COLUMN: Lost Finale

My dad likes to build stuff. This is cool, especially since I've got a brand new basement in dire need of finishing. But this story begins with something my dad built for me six years ago -- a shelving unit to store my DVDs. And we're not talking your run-of-the-mill shelves. This was a majestic beast, all solid wood and heavy as a horse.

"Get at least five of your friends to help us get this thing inside," he warned me ahead of delivery.

Getting five friends was no problem at all, but each friend insisted on the same caveat: that we stopped whatever we were doing at 8 p.m.: LOST was on. I had slowly watched this show consume the lives and water-cooler discussions of my friends for the better part of a season, but I was having none of it. Some show about island castaways? Not for me, thanks. I imagined some evil hybrid between "Survivor," Tom Hanks, and a volleyball. I didn't need that in my life.

Still, I was grateful for their assistance, so I sat with my friends to suffer through my first episode of "Lost." After five minutes, I wasn't caring about the chip on my shoulder. After fifteen minutes, I was asking questions about EVERYTHING. After thirty minutes, I was on the internet trying to find the back episodes that I'd missed. By the time the hour was up, I was a Lostie. And now it's over.

If you're one of the, what, eighteen people on Earth who haven't come to the conclusion that "Lost" is the best show on Earth ever, you might want to stop reading. If you haven't seen the finale, DEFINITELY stop reading.

In retrospect, I think the most amazing thing about "Lost" is that it even made it to the air. Can you just imagine what that pitch meeting had to be like?

Stuffy ABC Executive: "Okay, Mr. Abrams. Mr. Lindelof. We really like your "Alias" show, but that's pretty much because Jennifer Garner's kind of a hottie. As for the show itself, it's bleeding viewers like crazy because the plotlines have gotten WAY too complicated and weird for anybody to figure out. We assume that your new show is a little more simplistic and grounded in reality, right? Tell us a little about it."

Abrams & Lindelof, two unabashed mega-nerds: "Oh, yes, yes, this one's completely simple to understand."

"A plane crashes on an uncharted island, right? And all the survivors are total screw-ups in life: you've got a doctor with daddy issues, a hot girl with mommy issues, a con man with mommy AND daddy issues, a fat guy who's funny, a bald guy who's not, a pregnant girl, an abusive Korean and his submissive wife, a junkie, an Iraqi torturer, and a deadbeat dad and his kid who may or may not have magic powers and grows approximately 2' each season he's on the air. Don't worry, the audience will grow to love them."

"So on the island, there's a monster made of smoke --"

"NOISY smoke."

"Yes, noisy smoke that kills people. And the survivors find a radio signal, but it's just some weird French Rambo chick. And then the bald guy finds a hatch."

"What's in the hatch? Oh, we're thinking a British guy who has to press a button on an Apple IIe every 108 minutes or the world's going to end. Why 108? Because that's what 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, & 42 add up to, duh. But then he leaves, so the bald guy has to push the button."

"And then there's other people on the island."

"What do you call these other people?"

"The, umm, Others. Their job is to tromp around the island in hobo make-up. At the same time, it turns out that the tail end of the plane crashed on the other side of the island, and it's loaded with survivors, too. They're all rich and complex characters rife with engaging histories and compelling storylines."

"Yes, which is why we'll be killing them off immediately."

"Then they'll find a guy who crashed in a hot air balloon. His name is Henry, but really his name is Ben, and he's the head Other. He's also the creepiest guy on the planet. Don't worry, the audience will grow to love him."

"The Others kidnap the survivors, feed them fish biscuits, and take them to New Otherton. And then we introduce a pair of jewel thieves but kill them off within 45 minutes. The bald guy stops pushing the button and the hatch implodes. The world doesn't end, but the British guy sees the future. He tells the junkie's he going to die, and he does. Then mercenaries show up and start killing people until the noisy smoke kills them. Henry/Ben spins a wheel and the island teleports to 1977. Except for some of the cast who escape the island but decide they'd rather be back, so they come back, plus a scientist who can time travel and another who can talk to dead people and another who's just kinda hot, so we'll be killing her off immediately. Back in 1977, given the choice of detonating an atom bomb or reliving the disco era, they opt for the atom bomb and all blow up. But really they just split into two parallel realities. In one, everyone's on the island while two superbeings battle for supremacy, and in the other, everyone's back at home just fine. Except that they're all dead. Eventually the doctor with daddy issues saves the world by turning on a light, gives the island to the fat guy, then dies and brings everyone together to a non-denominational church where they can hug and move on."

"Move on? To what exactly?"

"Either heaven or a Lost feature film, we haven't decided. Oh, and did we mention there's a guy with magic eyeliner?"

"You did say the chicks were HOT, right?"

"Smokin' hot. Plus the doctor can be played by one of those 'Party of Five' rejects if you want."

"Sirs, consider yourselves GREENLIGHTED!"

HOW did it happen? Who cares, it DID happen, and the result was six of the greatest years in television history. And now that it's done, how do I feel about the finale? I'm not quite sure. There's a surplus of unanswered questions, that's for sure -- but the theories left over will provide ample fodder for "Lost" nerds to debate on the net for years to come, and I'll probably be one of 'em.

Some folks think the finale was great. Others think it was terrible. I'm somewhere in the middle. It could have been a LOT worse. It could have all been a dream... or heaven... or they could have pulled the mask off the Smoke Monster to reveal Old Man Smithers who would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for those pesky kids. In the end, the creators were fair to the characters while being a tad bit unfair to the island that brought them together.

I say it was a fair trade, and a fitting end to a perfect piece of television. Soo, umm, now what do I watch?

COLUMN: Yard

Reality is starting to sink in.

In less than four weeks, barring any weird unforeseen termite-inspection-related catastrophes, I will be a home-owner. This fact is intimidating and terrifying enough on its own, but I'm starting to realize some of the repercussions of my actions.

It's just beginning to dawn on me that owning a home means that I also own the land my home sits on. I am about to possess my own little square of Rock Island. In a primitive way, this is pretty cool. Me have land. My land. Mine, not yours. "This land is yoooour land, this land is myyy land." No. That land might be your land, but this land is MY land so step off. It's empowering as heck. There's just one teeny problem -- I now have to care for that land.

I have lived 39 years very strategically. Some may argue that I've coasted my way through life to avoid any sort of mental or physical stresses. I would argue this point. While it's true that most of my life is spent either slouched at a desk or lying on a couch, it takes WORK to achieve a level of slothfulness such as mine. You can't just say, "I'm going to lay around all day and do nothing." In order to be really successful at inactivity, one must have an action plan.

For instance, I have made it thus far in life without ever having cut a single blade of grass. I honestly don't know how one mows a lawn -- but I've seen it in the movies and frankly, it looks unpleasant. How did I escape lawn-cutting chores as a child? By employing my strategic action plan of inactivity.

As you may know, I grew up on a farm. Wait, scratch that -- my parents did not "farm" and I think it may require the verb farm in order to justify the noun farm. My folks weren't farmers, but they just kinda liked the idea of living in the middle of nowhere. So my dad took a 50-acre parcel of land that's been passed down in our family and built our home smack in the middle of it. And when your yard is farm-sized, mowing the lawn becoems an all-day affair.

We didn't have a lawn mower. We didn't even have a lawn tractor. We had a TRACTOR tractor. A full-sized, gas-guzzling behemoth that my dad attached mower blades to. And every week, the family would go out on an all-day mowing binge. And by family, I mean my mom and dad. I'd be inside performing any necessary video-game-playing and/or MTV-watching chores.

One day, my folks decided it was time to pass the tractor-driving gauntlet my way. This was kinda cool in a way. I mean, what kid wouldn't want to be behind the wheel of a blade-spinning, exhaust-spitting monster? Still, learning to mow = having to mow and that's no good. So on my first lesson, I did what any uncoordinated nature-shy cybergeek would do: I got flustered and drove the tractor full throttle into the side of my dad's shed until both tractor and shed were mightily damaged. Shockingly, my folks never asked me to mow again.

Yet now here I am with my very own lawn and a now absolute and total lack of knowledge of how to mow it. Happily, my new lawn is infinitely smaller than that of my parent's house, but I still have no clue what I'm doing.

The thought of having to mow in the first place just irks me. What are we paying our nation's top scientists for if not to invent grass that stops growing at a given height? Come on. This is the 21st century. We're supposed to be technologically above all this. You never saw George Jetson mowing a lawn.

Look at corn. Agricultural geneticists have spent billions of dollars perfecting today's corn crops. You plant them and they grow. At some point, they stop growing, out pops the corn, and we reap the harvest. We don't have to mow the corn to prevent it from ascending to the heavens. Corn is smart. It knows when to stop growing.

Grass, on the other hand, is stupid. You cut it and it's like, "What the...? Guess I'll just have to grow some more!" You should be able to buy grass seed that sprouts, grows to exactly 1.5" out of the ground, and then stops to enjoy a leisurely life of photosynthesis and oxygen production.

No such luck, so I figure I've got a shortlist of options at this point. They are:

(1) Pave the entire lawn. Nothing says home-sweet-home like an expansive blacktop slab. Just ask a skateboarder. Wait, if I paved my entire yard it'd be like an open casting call for skater punks to loiter about, wouldn't it? And if one of those dudes fell down and broke his coccyx while doing an inverted backside 540 McTwist off my siding, I'd be sued seven ways to Sunday. Hmm...

(2) Build the world's biggest deck. One that wraps around the whole house and consumes most of the yard and hence the yard work. So if anyone wants to come and build me one of those for free, step right up. Note: I prefer the kind WITH a hot tub.

(3) Scour the neighborhood for Little Timmy. Every block has to have a Little Timmy, right? There must be an enterprising sucker (cough) I mean SWEET LITTLE KID who owns a push mower and needs extra change for the ice cream truck, no?

(4) Grass won't grow if I cover every square inch of my yard in lawn ornaments. If there's one thing I love, it's the pageantry and magic of a good ol' Civil War re-enactment. So why not simply replicate the entire Battle of Gettysburg on my front lawn with concrete gnomes? At Christmastime, we could dangle lights off 'em and -- presto -- they become Santa's elves. It's a win-win. Now to convince my girlfriend...

(5) Speaking of which, perhaps I should just remind her of a conversation the two of us had when I was wavering over such a huge decision. I believe it started with me going, "I dunno, if I buy a house, that means loads of yard work" and HER going, "I tell you what, if you buy this house, I WILL DO MOST OF THE YARD WORK FOR YOU." And now that sentence is in print in a major local publication, which is pretty much the same thing as a legally-binding contract, I'm fairly sure.

(6) Give up and look to the heavens for help, and that was clearly the best answer... because when I did that, I looked up and saw the state of my gutters and that made me forgot ALL about the lawn. Gulp. I need an action plan.

COLUMN: Offspring

Life has been evolving at a scary pace lately.

For pretty much the past decade, I've been living a life of complacency, safety, and let's face it, boredom. Over the past year, I've somehow managed to meet and date a girl that I'm in no real hurry to lose. And if that's not enough, if all goes well, in about a month or two I could be moving into my first house. How's that for shaking things up a bit?

Now, I realize that this column is doing nothing but feeding ammo to my annoying co-workers who serenade me through the halls on a near daily basis with a barrage of "So when's the wedding?" "When you popping the question?" "Do you have baby names picked out yet? I bet sheee does!" So let me just nip that in the bud right now with THIS statement: If it happens, it'll happen, and only when it's the right time. That time is not now, especially when I have to pull a down-payment out of thin air. But it could very well happen at some point in the future, and that's enough to make me gulp right now.

This sort of lifestyle upheaval is scary on a number of levels, but there's one that makes me extra super duper scared:

My girlfriend is a bit baby-crazy. And that's not to say that it's a bad thing, because it's not. And it's not to say that she's trying to rush me into something, because she's not. There's some people who reach a stage of life and their mind just starts going "BABY BABY BABY." That's not her, either. No, I'm pretty sure my girlfriend's been going "BABY BABY BABY" since she WAS a baby.

She just seriously digs kids. This is probably a good attribute to have when you're a full time elementary school teacher and part time babysitter. We can't go to a restaurant, mall, or any public place without her fawning over any assortment of little kids. I know she eventually wants kids, and I know she'd make an awesome mom. I seriously dig her, and I know that if I want to stay with her, there's a good chance that one day I'll be saying howdy to a pointy-eared Shaneling or two. Double gulp.

I've never been AROUND kids in my life. I grew up the only child in a small family out in the middle of the country. Amy grew up in an army-sized family that would invent their own holidays if that's what it took to have a potluck. None of my close friends have kids. ALL of her friends have kids.

I know NOTHING about babies -- well, except that you're not supposed to shake them or let them fall on the soft spots of their noggins. Ergo, I'll be in charge of keeping our future offspring docile, dormant, helmeted, and seat-belted in a prone position until junior high. Amy can handle the rest. All I'm sure about is the one thing I don't think I'll ever be able to handle: poo. With advances in modern technology, you would REALLY think that by now, we should be able to potty-train children in the womb. Even the newest of newborn kittens know how to drop deuce in a litterbox.

"But Shane," you all say, "It'll be different when it's your own child. You won't mind changing their diaper, trust me." I don't trust you.

Let's go back to the cat analogy. I love my two cats, right? They're the closest things to children I've ever had to deal with thus far in life. Well, the other day, I got home to find a big ol' pile of hairball puke in the center of the kitchen floor. And in order for me to clean THAT up, it took The Infinite Number of Paper Towels, a couple of rubber gloves, looking in the opposite direction, and I STILL started to retch in the two steps it took me to get that nightmare from floor to trashcan. I think the only way this will work is if Amy takes my progeny away until Shane Jr. has full control over his/her body orifices.

Occasionally I think that I need to spend time with kids to prep for what one day might be the real thing. This is where Amy's babysitting gig comes in handy. She frequently sits for two sisters, age 5 & 6, who I lovingly refer to as my "practice children." Don't worry, Amy's always close by so I can't warp these kids TOO bad. But hanging with them is starting to brace me for what fatherhood might one day entail.

The other day, I was sitting around a table at what's likely to become my new house, in near-convulsion levels of fear, signing the first of a thousand documents to make an offer on the place. That's when Amy walked in with the girls.

"YOU LIVE IN A PRINCESS HOUSE!" one exclaimed.

Great. That's the exact macho image I was going for with this life makeover.

After the deal was done and the papers were signed, we went to Village Inn to see if I could get my resting heartrate down to a manageable level. As Amy took one of the girls to the bathroom, I was left for a minute with the six-year-old, whose attention had already turned to a word search in the kid's activity book.

"How do you do this?" she asked me. Practice Dad to the rescue.

"Well, you see those words there, right?" I explained. "They're all hidden in the puzzle and you've got to find them. What's that first word? Spell it out for me."

"B-L-U-E-G-I-L-L."

"Now sound it out. What's that spell?"

"Bluegill?"

"Yep, that's a kind of fish. Now try to find it in the puzzle."

She nailed it in a second. I am totally awesome at this.

"Okay, spell out the next one. It's a kind of fish, too."

"C-A-R-P."

"See, you're GREAT at this! Now sound it out, what's that spell?"

Turns out that it's pretty easy to transpose an A and an R when you're six. And that's how the entire clientele and staff of Village Inn got to hear my practice child proudly yell out her first obscenity. So hey, at least I'm good at teaching little kids how to cuss (or, as I see it, perhaps I made a crucial early diagnosis of dyslexia.)

Still, I'm not giving up. One day I'll be comfortable around kids. Last weekend, I reviewed the Taylor Swift show at the iWi. Turns out I had an extra ticket, so I took Amy's little sister (a HUGE T-Swizzle fan.) Not only did we score great seats, I also lucked out and got her a pit pass so she could (gasp) TOUCH a guitarist and get loads of up-close pictures. I believe I am now THE COOLEST MY-SISTER'S-BOYFRIEND EVER. That's good enough for me for now.

COLUMN: House

It's a good thing they let me have a column in this newspaper. I'm going to need it to retrace my steps this week.

See, a funny thing happened to me over the past seven days. I started the week as Shane Brown, Normal Guy -- safe, happy, and complacent in my non-changing life of non-change. By Friday, I was Shane Brown -- HOME-OWNER. Never in all my years did I think I would type that sentence, but I just did.

I guess I'm speaking too soon. I suppose I don't "own" my house until I "close" on my house (see, I'm picking up the lingo already.) But I got the loan, made an offer, and some dude who lives states away took me up on it. And now, barring some kind of radon and/or plumbing catastrophe (keep your fingers crossed, the inspection is next week,) it's mine. I am now officially and indisputably a Rock Islander. Gulp.

I just need to figure out exactly HOW this happened.

I've been a renter my entire adult life, and it's been pretty much the same apartment. When something breaks, I can pick up a phone and some dude just shows up and magically fixes it. I guess I can still have a dude show up and fix my house, but the magic wears off once he asks for a credit card number. I've lived my life in blissful ignorance of how to perform even the simplest of home repairs, and I'm pretty much cool with that. I've got more important issues to deal with, like video games.

I react poorly to change. Change is bad. There's safety in the familiar, and I like my life to be perpetually wrapped around me like a security blanket. If the world were Shane-perfect, none of my friends would move, start/stop dating anyone, or change jobs. In fact, in my perfect world, I'm still in college, just without tests or classes to attend (not unlike my actual college experience.)

But I suppose sometimes logic needs to outweigh the warm fuzzies of complacency. I've lived here for just shy of 19 years now, but it's no real secret that my apartment complex has seen its best days. The neighborhood has pretty much gone to pot (both figuratively AND literally, based on the current stench in the hallway.) And while I'm the last person to want to change my life, there are occasional tell-tale signs that point towards necessary action.

Like when you've run out of room to put your stuff. Or maybe if your next door neighbor pleads guilty to raping a minor while your other neighbor gets evicted for harboring a fugitive murder suspect. These are what folks in the know refer to as "red flags." And lately, the only flag that HASN'T been red is the Black Flag I had to buy the day I came home to a cockroach in the kitchen sink, waving with its antennae like, "Yo, do me a solid and pass me some crumbs!" Moving might not be such a bad thing.

No one was a bigger proponent of the concept than my girlfriend. I guess she just doesn't like apartments. Or maybe it was when her car got broken into while it was in my lot. All I know is that, immediately following my admission that I was considering a move, she started leaving subtle hints around the apartment to keep me on-task. Like finding 10 different house listings pulled up on my laptop every day. Subtle.

A few weeks ago, we toured a a super-cute place for a reasonable price, but when I went to show the listing to a friend a few days later, I discovered the house had already sold. "Meh," I said, "Dashed hopes. See, I'm better off on the couch."

But that was before I got the phone call at work the other day.

"Umm, honey?" said Amy sheepishly. "I think I just found the perfect house."

I got off work and headed to the property. As I stepped out, I realized what I was about to face: a conspiratorial girl gaggle. There stood Amy, one of her best friends, and that friend's mother -- all giddy with house fever. Behind them stood a realtor, who might as well have had dollar signs for eyes at this point. I was in deep.

The house that they were in love with I was certainly not. It was a neat ol' house for sure, but the focus here is on the word OL'. This house was crusty. The kind of house that groans when you walk across its floors. The kind of house you would NOT want to say "BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE" in. The kind of house that needed both fixing and upping, and I am NOT the man for that job. My basic rule of thumb: Any home that has already celebrated its centennial is NOT the home for Shane. I needed backup, and stat.

So I called MY friends over, and told them to be level-headed and realistic about the state of the place. One of my friends took this to mean "come over and act like a party-pooping Bob Vila," which might have worked, were he not another apartment lifer like me. Still, I was grateful for his incessant pointing out of every crack in the foundation and damp spot in the basement. In the end, the boys won out. Well, at least THIS boy did. I passed on the house. The husband of Amy's friend? Not so lucky. They put an offer on the house the next day.

Speaking of the next day, the realtor from the day before called and wanted to show us some other properties. What the heck, I thought, couldn't hurt. We'd never find anything in our price range better than the house we'd just passed on, Amy would be happy that I was being pro-active, and I'd be home early enough to get in some video games before bed.

Sure enough, the first house he took us to looked like a good stiff wind could bring the sucker down. And here's a handy hint to those of you selling homes: If you're having an open house, perhaps you should remove the pile of assorted vertebrae bones from your front porch first (though I did greatly enjoy their interior design options - the empty beer bottles full of cigarette butts was a bold choice.)

The second house was equally as off-putting, with a 100-degree upstairs and The World's Creepiest Basement, complete with a mural of faceless children playing ping-pong, presumably drawn by Freddy Krueger. Then we rolled up to the third house and I walked in. And in one blink of an eye, I knew I'd be making an offer that night.

It's pretty much my dream home. New construction, vaulted ceilings, lofted bedroom, spiral staircase, open floor plan, modern as heck, and squeaks into my budget by the slimmest of margins. It's as if they built the house knowing I would one day come for it. And come for it I have.

This of course means that the pending inspection will find the place rife with radon, termites, and faulty wiring. Keep your fingers crossed for me, Quad Cities. If nothing else, I might have just found unlimited column fodder for the next 30 years worth of house payments. Gulp.

COLUMN: Missouri Pt. 2

If there's one thing in life I hate, it's stereotypes. To make sweeping and unfair generalizations of the innocent shows a shameless insensitivity and brazen disregard towards the uniqueness of human individuality. Quite frankly, to hurtfully stereotype makes this reporter physically ill. Which brings me to my next point:

The citizens of Missouri are, by and very large, fatty-fat obese lardbutted cheeseburgers with legs, who -- were it not for the haunting prospect of an incarcerated lifetime devoid of all-you-can-eat buffets -- would presumably devour their own young.

Okay, okay, maybe I'm being a tad bit harsh. I'm sure there's folks in Missouri who spend hours on treadmills and look like they just stepped out of GQ. Those folks must have been hiding the other weekend when my girlfriend and I took a longer-than-anticipated aimless drive and ended up crossing into the Show-Me State. And if you're wondering what they want to show-us, it's their rolls of fat trying desperately to escape their midriffs. The truth of the matter was unabashedly evident everywhere we went that day: Missouri has porky people aplenty.

This meant that I fit in nicely.

Look, it's no secret that I'm a bit gifted in the midsection myself. I prefer not to be labeled "fat" -- I prefer the term "svelte-challenged." But before you make screams about the pot calling the kettle fat, hear me out. Yes, I'm a chubby guy, but I've at least got the decency to be somewhat ashamed of myself. In Missouri, people wear their extra pounds like badges of flubbery honor. And nowhere was this more perfectly clear than in the town we ended up at: Hannibal.

When we crossed into Missouri on our day of adventure, billboards for Hannibal were everywhere. And it sounds like a great place. It's the home of Mark Twain. The setting for Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. The center of river culture. Surely it must be a mecca of discovery, wonder, and reasonably priced upscale eateries, right?

Wrong.

Hannibal is just another town along the Mississippi. But while we take Blackhawk Road through Black Hawk State Park and past Blackhawk State Bank to get to Black Hawk College, there you take Mark Twain Avenue past Mark Twain's Boyhood Home to get to the Huck Finn Shopping Center. If you think Hannibal's any more rife with culture than the Quad Cities, step right up - I've got a fence you can whitewash.

The one thing Hannibal didn't have was an obvious quaint place to eat, so we settled upon the only sit-down restaurant we could find - an all-you-can-eat buffet chain. I waited in line while my girlfriend hit the restroom. As I stood there, I began to soak up the enormity of the situation, or at least the enormity of my fellow eaters. Everyone in line at the buffet was huge. Every fourth or fifth person was riding one of those mobility scooters, presumably to help their stomachs catch up with their mouths. Everywhere I looked, people were sculpting majestic food mountains on their wee buffet plates. Then a VERY bizarre thing happened.

The patron in front of me had just paid and received his plate and drink. I happened to be looking as he took a sip of his soda and did an honest-to-gosh spittake all over the floor. "SALTY!" he spewed. THAT'S when it got weird.

"Gladys! GLADYS!" screamed the cashier. "There's salt in the Pepsi again!"

AGAIN? Now, I'm no master of commercial culinary equipment, but I thought I had at least a slight grasp as to the workings of your standard soda fountain. Syrup goes in. Water goes in. CO2 goes in. Pepsi comes out. How salt enters the equation is beyond me. Before I could ponder it, the cashier turned to me with an apologetic smile. "Don't worry, honey, we'll get you Pepsi from the other machine." Um, whew.

As I snaked around the line tentatively adding to my plate, the guy in front of me turned abruptly. "You need to wait for fresh rolls to come out. Get 'em fresh and cover 'em with butter. Mmmm!" I followed his advice.

Finally, the line turns towards its main attraction. An over-zealous twenty-something with a chef's hat stood over a grill barking the same phrase at every passerby:

"HEY, YOU WUNT SUM MEAT?!" "HEY, YOU WUNT SUM MEAT?"

And before anyone could respond, he would deftly fling a piece of fatty steak haphazardly onto their plate. I watched in sheer awe as the gentleman ahead of me in line (the roll guy) took his steak swiftly to the salad bar and covered it in ranch dressing. I returned to my seat as we soaked up the atmosphere (which, if you're wondering, was a mix of body odor, old lady perfume, and stale smoke.)

It was like being trapped inside the embodiment of the deadly sin of gluttony. Everywhere you looked, it was just NOM! NOM! NOM! People chowing down on their food mountains. I thought of the Mr. Creosote skit from Monty Python, where Terry Jones in a fat suit eats an entire table of food before dining on an after-dinner mint and promptly exploding. A funny notion, but had it happened in THIS place, I feared that an employee would race to his remains and start yelling, "HEY, ANYBODY WUNT SUM MEAT?"

And it honestly wasn't just this place, either. Before we left Missouri, we stopped at two other restaurants. At one, their french fries were instead "fancy fries." What makes them fancy, I found out, is a pool of melted butter, a pile of parmesan cheese, and what I'd estimate to be 2-3 full cloves of garlic. The kind of garlic that makes your girlfriend say phrases beginning with, "I love you, BUT..." The kind of garlic that leads your girlfriend to build a protective odor wall between the driver and passenger seats. Not once did I get thanked for warding off vampires.

And at the last place we went to? Instead of french fries, they served "funnel fries" -- funnel cake dough cut into french fry shapes, deep fried, sugar-coated, and served with strawberry syrup. For what it's worth (my permanent health?), they were AMAZING. In fact, Missouri might be fat, but they also know a thing or two about good-tasting food. And everywhere I went, the people were so nice it almost made up for their attempts to smother me to death in cholesterol. Missouri, you're my kinda state.

COLUMN: Meteor

Ah, here's to the best laid schemes of mice, men, and nerdy newspaper columnists. Last week, my plan was to enthrall you all today with the rapturous tale of trying to find a decent place to eat in all of Missouri. Clearly, that will have to wait another week. That all happened before we made FIRST CONTACT.

I don't know why our entire newspaper hasn't been devoted to the greatest news story of our lives for the past two weeks. My guess is either a government conspiracy or otherworldly mind-control. But that won't stop THIS intrepid reporter, no siree. Somebody's got to have the guts to speak for the common man, and that someone is me. So here goes.

GREETINGS, EVIL AND MALEVOLENT ALIEN OVERLORDS. ON BEHALF OF THE CITIZENS OF EARTH, WE WELCOME YOU TO THE HEARTLAND OF AMERICA. PLEASE BE GENTLE WITH THE SUBJUGATION OF OUR SPECIES. WE ARE A GOOD PEOPLE. WELL, EXCEPT THAT TOM CRUISE GUY. DO WHAT YOU WILL WITH HIM. WE SUSPECT HE MIGHT NOT BE HUMAN ANYWAYS. PLUS I'M PRETTY SURE HE SAID SOMETHING DEROGATORY ABOUT YO MAMA.

It's no secret that I'm a fairly nerdy guy. As a kid, I slept under the watchful and protective eye of a Star Wars Imperial Battle Cruiser poster over my bed. When I was twelve, I could have explained to you the physics of warp drive technology -- in Klingon. Heck, just the other night I was openly making a complete fool of myself, standing outside on a crowded sidewalk, holding my iPhone to the heavens trying to identify Venus in the night sky with the aid of the Pocket Universe app.

And I'm not ashamed of it. Outer space is neat and magical and weird and the biggest question mark left for mankind to understand. Which is why, on the night of April 14th, when the heavens roared with a sonic boom and the skies lit up with a passing fireball that most of the Midwest could witness, I was outside to capture the entire miraculous event.

Oh wait, I forgot. I'm also the unluckiest person EVER. Which is why, on the night of April 14th, when arguably the coolest astronomical event of our lives was happening outside, I was blind to the whole thing, sitting on my couch with headphones on, playing X-Box. Dear world, you suck.

What I speak of is the purported meteor that streaked low across the Midwest sky the other night, possibly even touching down in southwest Wisconsin. I didn't even know about it until I logged onto Facebook at midnight to see tons of my friends posting updates about it. I've seen my share of meteors, but they're always of the blink-and-you'll-miss-it shooting star variety. If you've seen the police dashcam video of April's meteor, you'll know it was more like a fast moving sun screaming across space and temporarily lighting the town up like it was noon. One of our reporters was covering an outdoor fest down by the river that night. She told me the thing was the size of a Volkswagen and that people were crouching down behind buildings because they assumed it was a bomb. I, meanwhile, was impervious to the whole glorious event.

Or was I? I mean, it seems like "sitting around playing video games" would be just the kind of false memory that the Men in Black would imprint upon the brain of a first-hand witness to the impending alien invasion, no? Look, when it comes to this kinda stuff, I'm pretty much an expert. I know these things because I've seen almost every episode of "The X-Files." And if there's one thing I've learned from carefully studying Agents Mulder and Scully, it's this: If a mysterious event can be explained as either (a) a rare yet wholly plausible natural phenomena, or (b) a carefully orchestrated sinister government conspiracy involving extraterrestrial aliens, massive cover-ups, and countless untold resources of materials and manpower... well, let's just say you never heard Mulder go, "You're right, Scully. I bet it was just a meteor. Let's get some coffee and get home in time for Leno."

Clearly, we were witness to Stage One of the impending alien armada fleet. I mean, come on -- where better for aliens to blend in undetected than southern Wisconsin? The last time I was up there, a guy wearing a cheese helmet tried to sell me turtle jerky and a strange woman approached my girlfriend demanding a tampon. Aliens would fit right in.

Meteor or no, I have seen my fair share of science "fiction" movies. I know what's about to happen, and I know the warning signs. So take heed, Quad Cities, of the following advice:

1. If any of your friends, family, or co-workers start behaving in an odd manner, have a bad day, become suddenly grouchy or become suddenly UN-grouchy, it's probably safe to assume they have been body-snatched and are now pod people. You will probably be next. On the plus side, you may find that you'll be able to scream in new, exciting, and high-pitched ways. If you don't like the way anyone is behaving, you should probably report them to the police but that'll probably be too late. Personally, I'm keeping my eye on that John Marx guy.

2. If you are strolling through southern Wisconsin and see what appears to be a blob of strawberry jelly lying on the ground, do not -- I repeat, do NOT -- poke it with a stick. Just to be on the safe side, you should probably carry around a fire extinguisher and avoid any showings of midnight movies wherever you go.

3. If you see aforementioned blob and all you want to do is mold it into the shape of the Devil's Tower whilst whistling the same 5 note refrain, you should probably just stop and do something else instead. Continued molding of items such as shaving cream and mashed potatoes could result in experiencing a close encounter with innocent-looking Claymation aliens (though am I the only one who fantasized that the minute Richard Dreyfuss entered the craft and the closing credits kicked in, the aliens all grew fangs and tore him apart limb from limb?)

4. If some time passes with no obvious alien invasion, then maybe we've got a cooler scenario on our hands and perhaps some poor Wisconsin farmer found the meteor with a baby inside. And maybe one day that baby will grow up to harness a surplus of super-sweet powers and decide that it'd be best to stay on Earth, wear a cape, and fight crime. But then he'll have to have a day job, so he'll put on a pair of dorky glasses and come work as a reporter for this very paper. Since I already work here, I will naturally become his best friend and sidekick and then one day he'll fly me to the Arctic and I can hang out in the Fortress of Solitude because, come on, that place looks totally rad and who wouldn't want to party it up down there? And then I'll convince Superman to turn it into a dance club and I'll be the super DJ. Wicked.

Then again, I'm pretty sure the aliens have already landed -- I think they were in line with me at a restaurant in Missouri the other day. More on that - I promise you - next week.

COLUMN: Missouri Pt. 1

A column subtitled:

Shane's Manly Tales of Extreme Manliness, Chapter 214.

The other day, an amazing event occurred. My girlfriend and I both had the same day off work. That it also landed on the first official Really Nice Day of 2010 was a double bonus. Plans, if you could call them as such, were hastily made. Two people, one car, a full tank of gas, and no rules whatsoever. It was the inaugural spring aimless drive.

We reached my target destination in no time at all: Nauvoo, IL. Not only is Nauvoo a really cool historical town with loads to see and do, but just south of town, the Great River Road runs directly alongside the Mississippi for a beautiful stretch of ten miles or so. As the sun casts its reflection off the rolling river, it's the perfect opportunity for silent meditation. A moment to be thankful for the inherent good of nature. To cast aside material problems and take stock in what truly matters in life. A moment of pure --

"TURTLES!"

Well, I was thinking more esoterically, sure, but maybe life IS like one big tur --

"TURTLES! TURTLES! STOP!"

I quickly ascertained that my girlfriend had NOT come down with a sudden case of crazy, but you wouldn't know it by the way she was suddenly screaming and flailing at every passing log.

"There's turtles everywhere! Pull over!"

Greeeeat. Twenty bajillion girls on the planet, and of COURSE I pick the one with a previously undisclosed disposition towards hallucinations. Still, I pulled over to appease her, as her eyes had by now lit up Christmas-morning style. I tried to explain to her that she was probably just seeing rocks along the river bank, but she was too busy dragging me by my sleeve to the river's edge. That's when I, too, realized what I was seeing.

Along the shores of the river, every floating log, branch, and debris pile was COVERED in turtles. Big turtles, little turtles, in-between turtles. HUNDREDS upon HUNDREDS of turtles. And they were all just kinda... hangin' out. Chilling in the spring sunshine with their little turtle necks stretched all the way out. I have seen loads of things in my day, but never before had I seen a turtle block party. Amy took tons of pictures while I wondered if there was ever a "Night of the Living Turtles" movie and whether or not this was how it started.

Eventually, we'd scared half the cute things into the water, so we figured we'd get back on the road and let the turtles get back to their turtling. As we went back into roadtrip mode, it was the perfect time to relax, soak up the sun, and coast along in a bliss of nature and relaxation and --

"IIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! IT'S ON MY NECK! IT'S ONNNNN MYYY NEEEEECK!"

I would estimate that it took approximately three tenths of a second for me to spin my head to my right to see exactly why Amy was screaming at full volume. It must be noted that in those three tenths of a second, I created the entire plotline for the remainder of the "Night of the Living Turtles" movie (and it did NOT bode well for us, it must be said.) But I did not see a turtle. Instead, I spun in just enough time to Amy flick something off of her neck and directly onto my shirt. It was black. It was about an inch long. It was MOVING. And now, it was on ME.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! IT WAS ON MY NECK!" shrieked Amy.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! IT'S ON ME!!!!" I shrieked back.

The car, it must be said at this point, somehow miraculously managed to keep driving itself straight. I certainly had nothing to do with this fact. I was too busy taking a hurried glance at the thing CRAWLING UP MY SHIRT.

These are the facts as I now recall them: It had wings, pinchers, fangs, horns, stingers, claws, a gleaming smile, and a clear and discernable taste for human blood. I did what any macho guy would do - I screamed until my girlfriend flicked it off of my shirt and into the abyss of my car.

We got out and looked, but no sign of our insect intruder. It had VANISHED. We got back in the car. Suddenly my whole body started to itch. The mystery bug was anywhere and everywhere. I felt phantom crawls all over my body.

"It must be dead," said Amy reassuringly.

"Or plotting how to best inject its devil poison straight into our jugulars," I replied.

Still, we kept driving. In the bug panic, I had somehow gotten the car into the wrong lane, crossed the river at Keokuk into Iowa, and next thing I knew, we were in Missouri. Worse yet, a few miles into the Show-Me State, the Great River Road turned into Not-So-Great Road Construction, complete with a weird detour that forced us down a country road so small and winding that my GPS at one point indicated that we were driving through a lake.

Finally, the detour spat us out on a highway headed into Hannibal, home of Mark Twain and riverboat culture. Surely there must be a great restaurant to get some dinner, right? (More on this next week.) Let me just merge on over to make the turnoff. Signal, mirrors, blind spot...

And as I turned to check the blind spot, I was nose-to-nose with Harvey the Death Bug, perched on my left shoulder, one evil antennae in the air as if to say, "Whassup, yo?"

Here is where our stories differentiate. What I believe I said was this: "Say, honey, that pesky insect from before is now on my left shoulder. Could you reach around and flick it off while I navigate this turn?"

What Amy believes I said was this: "OMIGOD-IT'S-ONNNN-MEEEE-GETITOFF-GETITOFF-GETITOFF-I'M-GONNA-DIIEEEEEEEEEE!" Perhaps I must've been choked up on my own brute machismo.

I swerved off the road, threw on the brakes, jumped out of the car, and did a manly dance I like to call the Ewww Shuffle while frisking myself more egregiously than any cop show I've ever seen. The truth was ugly. It was gone... again. It was in the car... again.

It wasn't until an hour after dinner that Amy spotted our stowaway friend crawling up the back seat. This time, we had ample and safe opportunity to pull over, take my shoe off, whallop the thing mercilessly, and throw it and the napkin I smooshed it in right out the door. (Yes, Missouri, I littered and I feel horrible about it. But it was clearly life or death at this point.) And I kid you not, as that napkin hit the ground, I saw that evil bug scutter out, smooshed but breathing, dragging itself rapidly towards the car with its one good claw, its eyes still hell-bent on our destruction. I threw the car into gear and peeled out of there like the wind. From a distance, I'm pretty sure it looked totally manly.

COLUMN: Video Games vs. Real Life

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

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

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

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

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

TEN REASONS WHY VIDEO GAMES ARE BETTER THAN REAL LIFE:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLUMN: Meditate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's how it's been going:

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

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

COLUMN: Juggalo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLUMN: a-ha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Secret Column-Writing Backstage Reveal #1

COLUMN: Babysit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"WE LOVE SINGING!"

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

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

"Hey Shane?" said the 6 year old.

"What's up?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"You're the dog! Now BEG!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COLUMN: Gym

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

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

I joined a gym.

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

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

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

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

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

"I just need your encouragement," she said.

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

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

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

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

OOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Call Me the Jim Henson of Hip-Hop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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