. So, to sum, if it wasn't for the advent of the Western toilet seat, I would be falling into squatters willy-nilly AND be out of a job. That's not a rosy picture. I've been looking this gift seat in the mouth.
Bathroom visits should be a special time of personal reflection and relaxation. After all, that's why we call them REST-rooms. It should NOT require the balance and poise of a gymnast.
Then I thought about it. Martial arts, a spiritual discipline that requires strength, agility, balance, and grace, originated in Asia. Without perpetuating stereotypes, perhaps this is due to their forced early balance training at the hands of the squatter. Over here in the states, we've all been brought up on toilet seats -- hence all the uncoordinated klutzes you see walking around.
The end trade-off is this -- AMERICA: Smart enough to put seats on our toilets, yet sadly lacking in ninjas.
Personally, it's a sacrifice I can live with.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
COLUMN: Sleep
Well, here we are again. Another Monday night, another column deadline looming, another blank Notepad screen.
I'd love to tell you that I'm excited about all this. I'd love to tell you that after my vacation two weeks ago, I am now fully recharged and ready to send you into stitches as a lean, mean, humor writing machine. Truth be told, all I really want to do right now -- yawwwwn -- is go to bed.
I try to be okay at the funny stuff, but I am downright pathetic when it comes to time management. I should be grateful -- my twisted schedule allows me to keep the day job, write this column every week, AND spend my weekends DJing down in the District. All told, it's my own slice of heaven. Well, it would be, if it wasn't for this whole pesky "sleeping" thing.
I have ALWAYS hated sleep. If someone were to hand me a pill right now that would let me function normally while never having to sleep again, I'd take it in a heartbeat. Sleep is wasted time. Okay, sure, sometimes it feels awfully good to snuggle under the covers and relax for a bit, but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm missing all kinds of stuff.
Every night, I try to push the envelope. I have to be at the paper at 9:30 every weekday morning. Pretty cushy, right? Most of my co-workers are in by 8:00, while I get to sleep in. I should be loving it, yeah? No dice. Instead, every morning I stagger around in a stupor because I stayed up late like an idiot the night before. If I'm in bed every night by 2:00 a.m., it's a miracle.
Granted, some of that is because I'm up until sunrise on the weekends because of my DJ gig. But a lot of it is just because I'm stubborn and fight sleep like it's Skeletor and I'm He-Man. It can be 1:30 in the morning, I'll be lying in bed, and suddenly a car will drive by my window.
"Lucky SOB," I'll think to myself. That person doesn't have to be in bed. That person doesn't have to play by the rules. That person's probably having fun right now. Of course, the truth of the matter is that the driver of that car is probably (a) on their way to a really uninteresting overnight job, or (b) on their way to tomorrow morning's police blotter. Still, they're living life and I'm sleeping through it.
I could rationalize this if there was a single worthwhile thing to do in the pitch middle of the night. Of course, there's not. So I stay up late and short myself sleep doing little more than channel-flipping from bad late-night show to another. And I'm not talking Late Night With Conan O'Brien kind of late-night; Conan's a matinee as far as I'm concerned.
No, I'm talking laaaate night, where television has but two options. The first of which is, of course, the wide, wonderful world of infomercials. Yes, the land where buying and selling houses can net you hundreds of thousands of dollars in the blink of an eye. The land where every major celebrity was an acne-ridden monster before they used Proactiv. And, of course, the land where, at any given moment, there's a very good chance that the Girls are Going Wild.
Your other television option is to switch to the movie channels. As a pop culture worshipper, I donate heavily to the Church of Mediacom, and they give me salvation in the form of eleventy million different HBO & Starz channels. The problem is, the only time of day I get to take advantage of this is the 1-3 a.m. zone, and that's not exactly your prime movie hours. No, instead that's when you get straight-to-video movies with names like "Cold Vengeance 3." Movies whose TV Guide descriptions invariably start with the phrase, "A renegade biker... on a lone search for justice..."
Of course, there's always Skinem... sorry, Cinemax, where you can almost kinda sorta watch people make whoopie. Yes, the joyous world of cable-friendly adult cinema, where the whoopie-making is kept to a tasteful minimum so that you can really focus on the plots, which are always EXCEPTIONAL in films of this genre. Sorry, Cinemax, but if I wanted to not-watch people making whoopie, I'd look in a mirror.
I've just been pushing this no-sleep thing too much lately. Two weekends ago, I got home from the club and fell asleep at 6:00 a.m. to wake up... at 7:00 P.M.! Sunday, thou hast forsaken me! ONE DAY without a single job, and I was so sleep deprived that I snored through the whole thing. Maybe I need Ambien. Maybe I just need a swift kick in the rump and my mom to yell, "GET TO BED!" Either way, I need to put this column to bed. I'm way too tired, and I need to go... watch some TV.
I'd love to tell you that I'm excited about all this. I'd love to tell you that after my vacation two weeks ago, I am now fully recharged and ready to send you into stitches as a lean, mean, humor writing machine. Truth be told, all I really want to do right now -- yawwwwn -- is go to bed.
I try to be okay at the funny stuff, but I am downright pathetic when it comes to time management. I should be grateful -- my twisted schedule allows me to keep the day job, write this column every week, AND spend my weekends DJing down in the District. All told, it's my own slice of heaven. Well, it would be, if it wasn't for this whole pesky "sleeping" thing.
I have ALWAYS hated sleep. If someone were to hand me a pill right now that would let me function normally while never having to sleep again, I'd take it in a heartbeat. Sleep is wasted time. Okay, sure, sometimes it feels awfully good to snuggle under the covers and relax for a bit, but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm missing all kinds of stuff.
Every night, I try to push the envelope. I have to be at the paper at 9:30 every weekday morning. Pretty cushy, right? Most of my co-workers are in by 8:00, while I get to sleep in. I should be loving it, yeah? No dice. Instead, every morning I stagger around in a stupor because I stayed up late like an idiot the night before. If I'm in bed every night by 2:00 a.m., it's a miracle.
Granted, some of that is because I'm up until sunrise on the weekends because of my DJ gig. But a lot of it is just because I'm stubborn and fight sleep like it's Skeletor and I'm He-Man. It can be 1:30 in the morning, I'll be lying in bed, and suddenly a car will drive by my window.
"Lucky SOB," I'll think to myself. That person doesn't have to be in bed. That person doesn't have to play by the rules. That person's probably having fun right now. Of course, the truth of the matter is that the driver of that car is probably (a) on their way to a really uninteresting overnight job, or (b) on their way to tomorrow morning's police blotter. Still, they're living life and I'm sleeping through it.
I could rationalize this if there was a single worthwhile thing to do in the pitch middle of the night. Of course, there's not. So I stay up late and short myself sleep doing little more than channel-flipping from bad late-night show to another. And I'm not talking Late Night With Conan O'Brien kind of late-night; Conan's a matinee as far as I'm concerned.
No, I'm talking laaaate night, where television has but two options. The first of which is, of course, the wide, wonderful world of infomercials. Yes, the land where buying and selling houses can net you hundreds of thousands of dollars in the blink of an eye. The land where every major celebrity was an acne-ridden monster before they used Proactiv. And, of course, the land where, at any given moment, there's a very good chance that the Girls are Going Wild.
Your other television option is to switch to the movie channels. As a pop culture worshipper, I donate heavily to the Church of Mediacom, and they give me salvation in the form of eleventy million different HBO & Starz channels. The problem is, the only time of day I get to take advantage of this is the 1-3 a.m. zone, and that's not exactly your prime movie hours. No, instead that's when you get straight-to-video movies with names like "Cold Vengeance 3." Movies whose TV Guide descriptions invariably start with the phrase, "A renegade biker... on a lone search for justice..."
Of course, there's always Skinem... sorry, Cinemax, where you can almost kinda sorta watch people make whoopie. Yes, the joyous world of cable-friendly adult cinema, where the whoopie-making is kept to a tasteful minimum so that you can really focus on the plots, which are always EXCEPTIONAL in films of this genre. Sorry, Cinemax, but if I wanted to not-watch people making whoopie, I'd look in a mirror.
I've just been pushing this no-sleep thing too much lately. Two weekends ago, I got home from the club and fell asleep at 6:00 a.m. to wake up... at 7:00 P.M.! Sunday, thou hast forsaken me! ONE DAY without a single job, and I was so sleep deprived that I snored through the whole thing. Maybe I need Ambien. Maybe I just need a swift kick in the rump and my mom to yell, "GET TO BED!" Either way, I need to put this column to bed. I'm way too tired, and I need to go... watch some TV.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
One More Reality Show Down the Drain
Those of you that know me know that there is but one motivation in my life:
FASHION.
Okay, so not so much. Truth is, I can barely dress myself, let alone know the difference betwixt good and bad fashion.
That said, this season I am ADDICTED to "Project Runway."
And not because of fashion. In all honesty, I think most of the things that come down that runway at the end of the show are hideous... and 100%, completely and totally, inapplicable to daily life.
No, there was a much more pressing reason to watch "Project Runway" this season.
That reason: ALISON. My GOD, what a hottie. Here's a girl who's trying to be a fashion designer, while in truth, she should be one of the MODELS strutting these bizarre creations down the runway. And, from what limited fashion taste I possess, I thought her designs looked great.
For the past two months, I've been meticulously watching every episode, imagining what it would be like to be Mr. Alison, living the artistic life, going to high profile fashion functions and then perhaps discussing the hidden merits of Sigur Ros b-sides over escargot and Kristal (hey, this is MY fantasy, shut up.)
Anyways, she got booted tonight... and a nation mourns. Well, at least the straight guys who watch "Project Runway" mourn. All 8 of us.
Here's to you, Alison. Let's hope your fashion career blossoms... and that you model your own stuff.
Monday, August 14, 2006
COLUMN: The Windy City
I hate to break it to you, Quad Cities, but apparantly we're all a bunch of hicks.
This is the stereotype I've had to fight for years now. Being an Augustana graduate, most of my college friends -- as with most of Augustana's student body -- hailed from the Chicagoland area. I, meanwhile, come from Galesburg. In MY town, when the cool kids -- you know, the ones with the hottie girlfriends and seemingly no parents whatsoever -- went to "the big city" for the weekend, they meant HERE.
It's the Theory of Relative Hick-osity. When I lived in Galesburg, I thought the kids from Wataga were hayseeds. People in the Quad Cities probably think Galesburg's a little backwater. My friends from Chicago call the Quad Cities a "farm town." Heck, I'm sure the residents of Bombay think that Chicago's an insignifigant speck. It's all relative.
Personally, I think the Quad Cities are pretty great. Sure, I suppose Chicago has more to offer, but honestly, even if I lived in the Windy City, I'd still probably spend most of my nights sitting on a couch, watching TV, and complaining about having nothing to do. There's enough culture for me right here in River City, thanks much -- and honestly, I'll take a seven minute commute to work over high culture any day. If I want culture, I've got Amazon.com and a debit card number that I sadly know by heart.
I am no hick. However, last week, I felt like one. I've been online for over a decade now, and one of my best online buddies is a web designer from Los Angeles. He's a fellow music nerd, and years ago, the two of us launched a music webzine called excellentonline.com. While I don't give it as much attention as it needs, the site's still up today, and he and I still run it via a barrage of weekly e-mails.
The thing is, despite our daily communiques, we've never actually MET -- until this week, when he decided to fly out to the Midwest for a week's vacation. My mission: pick him up at O'Hare International Airport. It's called "International" because the airport is so big, I'm pretty sure it actually reaches into Canada.
I was stressed. If Chicagoans think we're hick, who knows what a guy from L.A. would think. He already told me that he'd never heard of this "John Deere" fella I kept mentioning.
Shockingly, I sorted out the airport trip fairly well. Thanks to the miracle of music, I parked on the "Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss Him Goodbye)" floor of the parking garage (I'm not kidding, they pipe music in to help you remember where you parked.) I made it to the terminal, picked him up, and got us back to our car despite my fears of getting lost forever, destined to roam the aisles of O'Hare for eternity, hopelessly singing, "Na na na na, heeeeey, goodbye."
Finding the car was the good news. The bad news was when my friend asked the fateful question. "So, man, before we go to Rock Island, can you show me around Chicago a little bit?"
Errr, okay. I'm a big boy. I know my way around Chicago -- kinda. I mean, you can't get SERIOUSLY lost, right? You're bound to run into either an interstate or a rather great lake, right? I could do this no problem IF THE CAB BEHIND ME WOULD STOP HONKING! Pardon, sir? Yes, I see your middle finger. What's that? Oh, the light's GREEN? I can go? Wait, THIS lane? Crud.
Who was I kidding? I'm about as comfortable driving in Chicago as Paris Hilton is in a Wal-mart. Still, I gave it my best. "Here's Wrigley Field... and nowhere to park." "Here's downtown... and nowhere to park." "Here's where they filmed 'The Blues Brothers'... and nowhere to park." I was getting the hang of it. Soon I would be a master tour guide. Just a quick left here, a quick right HERE, and...
Presto. I drove us right into the remnants of Cabrini Green and the Henry Horner complex. My tour went from "and over there's the Sears Tower" to "and over here's a prostitute attempting to flag us down. Did you need any illicit drugs, because I think this gentleman over here might be offering...?"
Other than the nightmare of winding up in the VERY wrong part of town, I held my own. And hopefully my friend didn't see how white my knuckles were from being on roads with more than 2 lanes. I just know that I was way more comfortable my NEXT day as a tour guide: "Here's the river... and we can park anywhere." "Here's the tractor museum... and we can park anywhere." "Here's Whitey's Ice Cream... and we can park anywhere."
This is the stereotype I've had to fight for years now. Being an Augustana graduate, most of my college friends -- as with most of Augustana's student body -- hailed from the Chicagoland area. I, meanwhile, come from Galesburg. In MY town, when the cool kids -- you know, the ones with the hottie girlfriends and seemingly no parents whatsoever -- went to "the big city" for the weekend, they meant HERE.
It's the Theory of Relative Hick-osity. When I lived in Galesburg, I thought the kids from Wataga were hayseeds. People in the Quad Cities probably think Galesburg's a little backwater. My friends from Chicago call the Quad Cities a "farm town." Heck, I'm sure the residents of Bombay think that Chicago's an insignifigant speck. It's all relative.
Personally, I think the Quad Cities are pretty great. Sure, I suppose Chicago has more to offer, but honestly, even if I lived in the Windy City, I'd still probably spend most of my nights sitting on a couch, watching TV, and complaining about having nothing to do. There's enough culture for me right here in River City, thanks much -- and honestly, I'll take a seven minute commute to work over high culture any day. If I want culture, I've got Amazon.com and a debit card number that I sadly know by heart.
I am no hick. However, last week, I felt like one. I've been online for over a decade now, and one of my best online buddies is a web designer from Los Angeles. He's a fellow music nerd, and years ago, the two of us launched a music webzine called excellentonline.com. While I don't give it as much attention as it needs, the site's still up today, and he and I still run it via a barrage of weekly e-mails.
The thing is, despite our daily communiques, we've never actually MET -- until this week, when he decided to fly out to the Midwest for a week's vacation. My mission: pick him up at O'Hare International Airport. It's called "International" because the airport is so big, I'm pretty sure it actually reaches into Canada.
I was stressed. If Chicagoans think we're hick, who knows what a guy from L.A. would think. He already told me that he'd never heard of this "John Deere" fella I kept mentioning.
Shockingly, I sorted out the airport trip fairly well. Thanks to the miracle of music, I parked on the "Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss Him Goodbye)" floor of the parking garage (I'm not kidding, they pipe music in to help you remember where you parked.) I made it to the terminal, picked him up, and got us back to our car despite my fears of getting lost forever, destined to roam the aisles of O'Hare for eternity, hopelessly singing, "Na na na na, heeeeey, goodbye."
Finding the car was the good news. The bad news was when my friend asked the fateful question. "So, man, before we go to Rock Island, can you show me around Chicago a little bit?"
Errr, okay. I'm a big boy. I know my way around Chicago -- kinda. I mean, you can't get SERIOUSLY lost, right? You're bound to run into either an interstate or a rather great lake, right? I could do this no problem IF THE CAB BEHIND ME WOULD STOP HONKING! Pardon, sir? Yes, I see your middle finger. What's that? Oh, the light's GREEN? I can go? Wait, THIS lane? Crud.
Who was I kidding? I'm about as comfortable driving in Chicago as Paris Hilton is in a Wal-mart. Still, I gave it my best. "Here's Wrigley Field... and nowhere to park." "Here's downtown... and nowhere to park." "Here's where they filmed 'The Blues Brothers'... and nowhere to park." I was getting the hang of it. Soon I would be a master tour guide. Just a quick left here, a quick right HERE, and...
Presto. I drove us right into the remnants of Cabrini Green and the Henry Horner complex. My tour went from "and over there's the Sears Tower" to "and over here's a prostitute attempting to flag us down. Did you need any illicit drugs, because I think this gentleman over here might be offering...?"
Other than the nightmare of winding up in the VERY wrong part of town, I held my own. And hopefully my friend didn't see how white my knuckles were from being on roads with more than 2 lanes. I just know that I was way more comfortable my NEXT day as a tour guide: "Here's the river... and we can park anywhere." "Here's the tractor museum... and we can park anywhere." "Here's Whitey's Ice Cream... and we can park anywhere."
Friday, August 04, 2006
Sorry
Sorry I disappeared for a bit there, kids. I'm on vacation this week... and I forgot to upload LAST week's column before I disappeared THIS week.
Anyways, no column THIS week. Instead sitting around, doing copious amounts of nothing that were supposed to inspire a surplus of new columns.
Instead, I've been inspired to watch a horrifying amount of bad TV. Wish me luck.
Anyways, no column THIS week. Instead sitting around, doing copious amounts of nothing that were supposed to inspire a surplus of new columns.
Instead, I've been inspired to watch a horrifying amount of bad TV. Wish me luck.
COLUMN: Aimless Driving
Last week in these pages, we talked about global warming. Well, we talked about how I'd seen Al Gore's flick, "An Inconvenient Truth," which is a fantastic film with a fantastic message. That message, to wit: Feel guilty. Feel very, very guilty.
When it comes to environmentalism, I am not so hot at reppin' my blue-state values. I don't recycle, I run my air conditioner 24-7, I leave the water running while I brush my teeth. Essentially, Barack Obama needs to come along with a rolled-up newspaper and swat me on the nose like a scolded puppy. "Bad liberal, baaaad liberal!"
But there's one thing in particular that makes me feel especially guilty. Not because it's something I've done for years, before knowing the horrors of global warming. No, it's worse than that. I feel guilty because, now that I KNOW that the planet is going to heck in a purse, I'm still not going to stop doing it. No way, no how.
I like to drive. I mean, I REALLY like to drive. And no left-wing movie, as vehemently as I agree with it, can make me do different. I steadfastly remain the King of Aimless Driving, and it's my intention to retain the throne for as long as possible.
Forget global warming; this is about BRAIN warming. The real dangers are those days, those weeks when things just never go your way. A customer yells at you. You forget your sunglasses on your desk. The Taco Bell drive-thru tells you that they're "out of meat". The gas station clerk insists you gave her a five when you KNOW you gave her a twenty. (All of which happened to me this week.)
That's when your brain starts to steam and fume. And every added bit of stress just contributes to that sizzling ball of stress in your head. Well, let me tell you from first-hand experience, there is NO bit of stress that can't be melted away with a moonlit drive through the country.
My friends and I discovered it in college. Studying too hard? (Hey, this is MY column - I can pretend I was a good student if I want!) Someone would just yell "CORNFIELDS! NOW!" Next thing we knew, we were loading the car with junk food, a good mix tape, and hitting the open gravel roads. Where would we end up? When would we get home? That was up to fate.
Some days we'd only be gone for a half hour; other days we'd get lost and end up in Timbuktu. But there wasn't a single night that didn't become a fun adventure of some sort. But if YOU decide to take up night-time aimless driving, there ARE a few rules to heed.
1. LIGHT POLLUTION CAN BE YOUR FRIEND. If you're lost in the middle of the sticks, just get to the top of a hill and look for the distant glows of major cities. On a clear night, you can see that megalithic strobe tower in Bettendorf some 20-30 miles away. Of course, sometimes following glows can get you in trouble. Once, my friend Jason and I were seriously lost in the pitch middle of the night. We saw a glow and followed it. Turned out to be Beloit, Wisconsin. At 3 a.m. For reference, Beloit Wisconsin is NOT a fun place to be at 3 a.m.
2. ALWAYS HAVE AN ESCAPE PLAN. Watch out that the country road you're rolling down is not a country driveway. Every time we go out in the boonies, we invariably take some cool-looking gravel road that turns out to be Bob's Road. Which leads us straight to Bob's House. And Bob is usually some cast member of "Deliverance." And Bob don't cotton to strangers. Always be ready to turn around and hightail it outta there.
3. DEER ARE SUICIDAL. They like to fling themselves in front of your path at all times, and nothing ruins the ambience of a good evening drive quite like an antler to the skull. Safety first, gang.
4. ALL ROADS LEAD TO JOY. If you're driving around south of town and get lost, don't worry. Eventually you'll end up in the tiny town of Joy, Illinois. I don't know why, but it seems like every country road eventually takes you there. My guess is that it's secretly the center of the universe. We've ended up randomly in Joy so often that I once considered getting a video rental membership at the gas station out there.
5. DON'T FALL ASLEEP IN A CAR FULL OF PROFESSIONAL AIMLESS DRIVERS. One time, our friend Kelly came along and ended up falling asleep just outside of town with the words, "Wake me up if you find something interesting." Four hours later we woke her up on the steps of the Capital Building in Springfield and asked her if it was interesting enough. We were amused; the jury's still out on her.
6. DON'T OVERDO IT. Take it from me. Once you start learning the back roads, the magic is gone. Nowadays, if my friends and I feel like getting lost in the country, we've got to get at least fifty miles away before we have no idea where we are.
I can't stop driving aimlessly. I don't care if it costs the equivalent of the gross national product of Botswana to fill the tank. It's a necessary evil. I'll be a good liberal in all other aspects of life, I swear it. But until Al Gore shows up at my door with an electric car for me and my friends, we're still going to be mucking up the environment and hitting the dusty trail from time to time. If Greenland melts, I'll apologize. Promise.
When it comes to environmentalism, I am not so hot at reppin' my blue-state values. I don't recycle, I run my air conditioner 24-7, I leave the water running while I brush my teeth. Essentially, Barack Obama needs to come along with a rolled-up newspaper and swat me on the nose like a scolded puppy. "Bad liberal, baaaad liberal!"
But there's one thing in particular that makes me feel especially guilty. Not because it's something I've done for years, before knowing the horrors of global warming. No, it's worse than that. I feel guilty because, now that I KNOW that the planet is going to heck in a purse, I'm still not going to stop doing it. No way, no how.
I like to drive. I mean, I REALLY like to drive. And no left-wing movie, as vehemently as I agree with it, can make me do different. I steadfastly remain the King of Aimless Driving, and it's my intention to retain the throne for as long as possible.
Forget global warming; this is about BRAIN warming. The real dangers are those days, those weeks when things just never go your way. A customer yells at you. You forget your sunglasses on your desk. The Taco Bell drive-thru tells you that they're "out of meat". The gas station clerk insists you gave her a five when you KNOW you gave her a twenty. (All of which happened to me this week.)
That's when your brain starts to steam and fume. And every added bit of stress just contributes to that sizzling ball of stress in your head. Well, let me tell you from first-hand experience, there is NO bit of stress that can't be melted away with a moonlit drive through the country.
My friends and I discovered it in college. Studying too hard? (Hey, this is MY column - I can pretend I was a good student if I want!) Someone would just yell "CORNFIELDS! NOW!" Next thing we knew, we were loading the car with junk food, a good mix tape, and hitting the open gravel roads. Where would we end up? When would we get home? That was up to fate.
Some days we'd only be gone for a half hour; other days we'd get lost and end up in Timbuktu. But there wasn't a single night that didn't become a fun adventure of some sort. But if YOU decide to take up night-time aimless driving, there ARE a few rules to heed.
1. LIGHT POLLUTION CAN BE YOUR FRIEND. If you're lost in the middle of the sticks, just get to the top of a hill and look for the distant glows of major cities. On a clear night, you can see that megalithic strobe tower in Bettendorf some 20-30 miles away. Of course, sometimes following glows can get you in trouble. Once, my friend Jason and I were seriously lost in the pitch middle of the night. We saw a glow and followed it. Turned out to be Beloit, Wisconsin. At 3 a.m. For reference, Beloit Wisconsin is NOT a fun place to be at 3 a.m.
2. ALWAYS HAVE AN ESCAPE PLAN. Watch out that the country road you're rolling down is not a country driveway. Every time we go out in the boonies, we invariably take some cool-looking gravel road that turns out to be Bob's Road. Which leads us straight to Bob's House. And Bob is usually some cast member of "Deliverance." And Bob don't cotton to strangers. Always be ready to turn around and hightail it outta there.
3. DEER ARE SUICIDAL. They like to fling themselves in front of your path at all times, and nothing ruins the ambience of a good evening drive quite like an antler to the skull. Safety first, gang.
4. ALL ROADS LEAD TO JOY. If you're driving around south of town and get lost, don't worry. Eventually you'll end up in the tiny town of Joy, Illinois. I don't know why, but it seems like every country road eventually takes you there. My guess is that it's secretly the center of the universe. We've ended up randomly in Joy so often that I once considered getting a video rental membership at the gas station out there.
5. DON'T FALL ASLEEP IN A CAR FULL OF PROFESSIONAL AIMLESS DRIVERS. One time, our friend Kelly came along and ended up falling asleep just outside of town with the words, "Wake me up if you find something interesting." Four hours later we woke her up on the steps of the Capital Building in Springfield and asked her if it was interesting enough. We were amused; the jury's still out on her.
6. DON'T OVERDO IT. Take it from me. Once you start learning the back roads, the magic is gone. Nowadays, if my friends and I feel like getting lost in the country, we've got to get at least fifty miles away before we have no idea where we are.
I can't stop driving aimlessly. I don't care if it costs the equivalent of the gross national product of Botswana to fill the tank. It's a necessary evil. I'll be a good liberal in all other aspects of life, I swear it. But until Al Gore shows up at my door with an electric car for me and my friends, we're still going to be mucking up the environment and hitting the dusty trail from time to time. If Greenland melts, I'll apologize. Promise.
Monday, July 24, 2006
COLUMN: Global Warming
This past week, I did an official Good Thing. This is when you do something that enables you to later pat yourself on the back for. Something that benefits the world. In the grand scheme of things, it might matter as much as a tinker's dam. The point is, it gives you warm fuzzies. It is a Good Thing.
My Good Thing is that I went to go see the Al Gore movie, "An Inconvenient Truth." Now, I know for some that spending an evening with the self-proclaimed inventor of the internet might not be that Good of a Thing. But for the card-carrying liberal that I am, the flick was required viewing.
The subject of the film is no laughing matter: GLOBAL WARMING. Basically it's a two-hour romp through the slideshow that Al's been giving for years. In summary, we are all very, very bad people. We spew toxic what-not into the air, the atmosphere gets warmer, and if we don't stop, weird little fish that only scientists have ever seen will die, Greenland will melt, and we'll be waking up daily to Neil Kastor giving us our daily hurricane warnings.
I sat glued to the movie. Mostly I did this because it was too hot outside to do anything else. Al Gore doesn't need a million facts and a fancy slideshow to convince me of global warming; Al Gore just needs to take me outside.
This past week has been unbearable. I mean, okay, there's hot, right? Like, "Hmm, hot one out today." Then there's the kind of hot that's SO hot it's almost amusing. You know, the kind of hot where it becomes socially acceptable to drive around in air conditioned cars pointing and laughing at joggers. The kind of hot where otherwise sensible people begin to ill-advisedly wander around shirtless.
But then there's been THIS week, where the heat has taken on altogether new and exciting dimensions. This week hasn't been just hot. It hasn't even been funny hot. No, this has been the kind of hot where you step outside with a look of puzzled wonderment because you don't understand how you can be in this heat and REMAIN ALIVE. I kept looking up, expecting to see birds erupting into flame mid-flight. Every time I smelled something good cooking this week, I had to look over and make sure it wasn't my BACK.
I am known far and wide for my absolute and total lack of motivation. However, if the weather of this past week has been, in fact, due to global warming, then I say it's time for action. I mean, come on, people -- HOW MANY MORE 16-YEAR-OLD GOLFING PHENOMS MUST ALMOST-VOMIT BEFORE WE HEED THE CALL OF DUTY? The time is nigh.
There has to be something we can do. If toxic what-not causes global warming, then surely some OTHER kind of deadly noxious thingamajig can cause global COOLING, right? I don't care if it's lethal or not. If someone right now came up and said, "Well, we can release this gas to cool the air outside, but I'm afraid it might kill every 8th person on the planet," I'd take those odds. I'm just a huge heat weenie.
Maybe we need to combat the problem by re-introducing CFC's. Yes, that's it. Let's all go outside and spritz can after can of hairspray into the air. That should be enough to re-open that pesky hole in the ozone layer and maybe all the heat will shoot right out of it to Mars. Hey, it looks good on paper. Okay, it looks good on the piece of scratch paper I've been doodling on. But STILL -- I'm being pro-active, and that's what counts.
Some of you might call me a hypocrite, I realize this. I've written before about my love of NASCAR, and hey, that sport is basically the equivalent of raising your middle finger to the sky and going, "Warming schmarming." I know this. So I went to Al's website, www.climatecrisis.net, and looked up the tips that each of us can do to stop global warming. For instance, it says, "Only run your dishwasher when there's a full load." Well, I'm such an environmentalist that I don't even OWN a dishwasher, so there. I'm doing my part.
But perusing the website was when I learned about the REAL enemy. It's right there in black and white. "Methane is the second most signifigant greenhouse gas and cows are one of the greatest methane emitters." I should have known -- IT'S THE COWS' FAULT. So here's my solution to the global warming crisis: THICKBURGERS, and lots of 'em. Every one of you needs to start wolfing down burgers until we as a people have eaten up the entire cow menace. Then and only then will we be safe to once again go from our cars to our offices without breaking out into a sweat.
Sure, we might all die of high cholesterol, but trust me, it'll be a Good Thing.
My Good Thing is that I went to go see the Al Gore movie, "An Inconvenient Truth." Now, I know for some that spending an evening with the self-proclaimed inventor of the internet might not be that Good of a Thing. But for the card-carrying liberal that I am, the flick was required viewing.
The subject of the film is no laughing matter: GLOBAL WARMING. Basically it's a two-hour romp through the slideshow that Al's been giving for years. In summary, we are all very, very bad people. We spew toxic what-not into the air, the atmosphere gets warmer, and if we don't stop, weird little fish that only scientists have ever seen will die, Greenland will melt, and we'll be waking up daily to Neil Kastor giving us our daily hurricane warnings.
I sat glued to the movie. Mostly I did this because it was too hot outside to do anything else. Al Gore doesn't need a million facts and a fancy slideshow to convince me of global warming; Al Gore just needs to take me outside.
This past week has been unbearable. I mean, okay, there's hot, right? Like, "Hmm, hot one out today." Then there's the kind of hot that's SO hot it's almost amusing. You know, the kind of hot where it becomes socially acceptable to drive around in air conditioned cars pointing and laughing at joggers. The kind of hot where otherwise sensible people begin to ill-advisedly wander around shirtless.
But then there's been THIS week, where the heat has taken on altogether new and exciting dimensions. This week hasn't been just hot. It hasn't even been funny hot. No, this has been the kind of hot where you step outside with a look of puzzled wonderment because you don't understand how you can be in this heat and REMAIN ALIVE. I kept looking up, expecting to see birds erupting into flame mid-flight. Every time I smelled something good cooking this week, I had to look over and make sure it wasn't my BACK.
I am known far and wide for my absolute and total lack of motivation. However, if the weather of this past week has been, in fact, due to global warming, then I say it's time for action. I mean, come on, people -- HOW MANY MORE 16-YEAR-OLD GOLFING PHENOMS MUST ALMOST-VOMIT BEFORE WE HEED THE CALL OF DUTY? The time is nigh.
There has to be something we can do. If toxic what-not causes global warming, then surely some OTHER kind of deadly noxious thingamajig can cause global COOLING, right? I don't care if it's lethal or not. If someone right now came up and said, "Well, we can release this gas to cool the air outside, but I'm afraid it might kill every 8th person on the planet," I'd take those odds. I'm just a huge heat weenie.
Maybe we need to combat the problem by re-introducing CFC's. Yes, that's it. Let's all go outside and spritz can after can of hairspray into the air. That should be enough to re-open that pesky hole in the ozone layer and maybe all the heat will shoot right out of it to Mars. Hey, it looks good on paper. Okay, it looks good on the piece of scratch paper I've been doodling on. But STILL -- I'm being pro-active, and that's what counts.
Some of you might call me a hypocrite, I realize this. I've written before about my love of NASCAR, and hey, that sport is basically the equivalent of raising your middle finger to the sky and going, "Warming schmarming." I know this. So I went to Al's website, www.climatecrisis.net, and looked up the tips that each of us can do to stop global warming. For instance, it says, "Only run your dishwasher when there's a full load." Well, I'm such an environmentalist that I don't even OWN a dishwasher, so there. I'm doing my part.
But perusing the website was when I learned about the REAL enemy. It's right there in black and white. "Methane is the second most signifigant greenhouse gas and cows are one of the greatest methane emitters." I should have known -- IT'S THE COWS' FAULT. So here's my solution to the global warming crisis: THICKBURGERS, and lots of 'em. Every one of you needs to start wolfing down burgers until we as a people have eaten up the entire cow menace. Then and only then will we be safe to once again go from our cars to our offices without breaking out into a sweat.
Sure, we might all die of high cholesterol, but trust me, it'll be a Good Thing.
Monday, July 17, 2006
COLUMN: Sudoku
Sorry, folks, no column from me this week.
I know, I know. Please stop crying. It's not my fault, I swear.
It's not as if I've been too busy with my many philanthropic pursuits and stimulating hobbies (though, it must be said, the new Invasion Map Pack for Call of Duty 2 is pretty sweet.) It's not because my new kittens are turning my apartment upside down (including the tragic weekend mauling of one very innocent Hardee's biscuit in my trash.)
No, this time you don't get a column for a far more sinister reason: I was maliciously thwarted by the Japanese.
That's right, you heard me. The Japanese have sabotaged my writing skills, my ambition, my willpower, and the few remaining shreds of my dignity. And those cunning little buggers have done it all with a new weapon -- and it's one more powerful and mighty than all of the world's militaries combined.
I speak, of course, of Sudoku.
Sudoku (which literally translated means, "Way to finally get even with Yankee scum") is the latest logic puzzle fad from Japan that's sweeping America. Wikipedia says that the aim of the Sudoku puzzle is to "enter a numerical digit from 1-9 in each cell of a 9x9 grid made up of 3x3 regions" wherein "each row, column, and region must contain only one instance of each numeral."
Shane, however, says that the aim of the puzzle is to get through it without grinding your teeth down to the nerve each and every morning. "Puzzles" are supposed to be a form of entertainment. Sudoku is simply excruciating mental torture.
When our papers began carrying the puzzles, I was intrigued. They're tiny, cute, and look like an inviting and fun distraction. Then I actually tried DOING one. Within 5 minutes, I was already getting a headache behind my right eyeball. By the time I had passed ten minutes, I had already snapped a pencil in two and felt my resting heart rate go up 10%.
Yet strangely, I've become addicted to the evil things. It's like my own personal OCD or something - I can't focus on the day until I've filled in all 64 squares. And it's not as though Sudoku puzzles are fun - they're not. I just HAVE to do them, is all. I might have a problem. I'd form SA (Sudoku Anonymous,) but I fear half the Quad Cities would show up.
How on Earth did I become addicted to a number puzzle of all things? Usually I avoid numbers like the plague. From a young age, I realized that I was, in a word, mathtarded. Wait, I'm sorry, that's inappropriate -- let's just refer to is as being "numerically challenged." I spent my early school years coasting through classes, and then I hit 8th grade Algebra and my coasting ship hit an iceberg.
Imagine the look on my parent's face when my usual A-/B+ report card came home with a D. It wasn't pretty, but then again, neither am I when it comes to math. My father, the Physics junkie, duly and hopelessly spent countless hours trying to tutor me. When he finally gave up and bought me a programmable calculator that was capable of doing ALL my physics homework for me, I knew that even Dad had witnessed the maxing out of my mathetical prowess.
But, upon consideration, Sudoku has very little to do with math. All you have to do is NOT repeat any of the nine numbers; otherwise, they don't relate to math at all. It could be nine LETTERS and employ the same logic. That's when it hit me: Sudoku is little more than a fancy game of Clue.
Remember in Clue, when you had that little sheet where you checked off possibilities, like once you knew that Col. Mustard definitely did NOT use the candlestick in either the Kitchen or the Conservatory? Sudoku is JUST like Clue, except there's NINE people (Great Uncle Burnt Umber, perhaps?) nine weapons, and no secret passage from the lounge to the conservatory.
The puzzles range from "easy" (translation: hard) to "hard" (translation: solvable by only God,) and I need someone to take them away from me so I can go back to having a life. I truly wonder if the Japanese are planning to attack America, and sent us Sudoku as a distraction. Ninjas could be crashing in through my windows right now, and I'd just be like, "If THAT box has a 5 in it, then THIS box MUST be 4? Right?"
So I say we veto this migraine-in-a-box and send it back to Japan. That way we can get back to the good 'ol American way of life -- you know, driving Hondas, watching Ichiro Suzuki hit home runs, and playing our Sony Playstations.
I know, I know. Please stop crying. It's not my fault, I swear.
It's not as if I've been too busy with my many philanthropic pursuits and stimulating hobbies (though, it must be said, the new Invasion Map Pack for Call of Duty 2 is pretty sweet.) It's not because my new kittens are turning my apartment upside down (including the tragic weekend mauling of one very innocent Hardee's biscuit in my trash.)
No, this time you don't get a column for a far more sinister reason: I was maliciously thwarted by the Japanese.
That's right, you heard me. The Japanese have sabotaged my writing skills, my ambition, my willpower, and the few remaining shreds of my dignity. And those cunning little buggers have done it all with a new weapon -- and it's one more powerful and mighty than all of the world's militaries combined.
I speak, of course, of Sudoku.
Sudoku (which literally translated means, "Way to finally get even with Yankee scum") is the latest logic puzzle fad from Japan that's sweeping America. Wikipedia says that the aim of the Sudoku puzzle is to "enter a numerical digit from 1-9 in each cell of a 9x9 grid made up of 3x3 regions" wherein "each row, column, and region must contain only one instance of each numeral."
Shane, however, says that the aim of the puzzle is to get through it without grinding your teeth down to the nerve each and every morning. "Puzzles" are supposed to be a form of entertainment. Sudoku is simply excruciating mental torture.
When our papers began carrying the puzzles, I was intrigued. They're tiny, cute, and look like an inviting and fun distraction. Then I actually tried DOING one. Within 5 minutes, I was already getting a headache behind my right eyeball. By the time I had passed ten minutes, I had already snapped a pencil in two and felt my resting heart rate go up 10%.
Yet strangely, I've become addicted to the evil things. It's like my own personal OCD or something - I can't focus on the day until I've filled in all 64 squares. And it's not as though Sudoku puzzles are fun - they're not. I just HAVE to do them, is all. I might have a problem. I'd form SA (Sudoku Anonymous,) but I fear half the Quad Cities would show up.
How on Earth did I become addicted to a number puzzle of all things? Usually I avoid numbers like the plague. From a young age, I realized that I was, in a word, mathtarded. Wait, I'm sorry, that's inappropriate -- let's just refer to is as being "numerically challenged." I spent my early school years coasting through classes, and then I hit 8th grade Algebra and my coasting ship hit an iceberg.
Imagine the look on my parent's face when my usual A-/B+ report card came home with a D. It wasn't pretty, but then again, neither am I when it comes to math. My father, the Physics junkie, duly and hopelessly spent countless hours trying to tutor me. When he finally gave up and bought me a programmable calculator that was capable of doing ALL my physics homework for me, I knew that even Dad had witnessed the maxing out of my mathetical prowess.
But, upon consideration, Sudoku has very little to do with math. All you have to do is NOT repeat any of the nine numbers; otherwise, they don't relate to math at all. It could be nine LETTERS and employ the same logic. That's when it hit me: Sudoku is little more than a fancy game of Clue.
Remember in Clue, when you had that little sheet where you checked off possibilities, like once you knew that Col. Mustard definitely did NOT use the candlestick in either the Kitchen or the Conservatory? Sudoku is JUST like Clue, except there's NINE people (Great Uncle Burnt Umber, perhaps?) nine weapons, and no secret passage from the lounge to the conservatory.
The puzzles range from "easy" (translation: hard) to "hard" (translation: solvable by only God,) and I need someone to take them away from me so I can go back to having a life. I truly wonder if the Japanese are planning to attack America, and sent us Sudoku as a distraction. Ninjas could be crashing in through my windows right now, and I'd just be like, "If THAT box has a 5 in it, then THIS box MUST be 4? Right?"
So I say we veto this migraine-in-a-box and send it back to Japan. That way we can get back to the good 'ol American way of life -- you know, driving Hondas, watching Ichiro Suzuki hit home runs, and playing our Sony Playstations.
Monday, July 10, 2006
COLUMN: World Cup
When it comes to sports appreciation, I am the lowest of the low. I am the guy that every TRUE enthusiast wants to kill. I am... a fair weather fan.
It's true. I used to LOVE watching the NBA -- until Krause broke up the Bulls and Jordan became a full time shoe salesman. I didn't give a hoot about NCAA ball -- until Dee Brown led the Illini into a fighting force. I was never a big fan of baseball -- until last year, when the White Sox decided to show their muscle; next thing I knew, I was high fiving strangers in bars with every win.
You can't blame me entirely. It's no fun to watch sports without someone or some team to root for -- and, living where we do, those opportunities don't come too often. I mean, what, am I supposed to be a Cubs fan? I prefer my teams to occasionally WIN, thanks.
And you "real" sports fans can't hold it against me, either. To a degree, we're ALL fair-weather fans. We as a people could effectively care less about men's gymnastics or the 100m breast stroke -- until every four years, that is, when the Olympics fill us with Team USA pride. As soon as the Olympics are over, we could care less. Who's that kid who won all the swimming medals at the last Olympics? I've already forgotten his name.
So, as a self-confessed fair-weather fan, there's been only one thing on my mind the past couple weeks. That's right, baby -- I've had a nasty case of World Cup Fever.
Soccer is a namby-pamby sport, and, as such, is played and adored by namby-pamby countries. By that, I mean every country on Earth except ours. I like to think that we Americans have the decency to realize that any sport where it's acceptable to TIE is a sport not worth watching.
In all honesty, though, I kind of like watching soccer, and I know that the sport's American fanbase is growing in leaps and bounds. But I don't watch it for the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, or even the bizarre complacency of a tie. Instead, I watch it the same way I watch rugby, or cricket, or Olympic handball -- with a puzzled look on my face.
As I've come to understand it, the goal of soccer is simple. Team A kicks a ball, while Team B does their best to sever the legs of Team A at the kneecap or below. I always thought soccer players wore long socks because they were weenies; truth is, they wear those socks to hide the blackened, bruised flesh that once were their calves.
Eventually, one team accidentally kicks the ball into a goal -- no, excuse me, a goooooooooooooooooooooal. Then the team's supporters take to the streets and pummel each other wildly until sun-up. The winner of the match is then determined by mathematically calculating the number of felony arrests divided by the amount of lager remaining in the host country.
And while we're on about soccer violence, how can a sport like this cause fans to erupt into hooliganism? The other day, I watched a Cup match that "erupted into a fight." Now, there was no sound so I couldn't exactly make out what the players were saying, but to my eye, it looked like this:
"Oh, terribly sorry, chum, I seem to have placed my foot into your groin."
"Correct, mate. Dreadfully painful, this."
"A thousand apologies. Perhaps I could offer you a cup of tea after the match?"
"Spot on. Earl Grey if you please. Cheerio!"
I mean, come on. Where's Dennis Rodman or Mike Tyson when you need 'em? If the US team really wanted to make an impact in the World Cup, let's just introduce lead striker Ron Artest. The first time the ref pulls out one of those little red cards, Artest would just deck him, then leap into the stands and deck his entire family. Here in the USA, our hooligans aren't the fans; they're the ATHLETES.
One thing the soccer players have picked up from us Americans, though, is our intuitive ability to flop and cry foul. You know how in the NBA how frustrating it is when a player commits a minor foul on a guy who then flops on the ground as though he's been hit by a Mack truck? Soccer takes that to new heights.
I saw one clip from a Cup match where a Brazilian player was fighting for the ball, then suddenly flailed to the ground clutching his leg as though the opposing player had just driven a spike through his kneecap. In slow motion replay, however, you can see that the two players DIDN'T EVEN TOUCH. That guy doesn't deserve a red card; he deserves an Oscar.
All told, though, the Cup went according to plan. Once again, Team USA went in with high hopes and went out in the first round from bad plays and bad officiating. Once again, Team England had 70% of their country watching but couldn't get past the quarterfinals. Once again, I couldn't understand a single one of the crowd chants.
I'm not giving up on soccer, though. One of my best friends holds season tickets for the Chicago Fire -- maybe I'll go check out a game next season. But only if they're doing good. And only if the weather outside is fair.
It's true. I used to LOVE watching the NBA -- until Krause broke up the Bulls and Jordan became a full time shoe salesman. I didn't give a hoot about NCAA ball -- until Dee Brown led the Illini into a fighting force. I was never a big fan of baseball -- until last year, when the White Sox decided to show their muscle; next thing I knew, I was high fiving strangers in bars with every win.
You can't blame me entirely. It's no fun to watch sports without someone or some team to root for -- and, living where we do, those opportunities don't come too often. I mean, what, am I supposed to be a Cubs fan? I prefer my teams to occasionally WIN, thanks.
And you "real" sports fans can't hold it against me, either. To a degree, we're ALL fair-weather fans. We as a people could effectively care less about men's gymnastics or the 100m breast stroke -- until every four years, that is, when the Olympics fill us with Team USA pride. As soon as the Olympics are over, we could care less. Who's that kid who won all the swimming medals at the last Olympics? I've already forgotten his name.
So, as a self-confessed fair-weather fan, there's been only one thing on my mind the past couple weeks. That's right, baby -- I've had a nasty case of World Cup Fever.
Soccer is a namby-pamby sport, and, as such, is played and adored by namby-pamby countries. By that, I mean every country on Earth except ours. I like to think that we Americans have the decency to realize that any sport where it's acceptable to TIE is a sport not worth watching.
In all honesty, though, I kind of like watching soccer, and I know that the sport's American fanbase is growing in leaps and bounds. But I don't watch it for the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, or even the bizarre complacency of a tie. Instead, I watch it the same way I watch rugby, or cricket, or Olympic handball -- with a puzzled look on my face.
As I've come to understand it, the goal of soccer is simple. Team A kicks a ball, while Team B does their best to sever the legs of Team A at the kneecap or below. I always thought soccer players wore long socks because they were weenies; truth is, they wear those socks to hide the blackened, bruised flesh that once were their calves.
Eventually, one team accidentally kicks the ball into a goal -- no, excuse me, a goooooooooooooooooooooal. Then the team's supporters take to the streets and pummel each other wildly until sun-up. The winner of the match is then determined by mathematically calculating the number of felony arrests divided by the amount of lager remaining in the host country.
And while we're on about soccer violence, how can a sport like this cause fans to erupt into hooliganism? The other day, I watched a Cup match that "erupted into a fight." Now, there was no sound so I couldn't exactly make out what the players were saying, but to my eye, it looked like this:
"Oh, terribly sorry, chum, I seem to have placed my foot into your groin."
"Correct, mate. Dreadfully painful, this."
"A thousand apologies. Perhaps I could offer you a cup of tea after the match?"
"Spot on. Earl Grey if you please. Cheerio!"
I mean, come on. Where's Dennis Rodman or Mike Tyson when you need 'em? If the US team really wanted to make an impact in the World Cup, let's just introduce lead striker Ron Artest. The first time the ref pulls out one of those little red cards, Artest would just deck him, then leap into the stands and deck his entire family. Here in the USA, our hooligans aren't the fans; they're the ATHLETES.
One thing the soccer players have picked up from us Americans, though, is our intuitive ability to flop and cry foul. You know how in the NBA how frustrating it is when a player commits a minor foul on a guy who then flops on the ground as though he's been hit by a Mack truck? Soccer takes that to new heights.
I saw one clip from a Cup match where a Brazilian player was fighting for the ball, then suddenly flailed to the ground clutching his leg as though the opposing player had just driven a spike through his kneecap. In slow motion replay, however, you can see that the two players DIDN'T EVEN TOUCH. That guy doesn't deserve a red card; he deserves an Oscar.
All told, though, the Cup went according to plan. Once again, Team USA went in with high hopes and went out in the first round from bad plays and bad officiating. Once again, Team England had 70% of their country watching but couldn't get past the quarterfinals. Once again, I couldn't understand a single one of the crowd chants.
I'm not giving up on soccer, though. One of my best friends holds season tickets for the Chicago Fire -- maybe I'll go check out a game next season. But only if they're doing good. And only if the weather outside is fair.
Monday, July 03, 2006
COLUMN: New Kitties!
Lately I've been feeling pretty okay with life. Still, I couldn't help but think recently that there's been something missing. Like a little nagging feeling that my karma's been just a touch askew. I just couldn't put my finger on it. Something I've needed...
Then it hit me like a bolt: It had been a tremendously long time since my legs and arms had been sliced up like sushi to the point of near hospitalization.
When I first started writing this column some two thousand years ago, the ones that would generate the most feedback were invariably the columns about my cat, Chelsea. This was, understandably, a bit of a mixed blessing.
I mean, praise is praise, right? Who doesn't like a pat on the back now and again? But there I was, getting rapidly pigeonholed as "that guy with the cat." I can't lie -- a little piece of me wanted a newspaper column just to shed the "lamer dweeb" stereotype I'd worked so hard to cultivate over the years. With my own column and some well-timed swishes of the pen, I could transform from Shane the Epic Nerd to Shane the Hunk-a-Hunk-a Brute Machismo.
But last time I checked, hunks of brute machismo did NOT waste valuable newspaper space waxing poetic about their wee 'ittle kittie-witties. Steaming hot chunks of man-meat like myself should be writing about their pit bulls named Lars or their boa constrictors that ate wee kitties for breakfast. But I couldn't help it; I liked my cat.
For what it's worth, Chelsea was no twee wussy cat herself. I mean, this was a cat with a POLICE RECORD for inflicting serious damage on hapless vet techs. This was a cat prone to jumping vorpally off the couch onto the arms of friends and going for major arterial damage. She was no meek kitty.
You've probably guessed by now that my liberal usage of past tense can't be good, eh? Well, about two weeks after the last column ran about Chelsea, I finally lost her to feline diabetes. My "low maintenance" cat required daily insulin shots, and her kidneys finally gave out. I didn't really mention it in my column, because I was pretty torn up about it, and, well, frankly, it's tough coming up with tasteful dead cat jokes.
But the spirit of Chelsea still haunts the apartment - I've even got the tiny little cat urn on the bookshelf to prove it. (Yes, they cremated my cat. Yes, I realize that it's a touch creepy. But when a girl comes over and goes "Oh, what a pretty vase" before realizing she's holding cat ashes, the look is priceless. Trust me.)
So here I've been, in a lonely apartment with a perfectly good $200 pet deposit being wasted on some cat dust. And I was fairly content in that "I'll never have another cat ever" phase - until Vickie called. Vickie runs Animal Aid, the humane society in Moline, and she wanted me to come over. Uh oh. I knew my resistance was weak; I called my friend Linn to come along for backup.
We walked into Animal Aid and Vickie immediately pulls out the tiniest, cutest kitten ever invented. At least I thought it was, until she brought out her SISTER (the cat's, not Vickie's. I don't even know if Vickie has a sister.) Suddenly I'm holding TWO of the cutest kittens ever invented. I realize that there's no such thing as an ugly kitten, but these two redefined adorable. Before I knew it, they were purring, they were yawning, they were walking on my shoulder, and my friend Linn's voice had magically gone up two octaves and was just saying "awwwww, kitties!" in that irreversible way. I was doomed.
I knew it the second I walked in, but I put on a good show regardless. Yep, I now have TWO cats. They eat together, they sleep together, they even go #1 together. My apartment should be quarantined for excessive cuteness. Except when they're NOT eating, sleeping, or #1-ing, that is. That's when they're engaged in mortal claw-on-claw combat, attacking each other with ninja-like stealth and fury -- and even THAT's so stinkin' sweet it makes you go, "Aww, lookit how cute they bite each other!"
Things are a bit chaotic, but I think I can do it. I think I can manage a multi-cat home. I've got the toys, I've got the food, and most importantly, I've got the housekeeper to stop by once a week and keep the place in check. Plus I've already got the all-too-familiar battle scars from my own production of When Claws Attack. If that's not macho, what is?
So, dear readers, welcome wee kitties Bez & Isobel to the Shaneiverse. I'll put pictures on my blog so you too can bask in the cuteness. I'm sure this won't be the last column I'll devote to 'em.
Then it hit me like a bolt: It had been a tremendously long time since my legs and arms had been sliced up like sushi to the point of near hospitalization.
When I first started writing this column some two thousand years ago, the ones that would generate the most feedback were invariably the columns about my cat, Chelsea. This was, understandably, a bit of a mixed blessing.
I mean, praise is praise, right? Who doesn't like a pat on the back now and again? But there I was, getting rapidly pigeonholed as "that guy with the cat." I can't lie -- a little piece of me wanted a newspaper column just to shed the "lamer dweeb" stereotype I'd worked so hard to cultivate over the years. With my own column and some well-timed swishes of the pen, I could transform from Shane the Epic Nerd to Shane the Hunk-a-Hunk-a Brute Machismo.
But last time I checked, hunks of brute machismo did NOT waste valuable newspaper space waxing poetic about their wee 'ittle kittie-witties. Steaming hot chunks of man-meat like myself should be writing about their pit bulls named Lars or their boa constrictors that ate wee kitties for breakfast. But I couldn't help it; I liked my cat.
For what it's worth, Chelsea was no twee wussy cat herself. I mean, this was a cat with a POLICE RECORD for inflicting serious damage on hapless vet techs. This was a cat prone to jumping vorpally off the couch onto the arms of friends and going for major arterial damage. She was no meek kitty.
You've probably guessed by now that my liberal usage of past tense can't be good, eh? Well, about two weeks after the last column ran about Chelsea, I finally lost her to feline diabetes. My "low maintenance" cat required daily insulin shots, and her kidneys finally gave out. I didn't really mention it in my column, because I was pretty torn up about it, and, well, frankly, it's tough coming up with tasteful dead cat jokes.
But the spirit of Chelsea still haunts the apartment - I've even got the tiny little cat urn on the bookshelf to prove it. (Yes, they cremated my cat. Yes, I realize that it's a touch creepy. But when a girl comes over and goes "Oh, what a pretty vase" before realizing she's holding cat ashes, the look is priceless. Trust me.)
So here I've been, in a lonely apartment with a perfectly good $200 pet deposit being wasted on some cat dust. And I was fairly content in that "I'll never have another cat ever" phase - until Vickie called. Vickie runs Animal Aid, the humane society in Moline, and she wanted me to come over. Uh oh. I knew my resistance was weak; I called my friend Linn to come along for backup.
We walked into Animal Aid and Vickie immediately pulls out the tiniest, cutest kitten ever invented. At least I thought it was, until she brought out her SISTER (the cat's, not Vickie's. I don't even know if Vickie has a sister.) Suddenly I'm holding TWO of the cutest kittens ever invented. I realize that there's no such thing as an ugly kitten, but these two redefined adorable. Before I knew it, they were purring, they were yawning, they were walking on my shoulder, and my friend Linn's voice had magically gone up two octaves and was just saying "awwwww, kitties!" in that irreversible way. I was doomed.
I knew it the second I walked in, but I put on a good show regardless. Yep, I now have TWO cats. They eat together, they sleep together, they even go #1 together. My apartment should be quarantined for excessive cuteness. Except when they're NOT eating, sleeping, or #1-ing, that is. That's when they're engaged in mortal claw-on-claw combat, attacking each other with ninja-like stealth and fury -- and even THAT's so stinkin' sweet it makes you go, "Aww, lookit how cute they bite each other!"
Things are a bit chaotic, but I think I can do it. I think I can manage a multi-cat home. I've got the toys, I've got the food, and most importantly, I've got the housekeeper to stop by once a week and keep the place in check. Plus I've already got the all-too-familiar battle scars from my own production of When Claws Attack. If that's not macho, what is?
So, dear readers, welcome wee kitties Bez & Isobel to the Shaneiverse. I'll put pictures on my blog so you too can bask in the cuteness. I'm sure this won't be the last column I'll devote to 'em.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
FEATURE: DIEPART
If you've got a house with termites, you call the exterminator. If your house develops a leak, you call a plumber. But what happens if your house comes down with something slightly more mysterious, spooky, or altogether ooky?
Stan and Dee Dee Gaunt are your typical young married couple. Having set up home in Wilton, IA three years ago with their young daughter, the three were like any other family -- until this January, when they say an uninvited houseguest moved in.
"I was at home by myself," explains Stan. "I was in the shower, when out of nowhere a female voice asked, 'Are you about done?'" Stan leapt out of the shower -- to find that he was still alone in the house. Not long afterwards, Stan was headed into the bathroom when both he and Dee Dee clearly heard the same voice asking, "Where are you going?"
It was shortly after that when the Gaunt's daughter began telling her mother about a "lady" and an "angel" who were appearing to her. "The lady doesn't say anything," Dee Dee explains, "but my daughter talks to her. And the 'angel,' who she says is a little girl, appeared in her room and asked her, 'Are you afraid of ghosts?'"
While Dee Dee Gaunt says that's she's always been a believer and "sensitive" to the paranormal, her husband isn't.
"I've never believed in ghosts," says Stan, "until I started hearing the voices." That was enough for the couple to try and use a ouija board to contact their new ghostly friends.
"We contacted a woman who says she's 30 years old. And she said there were 'others,'" explains Dee Dee.
Now convinced that they were sharing their home with the dearly departed, yet not wanting to tell anyone for fear of their reaction, the Gaunts instead turned to the internet to research their phenomena -- and that's when they found DIEPART.
DIEPART -- The Des Moines Iowa Extreme Paranormal Advanced Research Team -- has spent the past few years helping folks like the Gaunts. Their mission -- and it's one they do completely for free and out of their own pocket -- is to document ghost sightings and investigate purported hauntings throughout Iowa.
"We pride ourselves on our availability and our 24-hour helpline," says DIEPART founder Joe Leto. "People can and do call us when they experience activity that's so out of control they're literally unable to cope alone. We're someone to talk to who really cares, won't judge them, and will try to figure out with them the ghost psychology of a haunting. Most people just want to verify that they're not crazy."
Leto himself was a skeptic of the paranormal until an event happened to him that changed his life.
"I was home from work on lunch," he explains. "I had just gotten back to my truck when I decided to run back into the house and grab something to drink. When I walked into my kitchen, every cabinet and drawer was standing wide open. I had only been outside for a matter of seconds."
After Leto's own unexplained event, he founded DIEPART in an effort to capture scientific proof of things that go bump in the night. And now, on most weekends, you can find Leto and his team of volunteers trekking all across Iowa in vans and trucks loaded with investigative equipment of all sorts.
When DIEPART takes a case, a team of investigators shows up for a paranormal slumber party. The team sets up camp, spends the entire night collecting and recording every last detail, then spends weeks afterwards analyzing the data in hopes of proving or answering any unexplained phenomena. Very much like the acclaimed television show on the Sci-Fi Channel, Leto and DIEPART are modern-day Ghost Hunters.
DIEPART's investigations utilize tools that range from the scientific to the simple. When the team arrives at a location, the first step is setting up infrared cameras throughout the house. Weighted mylar strips are hung from the ceilings like futuristic flypaper to capture any unexplained movement or breezes on infrared. Parabolic microphones, so sensitive that they might actually hear a pin drop, record the entire evening's audio straight to a laptop computer in hopes of picking up EVP's (Electronic Voice Phenomena).
Then smaller controlled experiments are set up throughout the house. "One of the simplest controlled experiments we do uses just a golf ball and a rubber band," explains DIEPART investigator Terri Smith. "We place a rubber band on a flat surface, then set a plastic golf ball inside. At the end of the night, we'll look to see if a force of some kind has moved the ball outside of the rubber band."
After the experiments are set up, each member of the investigative team is given a thermometer, a camera, and is sent to a different room to observe. One member of the team roams the house to chronicle the progress, and another films the whole night for DIEPART's Des Moines-area cable access television show.
"I think the reason that we even discuss the paranormal is because it's so hard to prove," says Leto. "However, DIEPART is constantly pushing the extreme to find better mousetraps to catch these phenomenas that people cannot explain. It's our goal to keep trying new ways of proving or disproving that the supernatural exists."
DIEPART is not a group comprised exclusively of ghost-lovers. "We've got a pretty even mix of skeptics and believers on our team," says DIEPART volunteer Shannon Kingrey. "It keeps things even."
Kingrey says that she wasn't even sure of the paranormal until her first DIEPART trip. "I had just joined the group," she explains, "and we investigated a home in Fairbury, Nebraska. We experienced everything that night from a shaking bed to a glowing orb of light floating just feet away from me. I've been hooked ever since."
Pop culture often associates ghost hunts with images of mediums and psychics who attempt to contact the supposed spirits, but DIEPART laughs the notion off. "We call it 'conjuring,'" says Leto. "We need scientific proof of the paranormal, and speaking to dead air, no pun intended, is not science. We're here to find evidence, not practice witchcraft."
Leto also stresses that DIEPART are ghost hunters and NOT ghostbusters. If the team DOES find evidence of a haunting, they can only chronicle and report it. And that's fine by the Gaunt's.
"I don't want our spirits to leave," says Dee Dee Gaunt with a smile. "They're not doing anyone any harm. I just wanted someone else to experience what we have, so that we know we're not crazy."
The results of all of DIEPART's investigations, including strange EVP's captured at the Gaunt's home in Wilton, are available to the public via the group's website, www.diepart.com. The team is also seeking new investigations in the Quad Cities area, so if you think you've got a boogeyman in your basement or a poltergeist in your pantry, they encourage you to e-mail help@diepart.com or call their 24-hour hotline, 515-250-2108.
Stan and Dee Dee Gaunt are your typical young married couple. Having set up home in Wilton, IA three years ago with their young daughter, the three were like any other family -- until this January, when they say an uninvited houseguest moved in.
"I was at home by myself," explains Stan. "I was in the shower, when out of nowhere a female voice asked, 'Are you about done?'" Stan leapt out of the shower -- to find that he was still alone in the house. Not long afterwards, Stan was headed into the bathroom when both he and Dee Dee clearly heard the same voice asking, "Where are you going?"
It was shortly after that when the Gaunt's daughter began telling her mother about a "lady" and an "angel" who were appearing to her. "The lady doesn't say anything," Dee Dee explains, "but my daughter talks to her. And the 'angel,' who she says is a little girl, appeared in her room and asked her, 'Are you afraid of ghosts?'"
While Dee Dee Gaunt says that's she's always been a believer and "sensitive" to the paranormal, her husband isn't.
"I've never believed in ghosts," says Stan, "until I started hearing the voices." That was enough for the couple to try and use a ouija board to contact their new ghostly friends.
"We contacted a woman who says she's 30 years old. And she said there were 'others,'" explains Dee Dee.
Now convinced that they were sharing their home with the dearly departed, yet not wanting to tell anyone for fear of their reaction, the Gaunts instead turned to the internet to research their phenomena -- and that's when they found DIEPART.
DIEPART -- The Des Moines Iowa Extreme Paranormal Advanced Research Team -- has spent the past few years helping folks like the Gaunts. Their mission -- and it's one they do completely for free and out of their own pocket -- is to document ghost sightings and investigate purported hauntings throughout Iowa.
"We pride ourselves on our availability and our 24-hour helpline," says DIEPART founder Joe Leto. "People can and do call us when they experience activity that's so out of control they're literally unable to cope alone. We're someone to talk to who really cares, won't judge them, and will try to figure out with them the ghost psychology of a haunting. Most people just want to verify that they're not crazy."
Leto himself was a skeptic of the paranormal until an event happened to him that changed his life.
"I was home from work on lunch," he explains. "I had just gotten back to my truck when I decided to run back into the house and grab something to drink. When I walked into my kitchen, every cabinet and drawer was standing wide open. I had only been outside for a matter of seconds."
After Leto's own unexplained event, he founded DIEPART in an effort to capture scientific proof of things that go bump in the night. And now, on most weekends, you can find Leto and his team of volunteers trekking all across Iowa in vans and trucks loaded with investigative equipment of all sorts.
When DIEPART takes a case, a team of investigators shows up for a paranormal slumber party. The team sets up camp, spends the entire night collecting and recording every last detail, then spends weeks afterwards analyzing the data in hopes of proving or answering any unexplained phenomena. Very much like the acclaimed television show on the Sci-Fi Channel, Leto and DIEPART are modern-day Ghost Hunters.
DIEPART's investigations utilize tools that range from the scientific to the simple. When the team arrives at a location, the first step is setting up infrared cameras throughout the house. Weighted mylar strips are hung from the ceilings like futuristic flypaper to capture any unexplained movement or breezes on infrared. Parabolic microphones, so sensitive that they might actually hear a pin drop, record the entire evening's audio straight to a laptop computer in hopes of picking up EVP's (Electronic Voice Phenomena).
Then smaller controlled experiments are set up throughout the house. "One of the simplest controlled experiments we do uses just a golf ball and a rubber band," explains DIEPART investigator Terri Smith. "We place a rubber band on a flat surface, then set a plastic golf ball inside. At the end of the night, we'll look to see if a force of some kind has moved the ball outside of the rubber band."
After the experiments are set up, each member of the investigative team is given a thermometer, a camera, and is sent to a different room to observe. One member of the team roams the house to chronicle the progress, and another films the whole night for DIEPART's Des Moines-area cable access television show.
"I think the reason that we even discuss the paranormal is because it's so hard to prove," says Leto. "However, DIEPART is constantly pushing the extreme to find better mousetraps to catch these phenomenas that people cannot explain. It's our goal to keep trying new ways of proving or disproving that the supernatural exists."
DIEPART is not a group comprised exclusively of ghost-lovers. "We've got a pretty even mix of skeptics and believers on our team," says DIEPART volunteer Shannon Kingrey. "It keeps things even."
Kingrey says that she wasn't even sure of the paranormal until her first DIEPART trip. "I had just joined the group," she explains, "and we investigated a home in Fairbury, Nebraska. We experienced everything that night from a shaking bed to a glowing orb of light floating just feet away from me. I've been hooked ever since."
Pop culture often associates ghost hunts with images of mediums and psychics who attempt to contact the supposed spirits, but DIEPART laughs the notion off. "We call it 'conjuring,'" says Leto. "We need scientific proof of the paranormal, and speaking to dead air, no pun intended, is not science. We're here to find evidence, not practice witchcraft."
Leto also stresses that DIEPART are ghost hunters and NOT ghostbusters. If the team DOES find evidence of a haunting, they can only chronicle and report it. And that's fine by the Gaunt's.
"I don't want our spirits to leave," says Dee Dee Gaunt with a smile. "They're not doing anyone any harm. I just wanted someone else to experience what we have, so that we know we're not crazy."
The results of all of DIEPART's investigations, including strange EVP's captured at the Gaunt's home in Wilton, are available to the public via the group's website, www.diepart.com. The team is also seeking new investigations in the Quad Cities area, so if you think you've got a boogeyman in your basement or a poltergeist in your pantry, they encourage you to e-mail help@diepart.com or call their 24-hour hotline, 515-250-2108.
COLUMN: Ghost Hunt
11:30 PM. I'm already a bit creeped out. Route 927 has never looked this ominous before. I'm in the car, on my way to the spookiest slumber party EVER. An avid fan of all things hocum-pocum, I've been invited to join the DIEPART team as they investigate a possible haunting at a home in Wilton. I am, in a word, psyched. Haunted houses can be spooky, but the fact that I'm going to be there with a half dozen paranormal investigators puts me somewhat at ease. I mean, if Gozer the Gozerian pops out of a wall, the pros can just blast it right back to Heck with some kind of thermo-gamma-ectoplasm ray, right? Right? The Psychedelic Furs come on my satellite radio with "The Ghost in You." I turn it to comedy, but not even Larry the Cable Guy can take the chill out of the air tonight.
12:00 AM. I arrive at the purportedly haunted house. It might very well be the UN-spookiest house I've ever seen. It's in a happy little neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood where kids play and people grill out. Not the sort of neighborhood where the undead roam the Earth seeking brains. Then again, if television has taught me only one thing, it's that you never quite know where those pesky ancient Indian burial grounds are located...
12:05 AM. Team DIEPART arrives in a caravan of trucks and begins unloading equipment. Surely if this place IS haunted, the ghosts are hightailing it out. Everywhere I look, there are cameras, mics, cords, and boxes of equipment. We look less like ghost hunters and more like Bon Jovi's road crew.
1:35 AM. The team members set up in different corners of the house and "Lights Out!" is called.
1:36 AM. "Lights Out" must mean something else in DIEPART lingo, because when the command is given, the house lights go out, but are replaced immediately by what I'd guess to be roughly 20,000 flashbulbs. Every few seconds, a team member whispers "FLASH" and takes a picture. I'd love to know what people driving by right now are thinking. The ghosts, meanwhile, remain silent (yet clearly now blinded.)
1:55 AM. I am positioned in the child's bedroom (the heart of the hauntings) with DIEPART member Shannon Kingrey. This is my favorite part of the whole night, as Kingrey kills the time with a good ghost story or two from her childhood. Atop the bed sits a ouija board, set out by DIEPART in case our boogeypeople want to host an impromptu spelling bee. Between the flashbulbs and the extreme silence, my blood is pumping.
2:00 AM. As I open my phone to check the time, it says that it's 3:00 AM. It's not. It's 2:00 AM. I blink and suddenly my phone says it's 1:00. I blink again and it's back to 3, then 1, then 2. My phone plays this game for 3 minutes. As a professional writer, my head fills with thoughts. Predominantly the thought that I want my mommy. My color returns only when another DIEPART member notices HIS phone is amok as well. We are the only two with the same provider. Either its a network-wide fluke or our spirits du jour have a serious issue with Verizon Wireless. Hey ghosts, can you hear me now? Gooooood.
3:19 AM. We're still in the bedroom, but the investigators in the front room ALL hear a whispery voice emanating from the hallway we're adjacent to. Shannon and I hear nothing. I brush it off (until two weeks later, when DIEPART sends me an EVP captured on 4 different microphones. A voice irrefutably whispers, "I am the one who said that." I've never been happier about my hearing loss from years of loud music, because if I HAD heard that, I would've leapt out of my skin and become a ghost myself.)
3:30 AM. Now I'm hearing a noise from down the hall. It's a breathy growling sound that common sense and my years of training tells me is either a werewolf, a hellhound, or the ghost of Ginger, the poodle I tormented as a child. Either way, I'm a goner. I creep down the hall, ballpoint pen readied as a melee weapon against the supernatural, to find a DIEPART member snoring away in the back bedroom.
5:15 AM. Having heard no more whispers, the team packs it in for the night. Rather than stick around and risk more heart attacks, I bid adieu to Team DIEPART and any assorted Wilton wraiths and make for civilization (after first checking the car for hitchhiking ghouls.) There's nothing on but conservative talk radio, and for the only time in my life, I'm okay with that - Ann Coulter might be insane, but at least she's not dead. Little do I know that as I cruise back to Rock Island, the DIEPART team experiences ghostly humming and the overpowering smell of bubble gum as they tear down. I just hope Banshee Bazooka Joe doesn't hum his way to Rock Island.
Thanks, DIEPART. It was a fun weekend.
12:00 AM. I arrive at the purportedly haunted house. It might very well be the UN-spookiest house I've ever seen. It's in a happy little neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood where kids play and people grill out. Not the sort of neighborhood where the undead roam the Earth seeking brains. Then again, if television has taught me only one thing, it's that you never quite know where those pesky ancient Indian burial grounds are located...
12:05 AM. Team DIEPART arrives in a caravan of trucks and begins unloading equipment. Surely if this place IS haunted, the ghosts are hightailing it out. Everywhere I look, there are cameras, mics, cords, and boxes of equipment. We look less like ghost hunters and more like Bon Jovi's road crew.
1:35 AM. The team members set up in different corners of the house and "Lights Out!" is called.
1:36 AM. "Lights Out" must mean something else in DIEPART lingo, because when the command is given, the house lights go out, but are replaced immediately by what I'd guess to be roughly 20,000 flashbulbs. Every few seconds, a team member whispers "FLASH" and takes a picture. I'd love to know what people driving by right now are thinking. The ghosts, meanwhile, remain silent (yet clearly now blinded.)
1:55 AM. I am positioned in the child's bedroom (the heart of the hauntings) with DIEPART member Shannon Kingrey. This is my favorite part of the whole night, as Kingrey kills the time with a good ghost story or two from her childhood. Atop the bed sits a ouija board, set out by DIEPART in case our boogeypeople want to host an impromptu spelling bee. Between the flashbulbs and the extreme silence, my blood is pumping.
2:00 AM. As I open my phone to check the time, it says that it's 3:00 AM. It's not. It's 2:00 AM. I blink and suddenly my phone says it's 1:00. I blink again and it's back to 3, then 1, then 2. My phone plays this game for 3 minutes. As a professional writer, my head fills with thoughts. Predominantly the thought that I want my mommy. My color returns only when another DIEPART member notices HIS phone is amok as well. We are the only two with the same provider. Either its a network-wide fluke or our spirits du jour have a serious issue with Verizon Wireless. Hey ghosts, can you hear me now? Gooooood.
3:19 AM. We're still in the bedroom, but the investigators in the front room ALL hear a whispery voice emanating from the hallway we're adjacent to. Shannon and I hear nothing. I brush it off (until two weeks later, when DIEPART sends me an EVP captured on 4 different microphones. A voice irrefutably whispers, "I am the one who said that." I've never been happier about my hearing loss from years of loud music, because if I HAD heard that, I would've leapt out of my skin and become a ghost myself.)
3:30 AM. Now I'm hearing a noise from down the hall. It's a breathy growling sound that common sense and my years of training tells me is either a werewolf, a hellhound, or the ghost of Ginger, the poodle I tormented as a child. Either way, I'm a goner. I creep down the hall, ballpoint pen readied as a melee weapon against the supernatural, to find a DIEPART member snoring away in the back bedroom.
5:15 AM. Having heard no more whispers, the team packs it in for the night. Rather than stick around and risk more heart attacks, I bid adieu to Team DIEPART and any assorted Wilton wraiths and make for civilization (after first checking the car for hitchhiking ghouls.) There's nothing on but conservative talk radio, and for the only time in my life, I'm okay with that - Ann Coulter might be insane, but at least she's not dead. Little do I know that as I cruise back to Rock Island, the DIEPART team experiences ghostly humming and the overpowering smell of bubble gum as they tear down. I just hope Banshee Bazooka Joe doesn't hum his way to Rock Island.
Thanks, DIEPART. It was a fun weekend.
Monday, June 26, 2006
VW 1, Arson 0
So last night at 11:54 PM, suddenly there's banging on my door. Loud banging. Angry banging. The kind of banging that doesn't say, "Hey, how's it going?" More like the kind of banging that says, "Hey, here to kill ya!"
After readying myself for combat (cell phone in hand, 911 pre-dialed), I opened the door... to find my neighbors yelling for me to come outside. I wander outside to a blaze of fire and sirens.
Turns out someone had purposely torched an old Caddy in the parking lot of my apt. complex... and guess who had the lucky pleasure of being parked right next to it? I tried to move my car but the R.I. Fire Dept. was already there with hoses on, and told me not to.
So I got to stand there and watch flames lick the side of my car while firefighters tried to get a handle on the blaze... which they did, in record time.
Early inspection shows what appears to be absolutely no damage to my car... once again proving my theory that the New Beetle is indestructible.
The big test will be in 20 minutes when I leave for work... which reminds me, time to shut this off and leap in the shower...
After readying myself for combat (cell phone in hand, 911 pre-dialed), I opened the door... to find my neighbors yelling for me to come outside. I wander outside to a blaze of fire and sirens.
Turns out someone had purposely torched an old Caddy in the parking lot of my apt. complex... and guess who had the lucky pleasure of being parked right next to it? I tried to move my car but the R.I. Fire Dept. was already there with hoses on, and told me not to.
So I got to stand there and watch flames lick the side of my car while firefighters tried to get a handle on the blaze... which they did, in record time.
Early inspection shows what appears to be absolutely no damage to my car... once again proving my theory that the New Beetle is indestructible.
The big test will be in 20 minutes when I leave for work... which reminds me, time to shut this off and leap in the shower...
Monday, June 19, 2006
Hear Me Make a Fool of Myself
That's right.
I'm putting on the weekend DJ persona on a WEDNESDAY just for kicks. Word on the street is that I'm going to be the guest DJ on the Phat Brothers Freak Show this Wednesday night from 7-9 on Power Hits 103.3.
Come hear me bring the hip AND the hop to the QC airwaves. I'll probably be all nervous and screw up a mix or two, so you'll have something to laugh at all week. I gotta be good for sumthin'.
Now I'm off to edit out naughty words from my usual 2nd Ave. set... sigh.
I'm putting on the weekend DJ persona on a WEDNESDAY just for kicks. Word on the street is that I'm going to be the guest DJ on the Phat Brothers Freak Show this Wednesday night from 7-9 on Power Hits 103.3.
Come hear me bring the hip AND the hop to the QC airwaves. I'll probably be all nervous and screw up a mix or two, so you'll have something to laugh at all week. I gotta be good for sumthin'.
Now I'm off to edit out naughty words from my usual 2nd Ave. set... sigh.
COLUMN: Hooters
As the prominent and beloved Quad City literary figure that I know I'm not but pretend to be, I figure it's my calling -- nay, my DUTY -- to live the good life. I need to smell wine and be able to talk about its woodsy bouquet. I need to join outing clubs and take, err, outings. I need for the staff at Deere Run to affectionately call me "Mr. B."
Surely these things will come with time. For now, I simply need to be seen at the gathering places of the Quad Cities elite. That's why my best friend and I embarked last week to a night of fine dining at one of the QC's classiest of restaurants. You guessed it, we dined at Hooters.
Known far and wide for its exceptional service and stellar menu, the reasons to walk into Hooters are limitless. Well, kinda. Okay, let's be honest. Truth is, there's only one reason why people go to Hooters:
That's right, the grilled mahi. Which might have been succulent and tender. It might have been the best morsel of food to ever pass my lips. Then again, it could have tasted like a day-old fish stick left in the sun. Frankly, I could have cared less about the fish. I guess a was a bit distracted. See, it turns out that what people REALLY go to Hooter's for is, umm, hooters.
HI, KIDS! Knowing this to be a family newspaper, there are times when I like to give a special shout out to my younger readers! And, in case you kids were wondering, back in that last paragraph, when I was talking about hooters with a small 'h,' obviously I was talking about our friends, THE OWLS. Here's a fun fact: Did you know that most owls are nocturnal? Can you say 'nocturnal'? That means they come out at dark. That's why sometimes daddies don't come home from Hooters until VERY late at night.
Oh, forget it. "Hooooo" am I kidding? Kids are welcome at Hooters, too -- they must be, because they have a chidren's menu. Yep, Hooters is great family fun -- provided, of course, that you're the Hefner family.
It's at places like this that I am TRULY at my most awkward. What's the proper behavior at a Hooters? Are you supposed to just sit there and LEER at the Hooters Girls? I mean, isn't that the whole point? But as I looked around the restaurant, I didn't see anybody else leering. In fact, I saw nothing but a bunch of other guys struggling to look nonchalant while being waited on by girls wearing clothes that might fit a 7-year-old.
Truth be told, Hooters is a savvy business empire. They've spent years perfecting their scheme, and for the most part, it works like a charm. When a customer sits down, they're immediately waited on by a babe from the Island of Improbably Attractive People. Your Hooters Girl sits down next to you and spends a great deal of time pretending that, in her eyes, Average Pathetic You is, in fact, the greatest thing to ever walk into her life. For one shining moment, YOU ARE BRAD PITT. Until she stops flirting long enough to get your order, and then *poof* she's vapor.
At least, that's how it SHOULD have worked. That's how it worked at every table I watched EXCEPT ours. Instead, our Hooters girl sat down, asked us what we wanted, and then left. No flirting. No idolation. She might have been a Hooters Girl, but we ended up feeling like Denny's Guys. This was, needless to say, a massive boost to our collective ego. I mean, how nerdy must we be to not even elicit PHONY flirting?
The guy next to us was having a bachelor party; his Hooters Girl was writing on his custom t-shirt, "You look HOT! Too bad you're taken!" MY Hooter's Girl forgot my soda. Life is cruel. But not as cruel as what happened next.
After we ate, a DIFFERENT Hooters Girl plopped down at our table. This one had the flirting down to a science. She complimented me on my t-shirt ("Medium Pimpin',") she talked about the weather, she batted her eyes. Suddenly we were feeling better. THEN out of nowhere, she plopped down an armful of trinkets. Hooters magazines, Hooters cards, Hooters shot glasses, Hooters mints -- it was a veritable cornucopia of needless junk. And her job, of course, was to sell it to us.
The sales pitches went from impressive to desperate. She even talked about the high quality of plastic used in their shot glasses. I swear at one point she started reading the ingredients off the box of mints. Then it hit me: to them, we weren't JUST hapless nerds, no -- we were hapless nerds who were EASY MARKS to buy junk.
I felt insulted. I went into Hooters looking for a shot of confidence, and I left feeling more pathetic than when I walked in. But I should look on the bright side. At least the next time that I need a shot of confidence, I've now got the high quality limited edition plastic shot glass to put it in. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a flirt.
Surely these things will come with time. For now, I simply need to be seen at the gathering places of the Quad Cities elite. That's why my best friend and I embarked last week to a night of fine dining at one of the QC's classiest of restaurants. You guessed it, we dined at Hooters.
Known far and wide for its exceptional service and stellar menu, the reasons to walk into Hooters are limitless. Well, kinda. Okay, let's be honest. Truth is, there's only one reason why people go to Hooters:
That's right, the grilled mahi. Which might have been succulent and tender. It might have been the best morsel of food to ever pass my lips. Then again, it could have tasted like a day-old fish stick left in the sun. Frankly, I could have cared less about the fish. I guess a was a bit distracted. See, it turns out that what people REALLY go to Hooter's for is, umm, hooters.
HI, KIDS! Knowing this to be a family newspaper, there are times when I like to give a special shout out to my younger readers! And, in case you kids were wondering, back in that last paragraph, when I was talking about hooters with a small 'h,' obviously I was talking about our friends, THE OWLS. Here's a fun fact: Did you know that most owls are nocturnal? Can you say 'nocturnal'? That means they come out at dark. That's why sometimes daddies don't come home from Hooters until VERY late at night.
Oh, forget it. "Hooooo" am I kidding? Kids are welcome at Hooters, too -- they must be, because they have a chidren's menu. Yep, Hooters is great family fun -- provided, of course, that you're the Hefner family.
It's at places like this that I am TRULY at my most awkward. What's the proper behavior at a Hooters? Are you supposed to just sit there and LEER at the Hooters Girls? I mean, isn't that the whole point? But as I looked around the restaurant, I didn't see anybody else leering. In fact, I saw nothing but a bunch of other guys struggling to look nonchalant while being waited on by girls wearing clothes that might fit a 7-year-old.
Truth be told, Hooters is a savvy business empire. They've spent years perfecting their scheme, and for the most part, it works like a charm. When a customer sits down, they're immediately waited on by a babe from the Island of Improbably Attractive People. Your Hooters Girl sits down next to you and spends a great deal of time pretending that, in her eyes, Average Pathetic You is, in fact, the greatest thing to ever walk into her life. For one shining moment, YOU ARE BRAD PITT. Until she stops flirting long enough to get your order, and then *poof* she's vapor.
At least, that's how it SHOULD have worked. That's how it worked at every table I watched EXCEPT ours. Instead, our Hooters girl sat down, asked us what we wanted, and then left. No flirting. No idolation. She might have been a Hooters Girl, but we ended up feeling like Denny's Guys. This was, needless to say, a massive boost to our collective ego. I mean, how nerdy must we be to not even elicit PHONY flirting?
The guy next to us was having a bachelor party; his Hooters Girl was writing on his custom t-shirt, "You look HOT! Too bad you're taken!" MY Hooter's Girl forgot my soda. Life is cruel. But not as cruel as what happened next.
After we ate, a DIFFERENT Hooters Girl plopped down at our table. This one had the flirting down to a science. She complimented me on my t-shirt ("Medium Pimpin',") she talked about the weather, she batted her eyes. Suddenly we were feeling better. THEN out of nowhere, she plopped down an armful of trinkets. Hooters magazines, Hooters cards, Hooters shot glasses, Hooters mints -- it was a veritable cornucopia of needless junk. And her job, of course, was to sell it to us.
The sales pitches went from impressive to desperate. She even talked about the high quality of plastic used in their shot glasses. I swear at one point she started reading the ingredients off the box of mints. Then it hit me: to them, we weren't JUST hapless nerds, no -- we were hapless nerds who were EASY MARKS to buy junk.
I felt insulted. I went into Hooters looking for a shot of confidence, and I left feeling more pathetic than when I walked in. But I should look on the bright side. At least the next time that I need a shot of confidence, I've now got the high quality limited edition plastic shot glass to put it in. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a flirt.
Monday, June 12, 2006
COLUMN: Air Show
I've never understood typical "guy" behavior. You know... running around, fixing stuff, building stuff, destroying stuff, chugging beers while making college b-ball brackets. It's all beyond me -- I think perhaps I've been machismo-challenged since birth.
Thankfully, though, I've learned over the years how to deal with it. When some of my guy co-workers start in on a conversation about home repair or the NCAA or what-have-you, I know where to properly insert the grunts and nods to cover up the fact that, as far as my nerdtastic self is concerned, they may as well be speaking Martian.
That said, I've discovered one thing about myself that falls in line with the other Average Joes of the world. Maybe it's something that's firmly rooted in my DNA, something I'm chained to by testosterone and testosterone alone. It's what assures me that perhaps I'm merely one American Eagle Outfitters visit away from being "just one of the guys":
I like things that are loud and fast. And that's why last week was pretty exciting in Shaneland.
It's not hard to tell when it's Quad City Air Show weekend. It was Thursday and I had just left work for lunch. Walking to my car, I received a call from a girl I'm crushing on right now. "Hey you," I said, "It's good to hear your WHOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAARRRRGH!" Well, I didn't say the last part. That would have been the Blue Angels as they darted over my head at umpteen hundred knots per whatever. The point is, I went "eep" like the big sissy I am. There are lots of words I want this girl to hear -- and "eep" isn't one of 'em.
But if I'm going to have my day interrupted and my bejeebies scared out of me, there's no better way to do it than via a screeching jet fighter. As we drove Saturday to the Davenport Municipal Airport, we passed person after person opting for the view from their yards instead of the airport.
"Enjoy the cheap seats, suckers," I thought to myself. I wanted the whole nine yards. (Well, that and I won free tickets in a drawing.) But I wanted to see the show from the airport itself. After all, an air show isn't just entertainment; it's also educational. Among the things I picked up during said education:
• Water is a limited resource. I wasn't aware we were having a shortage, but it must be true. What else could explain why small bottles of water were selling at the air show for $3? I'm never flushing again.
• Speaking of overpriced concessions, there was a trailer selling "GIANT TURKEY LEGS!" First off, I wasn't aware that giant turkeys were roaming the Earth, and now I'm vaguely concerned. And even if these mutant giant turkeys were all safely being exterminated in some kind of gruesome leg harvesting genocide, does eating a greasy turkey leg -- regular OR giant -- sound remotely appetizing on an 85 degree summer afternoon? Ick.
• The Blue Angels are awesome. However, why was it that every manoever the announcer referred to as being "incredibly difficult" or "rarely performed" happened DIRECTLY OVER MY HEAD? I couldn't help but be a wee bit spooked.
"Don't worry," my friends said. "These guys are pros. They've had loads of experience."
Well, no offense, but I've now had loads of experience writing newspaper columns -- but that doesn't mean I don't make the occasional typo. Call me a wuss, but I'd be happier if they did their schtick over a cornfield, or maybe a square mile of pillows or something.
Little did I know that the Blue Angels were the warmup for the REAL main event -- something I like to call the "Traffic Jam-boree." Yes, there's nothing like witnessing the greatest feats of mechanized speed and power followed by a 45-minute wait in the car in order to go 2 blocks. By the time we left the parking lot, I wanted to BE one of the cheap-seated people I was making fun of earlier. At least they could leave. Meanwhile, the Blue Angels could have made it to Botzwana. Better yet, they could have called in an airstrike to take out the bazillion people in front of us -- or at least the one dude playing Kiss at volume 11 with the windows down. (As it turns out, sometimes I DON'T wanna rock and roll all night and party every day.)
By the time me and my friends escaped, we were tired... yet emasculated. We had seen the sky, and we had seen dudes slice through it like butter. I felt like high-fiving someone. I felt like belching. In short, I felt manly. There was only one option. We pointed the car towards Hooter's. More on that next week.
Thankfully, though, I've learned over the years how to deal with it. When some of my guy co-workers start in on a conversation about home repair or the NCAA or what-have-you, I know where to properly insert the grunts and nods to cover up the fact that, as far as my nerdtastic self is concerned, they may as well be speaking Martian.
That said, I've discovered one thing about myself that falls in line with the other Average Joes of the world. Maybe it's something that's firmly rooted in my DNA, something I'm chained to by testosterone and testosterone alone. It's what assures me that perhaps I'm merely one American Eagle Outfitters visit away from being "just one of the guys":
I like things that are loud and fast. And that's why last week was pretty exciting in Shaneland.
It's not hard to tell when it's Quad City Air Show weekend. It was Thursday and I had just left work for lunch. Walking to my car, I received a call from a girl I'm crushing on right now. "Hey you," I said, "It's good to hear your WHOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAARRRRGH!" Well, I didn't say the last part. That would have been the Blue Angels as they darted over my head at umpteen hundred knots per whatever. The point is, I went "eep" like the big sissy I am. There are lots of words I want this girl to hear -- and "eep" isn't one of 'em.
But if I'm going to have my day interrupted and my bejeebies scared out of me, there's no better way to do it than via a screeching jet fighter. As we drove Saturday to the Davenport Municipal Airport, we passed person after person opting for the view from their yards instead of the airport.
"Enjoy the cheap seats, suckers," I thought to myself. I wanted the whole nine yards. (Well, that and I won free tickets in a drawing.) But I wanted to see the show from the airport itself. After all, an air show isn't just entertainment; it's also educational. Among the things I picked up during said education:
• Water is a limited resource. I wasn't aware we were having a shortage, but it must be true. What else could explain why small bottles of water were selling at the air show for $3? I'm never flushing again.
• Speaking of overpriced concessions, there was a trailer selling "GIANT TURKEY LEGS!" First off, I wasn't aware that giant turkeys were roaming the Earth, and now I'm vaguely concerned. And even if these mutant giant turkeys were all safely being exterminated in some kind of gruesome leg harvesting genocide, does eating a greasy turkey leg -- regular OR giant -- sound remotely appetizing on an 85 degree summer afternoon? Ick.
• The Blue Angels are awesome. However, why was it that every manoever the announcer referred to as being "incredibly difficult" or "rarely performed" happened DIRECTLY OVER MY HEAD? I couldn't help but be a wee bit spooked.
"Don't worry," my friends said. "These guys are pros. They've had loads of experience."
Well, no offense, but I've now had loads of experience writing newspaper columns -- but that doesn't mean I don't make the occasional typo. Call me a wuss, but I'd be happier if they did their schtick over a cornfield, or maybe a square mile of pillows or something.
Little did I know that the Blue Angels were the warmup for the REAL main event -- something I like to call the "Traffic Jam-boree." Yes, there's nothing like witnessing the greatest feats of mechanized speed and power followed by a 45-minute wait in the car in order to go 2 blocks. By the time we left the parking lot, I wanted to BE one of the cheap-seated people I was making fun of earlier. At least they could leave. Meanwhile, the Blue Angels could have made it to Botzwana. Better yet, they could have called in an airstrike to take out the bazillion people in front of us -- or at least the one dude playing Kiss at volume 11 with the windows down. (As it turns out, sometimes I DON'T wanna rock and roll all night and party every day.)
By the time me and my friends escaped, we were tired... yet emasculated. We had seen the sky, and we had seen dudes slice through it like butter. I felt like high-fiving someone. I felt like belching. In short, I felt manly. There was only one option. We pointed the car towards Hooter's. More on that next week.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Rock Island's finest?
Okay, so I'm no expert in law enforcement, but wait 'til you hear what I saw last night.
So last night I'm in the District at Gumbo Ya-Ya, right? More to the point, I'm getting off work from DJing at my weekend gig. At roughly 2:50 a.m., every club in the District shuts down and proceeds to herd the remaining crowds outside like cattle. At THAT point, it's up to the District's police presence to get everyone off of the downtown plaza within a reasonable time -- I think there's a law that calls it loitering if you're in the plaza after 3:15 a.m.
Well, in addition to the USUAL chaos, it's the District's first proper festival of the year, Gumbo Ya Ya. Despite the cold weather, there were quite a few people out and about, and afterwards, you've got scores of cleaning crews and sound guys out there tearing down all of the outdoor stages and trailers.
So in other words, it was EXTRA chaotic last night as the clubs were herding people outside. As a result, there were quite a few EXTRA police there last night. In addition to the usual Rock Island city cops, there were some of those brown-uniformed cops there, too (like I said, I'm no expert -- are those guys COUNTY cops? I think so.)
So we had just gotten everyone out of our club, and the police had ushered most of the people out of the plaza. Suddenly from outside, someone yells "FIGHT!" and our security guys all go bounding outside (as did I, because, hey, I'm nozy.)
Across the plaza from our club, I see some dude -- a BIG dude -- being restrained by several of his friends. (He didn't come out of OUR club.) What had occurred prior to this I was NOT privy to -- perhaps the guy had traded punches with ANOTHER guy, or maybe he was yelling at his girlfriend, I couldn't say for certain.
All I know is that, by the time I got outside, he was yelling at two of these brown-uniformed cops: "No one tells me what to do! I do what I want to!"
Class act, eh?
So one would think that would be enough for this idiot to spend the night in the ol' drunk tank, ya? Apparantly not, as the cops kept ushering the guy to the end of the plaza.
Now, at this point, the guy's girlfriend is tugging on his arm, in a last-ditch effort to get this dude to shut up and not go to jail. Out of NOWHERE, this guy BACKHANDS THE GIRL AND SENDS HER SPRAWLING TO THE CONCRETE.
"Finally," I think, "NOW this guy is going to jail."
I should have seen the two uniformed cops throw the guy to the ground, cuff him, and put him in the back of a squad car.
INSTEAD I SAW THE COPS COMPLETELY IGNORE THE GIRL ON THE GROUND AND INSTEAD CONTINUE TO PUSH THE GUY OFF OF THE PLAZA.
In other words, they essentially gave this drunk SOB a uniformed escort TO HIS CAR. Now, I have no idea whether or not this guy was driving. After seeing that, I almost hope he DID drive, wrap his car around a telephone pole, and then sue the city for allowing him to get behind the wheel in the first place.
So... what DOES it take to get arrested in the District? THE GUY BATTERED A WOMAN in full view of TWO COPS and about 30 bystanders... and DIDN'T GO TO JAIL.
It was the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen, and just made me lose an AWFUL lot of respect for my county police. While I'll clearly give the allowance that I WAS standing a half a block away and couldn't hear what was being said, I DID see the guy knock his girlfriend to the ground, and i DID see the police walk past the girl and eventually let the guy go.
I've seen people get arrested for a LOT less in Rock Island. Wait, let me rephrase, I've seen BLACK people get arrested for a lot less in Rock Island. I don't wanna be THAT guy who plays the race card -- and I can't say for certain whether or not the cops' actions were influenced by race, color, friends, the need to disassociate arrests with District festivals, or ANYTHING -- but it sure looked like some serious favoritism in the District last night.
If any Rock Island county officers read this and could explain to me what REALLY went on, I'll be glad to publically apologize in this blog. The last thing I wanna EVER do is tick off the cops. But when I see something as unjustified as it looked last night, I HAVE to comment on it.
So last night I'm in the District at Gumbo Ya-Ya, right? More to the point, I'm getting off work from DJing at my weekend gig. At roughly 2:50 a.m., every club in the District shuts down and proceeds to herd the remaining crowds outside like cattle. At THAT point, it's up to the District's police presence to get everyone off of the downtown plaza within a reasonable time -- I think there's a law that calls it loitering if you're in the plaza after 3:15 a.m.
Well, in addition to the USUAL chaos, it's the District's first proper festival of the year, Gumbo Ya Ya. Despite the cold weather, there were quite a few people out and about, and afterwards, you've got scores of cleaning crews and sound guys out there tearing down all of the outdoor stages and trailers.
So in other words, it was EXTRA chaotic last night as the clubs were herding people outside. As a result, there were quite a few EXTRA police there last night. In addition to the usual Rock Island city cops, there were some of those brown-uniformed cops there, too (like I said, I'm no expert -- are those guys COUNTY cops? I think so.)
So we had just gotten everyone out of our club, and the police had ushered most of the people out of the plaza. Suddenly from outside, someone yells "FIGHT!" and our security guys all go bounding outside (as did I, because, hey, I'm nozy.)
Across the plaza from our club, I see some dude -- a BIG dude -- being restrained by several of his friends. (He didn't come out of OUR club.) What had occurred prior to this I was NOT privy to -- perhaps the guy had traded punches with ANOTHER guy, or maybe he was yelling at his girlfriend, I couldn't say for certain.
All I know is that, by the time I got outside, he was yelling at two of these brown-uniformed cops: "No one tells me what to do! I do what I want to!"
Class act, eh?
So one would think that would be enough for this idiot to spend the night in the ol' drunk tank, ya? Apparantly not, as the cops kept ushering the guy to the end of the plaza.
Now, at this point, the guy's girlfriend is tugging on his arm, in a last-ditch effort to get this dude to shut up and not go to jail. Out of NOWHERE, this guy BACKHANDS THE GIRL AND SENDS HER SPRAWLING TO THE CONCRETE.
"Finally," I think, "NOW this guy is going to jail."
I should have seen the two uniformed cops throw the guy to the ground, cuff him, and put him in the back of a squad car.
INSTEAD I SAW THE COPS COMPLETELY IGNORE THE GIRL ON THE GROUND AND INSTEAD CONTINUE TO PUSH THE GUY OFF OF THE PLAZA.
In other words, they essentially gave this drunk SOB a uniformed escort TO HIS CAR. Now, I have no idea whether or not this guy was driving. After seeing that, I almost hope he DID drive, wrap his car around a telephone pole, and then sue the city for allowing him to get behind the wheel in the first place.
So... what DOES it take to get arrested in the District? THE GUY BATTERED A WOMAN in full view of TWO COPS and about 30 bystanders... and DIDN'T GO TO JAIL.
It was the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen, and just made me lose an AWFUL lot of respect for my county police. While I'll clearly give the allowance that I WAS standing a half a block away and couldn't hear what was being said, I DID see the guy knock his girlfriend to the ground, and i DID see the police walk past the girl and eventually let the guy go.
I've seen people get arrested for a LOT less in Rock Island. Wait, let me rephrase, I've seen BLACK people get arrested for a lot less in Rock Island. I don't wanna be THAT guy who plays the race card -- and I can't say for certain whether or not the cops' actions were influenced by race, color, friends, the need to disassociate arrests with District festivals, or ANYTHING -- but it sure looked like some serious favoritism in the District last night.
If any Rock Island county officers read this and could explain to me what REALLY went on, I'll be glad to publically apologize in this blog. The last thing I wanna EVER do is tick off the cops. But when I see something as unjustified as it looked last night, I HAVE to comment on it.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Thumbs UP.
I repeat my mantra:
I am a humor columnist...
I am NOT a political columnist...
I am silent as to my politics...
Aw, the hell with it.
GO GET 'EM, PHIL. Congrats.
(Congrats also to Mark Schweibert. You may have come in 3rd, but you're still the top guy in MY book.)
I am a humor columnist...
I am NOT a political columnist...
I am silent as to my politics...
Aw, the hell with it.
GO GET 'EM, PHIL. Congrats.
(Congrats also to Mark Schweibert. You may have come in 3rd, but you're still the top guy in MY book.)
Monday, June 05, 2006
COLUMN: The Great American Novelist
This past weekend, I went to see my cohort Sean Leary's My Verona production of "The Pillowman" at Comedy Sportz. Though the play's dark tones aren't my usual cup o' tea, the production was nicely executed and Sean deserves serious kudos for playing it unsafe and bringing such a talked-about and edgy play to the Quad Cities.
But there's a thing that always happens when I go see a play. Inexplicably, I go home with one thought blazing through my brain: "I could do that." And for days afterwards, I keep thinking about the prospects of writing a play. Heck, all I need is, umm, some characters... oh, and a plot. Yeah, I just need to think up one of those plot dealies and I'm all set. At some point, I usually decide that I am at my creative zenith, head to the computer, open up a blank document, grab the keyboard, and sit...
Usually ten minutes later is when I reach my frustration zenith, shut the computer off, and go watch reruns of "Cops."
"You're such a good writer," my mom always used to say to me. After a few years of compliments, even ones from family, you start to believe it. Maybe Mom's right and it's my destiny to write The Great American Novel. Shame of it is, I just don't have anything meaningful to say.
I'm not a deep guy. I've never sat around and gotten all existential. I've never had internal monologue about life's challenges. I've never discovered a universal truth. And I'm okay with all that.
It's why classic literature always seems to escape me. I remember being in lit classes as far back as high school and having to suffer through assorted Great works of fiction. I use Great with a CAPITAL G, because it's not me who thinks they're great, but rather some historians who think they're Great. Me, if it doesn't make me laugh or it's not about music or pop culture, I tend not to connect with it. And that makes me one shallow dude.
At some point, I've had to suffer through all the snoozers. Faulkner, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Tolstoy... yawn, yawn, yawn, and yawn. Truth be told, if I had to choose my favorite novel of all time, it'd probably be Stephen King's "Pet Sematary." THUD. That was the sound of every literature teacher/aficionado reading this column hitting the floor in a unison of disappointment and disgust.
As someone who gets paid to write, I should have a comforting bookshelf somewhere with worn copies of the classics. Instead, my bookshelf contains such epic tomes as "Dave Barry is Not Making This Up," "The National Enquirer: 30 Years of Unforgettable Images," and at least 20 Dilbert collections.
Part of my issue with "good" literature is that I've always been unable to wrap my head around symbolism. I remember being in school and forced to read some random acclaimed book, and then the teacher would say something like, "The most important element in this chapter is the author's use of the tree, and how it comes to represent mankind's stoic resilience against oppression."
Wait, what? You've gotta be kidding me. "Mankind's stoic resilience?" I just thought it was a stinking TREE. So now to write great literature, I've got to have characters, plot, AND be well-versed in arboreal imagery? Forget that. That's why I shy away from the classics; I just can't appreciate any text where even the grapes have to be wrathful.
Maybe one day I WILL pen the Great American Novel. Until then, you're stuck with the shallow me. The me who sees ridiculous stuff and gets paid to make fun of it in print every week. If I ever shed light on mankind's stoic resilience against oppression, I hope I can do it with a smile on your face. All I can say for certain is that -- should you ever be at a Borders of the future and see my name on the spine of a novel -- if there\'s a tree in it, rest assured that it'll be just a stinking tree.
But there's a thing that always happens when I go see a play. Inexplicably, I go home with one thought blazing through my brain: "I could do that." And for days afterwards, I keep thinking about the prospects of writing a play. Heck, all I need is, umm, some characters... oh, and a plot. Yeah, I just need to think up one of those plot dealies and I'm all set. At some point, I usually decide that I am at my creative zenith, head to the computer, open up a blank document, grab the keyboard, and sit...
Usually ten minutes later is when I reach my frustration zenith, shut the computer off, and go watch reruns of "Cops."
"You're such a good writer," my mom always used to say to me. After a few years of compliments, even ones from family, you start to believe it. Maybe Mom's right and it's my destiny to write The Great American Novel. Shame of it is, I just don't have anything meaningful to say.
I'm not a deep guy. I've never sat around and gotten all existential. I've never had internal monologue about life's challenges. I've never discovered a universal truth. And I'm okay with all that.
It's why classic literature always seems to escape me. I remember being in lit classes as far back as high school and having to suffer through assorted Great works of fiction. I use Great with a CAPITAL G, because it's not me who thinks they're great, but rather some historians who think they're Great. Me, if it doesn't make me laugh or it's not about music or pop culture, I tend not to connect with it. And that makes me one shallow dude.
At some point, I've had to suffer through all the snoozers. Faulkner, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Tolstoy... yawn, yawn, yawn, and yawn. Truth be told, if I had to choose my favorite novel of all time, it'd probably be Stephen King's "Pet Sematary." THUD. That was the sound of every literature teacher/aficionado reading this column hitting the floor in a unison of disappointment and disgust.
As someone who gets paid to write, I should have a comforting bookshelf somewhere with worn copies of the classics. Instead, my bookshelf contains such epic tomes as "Dave Barry is Not Making This Up," "The National Enquirer: 30 Years of Unforgettable Images," and at least 20 Dilbert collections.
Part of my issue with "good" literature is that I've always been unable to wrap my head around symbolism. I remember being in school and forced to read some random acclaimed book, and then the teacher would say something like, "The most important element in this chapter is the author's use of the tree, and how it comes to represent mankind's stoic resilience against oppression."
Wait, what? You've gotta be kidding me. "Mankind's stoic resilience?" I just thought it was a stinking TREE. So now to write great literature, I've got to have characters, plot, AND be well-versed in arboreal imagery? Forget that. That's why I shy away from the classics; I just can't appreciate any text where even the grapes have to be wrathful.
Maybe one day I WILL pen the Great American Novel. Until then, you're stuck with the shallow me. The me who sees ridiculous stuff and gets paid to make fun of it in print every week. If I ever shed light on mankind's stoic resilience against oppression, I hope I can do it with a smile on your face. All I can say for certain is that -- should you ever be at a Borders of the future and see my name on the spine of a novel -- if there\'s a tree in it, rest assured that it'll be just a stinking tree.
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