COLUMN: Goblins

A couple weeks back, I wrote about the suspension of disbelief, an important skill needed to appreciate nearly all movies or TV shows.

To enjoy "Twilight," you have to buy that it's super romantic when a 17-year-old girl falls for a 104-year-old vampire. The Syfy network's most successful film series requires us to accept the plausibility that mankind's greatest threat is tornados filled with sharks.

Even a simple sitcom like "Friends" forces us to to believe that a self-employed chef and a part-time barista can somehow afford a 1500 sq. ft. apartment in the West Village. Reality often takes a back seat when it comes to being entertained, and I'm usually fine with this. I've sat through ALL SIX Sharknado films, people.

I'm a sucker for paranormal "reality" shows, and that requires some hefty suspension of disbelief. I will watch any show where people are hunting ghosts, searching for UFOs, or finding (or NOT finding) Bigfoot. Our world can occasionally be a boring place, and I like adding the occasional dose of weird to my diet.

Do I buy into all of it? Not really, but I love the idea of ghosts floating around old mansions and alien visitors loitering around in the sky. The existence of Bigfoot sounds ludicrous, but so did the existence of giant vampire squid until we sent a rover to the bottom of the ocean and found one. Anything's possible, I guess.

But the suspension of my disbelief may have met its match with a new series on Youtube called "Hellier." You should binge it pronto.

Hellier follows a group of paranormal investigators who receive a series of e-mails from a frightened individual named David Christie, who claims he and his family have been terrorized regularly by small goblin-like humanoids emerging from an abandoned mineshaft on his rural Kentucky property. The e-mails come complete with some truly creepy photos.

So far, so good. Sure, mine goblins are a bit of a reach, but I'm game. After all, the goblins in Christie's pics look eerily similar to police sketches from one of the most famous UFO cases of the 1950s, where a family in Kentucky claimed to have had a shootout with alien creatures in their backyard. So suddenly these critters aren't just goblins, they're aliens.

But thanks to some tie-ins with the legendary Mothman case, the investigators theorize that they're not EXTRA-terrestrials, but rather ULTRA-terrestrials -- aliens from another DIMENSION. So now I have to believe that goblins are real, aliens are real, and that highly evolved alien goblins from gob-knows-where have mastered inter-dimensional travel in order to creep around the hollers of rural Kentucky. This is starting to be a bit much.

I won't tell you what the team find when they travel to Kentucky, because you should watch the show for yourself.

Okay, that's a lie and a spoiler alert. They travel to Kentucky and find... nothing. So they regroup at their hotel 20 miles away and decide to hold a spirit box session. And this is where they completely lose me.

A "spirit box" is a device popular on ghost hunting shows used to communicate with the afterlife. Basically it's a radio that quickly changes stations and plays mostly static. But as it races through the dial, occasionally you can discern words. The theory is that any ghosts in the vicinity can use their magic spirit juju to talk through the thing. I find this super silly, especially considering most ghost hunting occurs at historic old homes where they're trying to contact dusty old spirits from yesteryear who wouldn't even know what a radio IS, let alone how to become a post-mortem DJ.

So to recap: They're goblins. Alien goblins. Alien goblins from another dimension. And now they're alien goblins from another dimension who are apparently both (a) omniscient enough to know that people 20 miles away are trying to talk to them, and (b) omnipotent enough to talk back through a radio. Yet despite all their superpowers, these dimension-hopping goblin gods can only communicate via single-word responses like "Look!" "Coming!" "You!" "Here!" "Yes!" I call cowpoop on this one, sorry.

In the middle of the session, one of the investigators says, "I don't know if it means anything, but I just had a vivid image of a tin can appear in my head!" And later, when investigating one of these abandoned mines, they find... a TIN CAN! I know, what are the odds, right? Never mind that any clip I've ever seen of old-timey miners usually involves them cooking beans in a tin can over a campfire, and never mind that tin cans last about forever, and never mind that if you Google "abandoned mine," there's a tin can laying around in about 40% of the images. It's a spooky coincidence!

In fact, in the "Mothman Prophecies" book, famed UFOlogist John Keel writes that supernatural bogeymen can come in all shapes and sizes, "from twenty foot tall giants to animated tin cans." (You may gasp now.)

Despite what I consider its utter non-believability, "Hellier" is a great series and you SHOULD binge it. It's shot and paced wonderfully and it's magically creepy. Maybe you can suspend your disbelief long enough for it to make sense. But if you DO buy what they're selling, you might want to clean out your pantry. That can of beans in the back corner might just be an omniscient omnipotent ultra-terrestrial alien goblin. I don't think that's the kind of infestation you can clear up with a can of Raid, especially if the can of Raid is ALSO an omniscient omnipotent ultra-terrestrial alien goblin. 

COLUMN: Bad Day In Peoria

When I was (not) studying at Columnist School (doesn't exist), I learned one thing (nope): Always have a point. Pick a topic, have a perspective, and hopefully be entertaining.

This column, however, has no point. Well, other than maybe, "Hey, today sure sucked." Honestly, I'm just writing for catharsis at this point.

My morning started with a horrifying phone call that the long-time partner of a close friend passed away. She'd been ill for some time, but none of knew how serious it really was. As much as I want to spend this whole column throwing myself a pity party, my thoughts are with him right now. If you're the praying type, please throw in a word or two for my friend Chris.

My thoughts may have been with him, but my body was in the (not) next best place, Peoria. That's because my dad had surgery today on his angry oversized potato of a prostate. The man goes the extra mile in everything he does, up to and including glandular growth. I don't remember the exact details, but the doc said the average human prostate measures 18-20 whatzits (grams? cubits? kilobytes?), but my dad's was clocking in at 81.

So today, he went under the knife (well, technically under the laser) for a process wherein they go in and -- well, honestly, I stopped listening to avoid terminal heebie-jeebies. I nearly missed it all, because I was too busy wandering the halls of OSF St. Francis, trying to figure out where my poor dad was in this magical medical labyrinth.

"Room 2218? Oh, sure. Just go down this hallway, hang a right, take the elevator to 1, go left, then a quick right to Zone 3, take the first left past the bistro, cross the skywalk, take those elevators to 2, hang an immediate right, then a left, then one more right." Presumably then I had to show my passport to the border guard, proceed to Tijuana, do the hokey pokey, turn myself around, and that's what it was all about. Note: When your hospital requires "zones" and has indoor trolleys, perhaps you've expanded enough as a medical center.

That said, everyone at St. Francis couldn't have been nicer and my dad's in good hands. Such good hands, in fact, that I decided to head back to Rock Island before nightfall.

I was ten miles outside of Peoria when I hit it, and I do mean literally. I guess you'd refer to it as a pothole, though it was more like an open-maw pit to Hell. It was under the shade of a bridge and I didn't see it until it was too late. I yelled "SON..." and by the time I reached "A", my tire was fritter-flat and I was skidding to a stop along the shoulder.

My usual first call would have been to the man currently tethered to an IV with a freshly trimmed prostate. Instead, I called roadside assistance. The assistance it provided was to play a looped eight-minute Muzak rendition of Barbra Streisand's "Evergreen." I'm not sure how this was assisting me on this particular roadside, but perhaps it made me focus less on my wrecked car and more on how much I hate that song.

Just as a live human being picked up, I also got a visit from Trooper Kulkowski of the Illinois State Police. "Problems tonight?" he asked at my window.

"VERY flat tire," I replied. "I'm on with roadside assistance now."

"If you've got a spare in the trunk, hang up."

I know. Spare me the lectures (pun intended). I've never changed a tire. When it comes to cars, I know where the gas goes, which pedals to push, and which satellite radio channels are the best to sing along to at top volume. If you want a tire changed, you call my dad. If you want a column about cats, you call me. I play to my strengths.

"Thanks," I said. "You really didn't have to do this."

"Oh, I'm not gonna do it. You're changing the tire. I'll teach you."

Suddenly, waiting for a tow truck didn't sound half bad. At least it sounded half warm. I'm a firm supporter of secondary education, just not when it's along a cold dark roadside. But school was indeed in session, and true to his word, Trooper Kulkowski taught me how to change a tire. Twenty minutes later, I was freezing, filthy, and freaked out, yet strangely accomplished. Is this what it feels like to be my dad? No, I reckon it's a lot more painful to feel like my dad right now. 

Today might have sucked, but I'm still thankful. I made it home in one piece. My dad's prostate did NOT, but that's a good thing. My car will be fine once I hand it over to people far more qualified than myself. I will miss my friend Erin for the rest of my days, but I'm a better person simply for having known her.

Maybe my column DOES have a point. Despite what the wind chills or estimates from auto garages may have us believe, even on our worst nights, the sun WILL come out tomorrow. I hope.

COLUMN: Dog in a Bar

I like to think that I'm a reasonably good person.

Sure, I've used salty language now and then. I've walked across streets in a jay-like fashion. I've cut tags from mattresses with carefree abandon. But if you judge me on a grand scale, I think I'm one of the good guys.

Odd, then, that I spent time last Saturday researching ways to get a disabled person arrested. This may require an explanation.

As regular readers may know, I usually spend my weekends moonlighting in the DJ booths of area nightclubs. Last Saturday, I was grateful to be booked at one of my favorite haunts. It's a laid-back neighborhood bar that I'm proud to be a part of.

Not that they need it, but this bar employs off-duty police to work security on the weekends. But since it's usually just a lovefest, the officers spend much of their shifts loitering around with their friendly neighborhood DJ. Over the years, I've come to know and respect these guys a great deal.

I wouldn't trade jobs for all the money in the world. Never mind the inherent danger of police work. What makes THESE cops special is their patience. If you've ever wanted to see people at their MOST irritating, step into a bar at closing time. I generally like people, but let's be honest: some folks can really try your patience. Give those folks booze and it's a whole new level of annoyance.

These cops have the thankless job of keeping drunken shenanigans to a minimum and making sure everybody has a fun but SAFE night out. Even when patrons are unruly and occasionally intoxicated, I've never seen them treat anyone with disrespect. If problems arise, they quickly defuse the situation and firmly but politely send the bad eggs out and safely on their way to a hangover. I don't think I've witnessed them arrest anyone. But man, last Saturday I was sure hoping for it.

It all started when a customer walked in with a large dog in tow. Well, not so much "in tow" since he took a seat while the dog strolled through the bar barking and sniffing and, well, being a dog.

Since its not every day you see a retriever running roughshod in a bar, the curious canine was drawing a lot of attention. And unless this dog was a service animal, they're not allowed inside. So the officer went up to inquire about the pooch. Now, this guy was on the other end of the bar from me. Inbetween us, I was giving numerous subwoofers a hefty workout. But even in a loud bar with MY well-abused ears, I could still hear the customer start screaming.

"YES IT'S A SERVICE ANIMAL! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO QUESTION ME! I CAN SUE YOU!"

Let's get one thing clear: service animals are amazing. The roles they play assisting members of our community are crucial. Guide dogs help the visually impaired, hearing dogs assist the deaf, psychiatric service animals provide emotional support. There are even specially trained animals to detect allergens in the air. The Americans With Disabilities Act ensures that people with disabilities have the right to be accompanied by service animals pretty much anywhere.

Maybe this was a legit service dog, maybe not. We don't have the right to invade anyone's privacy by asking about their disability or requiring the animal's certification. All you can legally do is ask whether or not the dog is a service animal and what specific tasks it performs. And that's all the officer asked before this guy went ballistic. It became evident REAL quick that he was less interested in a drink than a grand self-righteous confrontation.

Eventually the officer walked back to my half of the bar. The crusading customer decided to follow.

"ARE YOU LOOKING UP THE LAWS? DO YOU REALLY WANT TO GO THERE? LET'S GO THERE. I DARE YOU TO GO THERE!"

What followed was ten minutes of the most unwarranted verbal abuse I've ever heard anyone take, let alone a cop. He called the officer every name in the book. He called him a few names that weren't even IN the book. Backup had to be called, but that just fueled the guy's indignancy even more. I had no idea what tasks his service dog performed, but I started hoping I'd find out if one of them was picking his owner's teeth off the floor.

How do I know so much about the ADA laws? Because cops are patient, but I'm not. While the officers were enduring his torrent of abuse, I was on my phone looking up the laws. None of this involved me, but I was so horrified by this unjust rage-storm that I wanted to find any loophole, exemption, or bent rule that could put him in handcuffs. I have unlimited respect and admiration for anyone who perseveres over a disability, but that shouldn't give you carte blanche to be a jerk.

Eventually the guy tired himself out and he and his poor dog huffed out of the bar. I don't know how the cops kept their cool. He told me later that they could've ticketed the guy for not having visible rabies tags on the animal, and he could have even kicked out the dog for barking at other customers. But because those cops are better human beings than me, they decided it'd be best to let the guy have his soapbox, vent a little, and calm down.

I might be a good person, but those cops are GREAT people.

COLUMN: Bewitched

Dear beloved writer and filmmaker Nora Ephron: We need to talk.

Sorry for my tardiness in contacting you. I've been a little busy writing and DJing and working at a record store and petting my cats and trying super hard not to die in -50 wind chills. Sorry also that I just remembered you died in 2012. That's a bummer.

Your work has played an important part in my life. You wrote the screenplay for "Silkwood," a movie that made at least ONE 12-year-old so terrified of nuclear power plants that he cried when he found out his class was taking a field trip to Cordova. You wrote "When Harry Met Sally," a film that comforted me with the knowledge that unlikeable dorks like Billy Crystal can land Meg Ryans with just a little charm and the perfect meet-cute.

You made one of the most iconic romantic comedies of all time, "Sleepless in Seattle." Then you made it AGAIN and called it "You've Got Mail." You created "Julie & Julia," which temporarily made me think I could fix all my problems if I could successfully prepare boeuf bourguignon (Spoiler: it could not, and I could not.) I adore nearly all of your films, Nora -- except one.

I love good movies -- but I might just love BAD movies even more. There's truly something magical about films that miss the mark SO wide they become brilliant in their awfulness. I can sing along to "Ishtar" and "Xanadu." I've forced my friends to suffer through "Manos: Hands of Fate" and "Troll 2" more times than I can count. If someone told me I could only watch a handful of movies for the rest of my life, I guarantee Tommy Wiseau's "The Room" would be in that hand.

But if I had to pick the worst film I've ever seen? Nora, I'm afraid the answer might be "Bewitched."

The year was 2005. That was the summer of my life's one and so far only great solo adventure. On little more than a whim and a few days off, I packed the car and drove to Dallas. It was a great trip, except for the trek back. My initial idea was to make it to Kansas City and grab a hotel room for the night. But when I hit K.C., I decided to keep driving.

At some point, I made a pact with myself that if I made it all the way home, I'd use the extra day to relax and treat myself to a movie. It was fifteen solid hours in the car, but I did it. And true to my word, the next day I took myself to see the film adaptation of the TV show "Bewitched." It remains, to this day, the only movie I've ever walked out of.

So why bring this up NOW, fourteen years later? Because it was on cable and I just gave it another shot. I wondered if maybe I was too hard on the flick the first time I saw it. After all, I was road-weary and exhausted. Maybe I was just in a mood? Nope. Sorry, Nora, but it's terrible. And not in a good way. It only took five minutes for me to remember.

Movies require the ability to suspend disbelief. You can't enjoy Harry Potter without accepting that parents willingly send their children to a magic school rife with life-threatening danger. You can't enjoy Star Wars without accepting a distant world where bad guys can build planet-sized spaceships yet fight one another with laser sticks. But in FIVE minutes, "Bewitched" killed ALL my disbelief.

In the film, Nicole Kidman plays Isobel, an unknown actress cast as the lead in a reboot of the beloved "Bewitched" TV series. But what no one knows is that Isobel really IS a witch! Sounds cute, right? But the movie opens with Isobel househunting in Los Angeles. She sees a place that she likes, so she twitches her nose and suddenly a "For Rent" sign appears in the yard. With another twitch, an "Open House Today" sign shows up and a realtor leaps out to greet her.

I tried to suspend disbelief, I really did. It's magic, right? But I can't help but wonder, WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO THE FAMILY THAT LIVED THERE? With one selfish twitch, did she magically alter some tenant's entire timeline and change their lives forever? Or did she just wipe them out of existence without a second's thought? And where did the realtor come from? Did she just invent a human being?

For the rest of the movie, we see her attempt to relate to muggles and woo her narcissistic co-star. But why should this be a problem? We've already proven that she's omnipotent, omniscient, and perhaps even capable of murder. Couldn't she just twitch her nose and make ANYONE fall in love with her? Or just invent a boyfriend out of thin air like her realtor?

This isn't magical. It isn't fantasy. It's just stupid. And the first time, I was smart enough to walk out BEFORE Will Ferrell's character had some unexplained fever dream where he's visited by the super funny Steve Carell doing a super UNfunny Paul Lynde impression. It's just a trainwreck, Nora. I'm sorry.

Still, I love your other films. Thanks for making them. I wish you weren't dead. I wish we could've consulted on this. Maybe one day we can. If I ever make it to the top of the Empire State Building, meet me there as a ghost and we'll work on a re-reboot. You've got to admit, THAT would make an awesome movie.

COLUMN: Alexa Spying

In today's evolving tech world, we're more connected to one another than ever before. Thanks to social media, we can share our lives, our likes, and our feelings at any time with basically anyone we've ever known -- including Britney Spears, who strangely follows me on Twitter. I'm sure she cares about my life a great deal.

We're often guilty of OVER-sharing. I can hop on Facebook right this second and learn what three of my friends ate for dinner tonight. I bet I can find over 100 photographs of snow posted in the last day. I can watch home movies of families I barely know. I can see the President discuss "hamberders," then witness a dozen of my friends supporting him and 200 of my friends hating his guts. People share EVERYTHING on social media.

But as we move more and more from a world where "sharing is caring" to a world of "I don't care, I'm gonna share," we also seem to be growing overly preoccupied with privacy. This seems to run contrary to the whole concept of social media.

Don't get me wrong -- security in the internet age is important. I had a credit card stolen online once, and it sucked. Thankfully it was caught early when some idiot used it at a Best Buy in Indiana and my bank called right away to report suspicious activity. Online security is paramount.

But what I DON'T get are people worried that the massive companies of the internet are spying on them for nefarious purposes. You hear the accusations all the time: Your Amazon Echo listens to your conversations. Google is tracking what sites you visit. Facebook wants to own all your content and the only way to stop them is to publically post "Dear Facebook, you may not own all of my content. Sincerely, me." Come on, people.

Look, I have no idea whether or not internet giants are spying on us. I also don't care. It would take a massive boost of self-importance for me to believe that any billion-dollar company cares the slightest about me. I suppose we're entering a grey area that could pave the way to a Big Brotherish dystopian future, but for now, if Mark Zuckerberg wants some pictures of my cats, he's welcome to them. If Jeff Bezos wants to eavesdrop on my friends and I making fun of "Riverdale," he can tune right in. If I wanted my content private, I wouldn't have posted it to social media in the first place.

And yes, Google DOES track what websites you visit. They use it to deliver relevant offers to your screen. It's called targeted advertising. I go to a lot of music sites, so I get a lot of music-related ads. I'm cool with that. If I have to be subjected to constant promotions, I'd rather it be something I care about and not "Hey, Shane, stop leaks before they happen! Use Tampax!" 

I'm generally okay with a moderate amount of corporate Big Brother snooping on me. But sometimes it CAN get annoying.

My cable box, for instance, allows me to watch videos on Youtube. The other night, I got suckered into checking out some clip promising "Undeniable Proof That UFO's Exist!" Spoiler: It didn't. In fact, it put me right to sleep. But whilst I slumbered, Youtube kept on playing hours and hours of the most nutbag videos imaginable. And now every time I turn on Youtube, it recommends videos to me like, "HILLARY CLINTON CONTROLS THE REPTILIAN LIZARD ILLUMINATI!" Youtube now thinks I'm a basement-dwelling conspiracy theory lunatic. Awesome.

But the most disconcerting example of technology gone amok may have happened to me the other morning. I have to share this story, as embarassing as it is. I was watching a show on Netflix that featured a super cute and funny actress who I thought I recognized from somewhere, so I decided to pause the show and Google her to see what other shows she'd been on.

And yes, I'm fully aware that it's borderline skeevy to do an internet search for an actress young enough to be my daughter, but I'm a pop culture nerd, so don't judge me. And you don't HAVE to judge me, because my Amazon Echo took care of that for you. Keep in mind I'm by myself, the show is paused, there's dead silence in the house except for me typing on this very laptop, when out of NOWHERE, Alexa's voice comes booming out of my Amazon Echo: "THE WORD 'UNJUST' REFERS TO AN ACT THAT IS CONSIDERED MORALLY OR ETHICALLY WRONG." Like possibly researching an actress half my age. I was waiting for Alexa to start ringing a bell and yelling "SHAME!" like Game of Thrones.

I think it was just a random error. I hope it was just a random error. Or maybe somewhere Jeff Bezos and Mark Zuckerberg are deeply concerned about the alien-obsessed pervert in Illinois who checks the iTunes music charts five times a day. Who's to say? All I know is that for now, I'm okay being observed by corporate America. After all, if my bank hadn't been monitoring my account Big Brother-style, that jerkwad who stole my credit card could be cleaning out Best Buys across Indiana on my dime as we speak.

Frankly, there are better things to worry about -- like this week's episode of "Riverdale." DON'T JUDGE ME, ALEXA.

COLUMN: Cleats

I don't want to sound morose or anything, but it's a simple fact of life that each of us has a finite number of minutes on this planet. Mine seem to be allocated thusly: For 30% of my earthly minutes, I'm sound asleep. 10% I spend eating. Another 30% I spend in this office staring at a computer screen. And whatever remains are mostly minutes spent worrying about whether I'm going to slip and fall on the ice.

This week, I'm celebrating five years since a routine trip to take out my kitchen trash turned into a broken ankle and an unplanned six week staycation on my couch. As I was walking my trash to the curb that night, I didn't notice the trail of frozen water draining from the gutter of my garage. I'm guessing my ankle didn't see it coming, either.

Once upon a time, I loved sliding around on the ice, building snow forts, and pouring water down sled trails to make them good and icy. If I fell? Big whoop. Laugh a little, pick yourself up, and fall down all over again. I don't have perfect recall, but I'm pretty sure that falling down used to be FUN.

These days, however? Not so fun. If I slip even the slightest fraction of an inch on any ice, all I can picture is my ankle snapping like a twig, which is interesting given that I didn't even witness it snap like a twig five years ago. The view at the time was somewhat obstructed by my butt landing on it. Have you ever been so mad at someone that you've wanted to shove a foot up their...? Well, DON'T. I am proof positive that IT COULD BREAK YOUR FOOT.

If there's even the slightest glimmer of ice on the ground, trust me to find it and almost die. So now I'm pretty much terrified of the outdoors, and the only thing worse than an uncoordinated klutz is a PARANOID uncoordinated klutz.

So my heart dropped last week when I woke up and heard a weatherman issue my least favorite words in all of meterology: BLACK ICE. Black ice is the scientific term for ice that is evil, malicious, and black-hearted. It's ice that HIDES and pretends to be pavement. It's ice that keeps the LifeAlert people in business: "HELP! I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP!"

But not for me. This year, I was prepped and ready for the blackest of ice. When I went home for the holidays this year, my parents gifted me a pair of stretch-on cleats. Simply attach to the bottom of your shoes, and if any black ice comes between you and the ground, your cleats impale it with extreme prejudice, the evil menace is thwarted, and you continue about your merry way in an upright fashion.

Perhaps stretch-on cleats are nothing new to you. Maybe they've always been for sale at all the places normal people go who aren't weirdo shut-ins that buy everything online. For me, this was new terrain. Despite my macho physique and athletic prowess, I am shockingly inexperienced at cleat-ing. Maybe that's why I was surprised when I took them out of the bag.

I think I have an average shoe size. Yet based on what fell out of the "one size fits all" bag, I either have freakish Sasquatch feet or my folks bought the children's model. There's no possible way these could fit a normal adult human foot, is there?

Well, it turns out they ARE one-size-fits-all, provided you have the dexterity and virility to stretch them around your shoes. I suppose the sort of people who frequently wear cleats are the sort of people with the necessary arm strength to implement them. As for me, it took a five minute workout to stretch the things in place. At one point, one of them flew off my foot like a deranged slingshot, nearly using up one of my cats' nine lives.

Eventually I got them on, stomped to the car with the confidence of anyone wearing metal needles on their feet, and headed to work resuming my daily autopilot routine. This involves the morning ritual of stopping for coffee and a pre-work snack. Remember when I said I'd never worn cleats before? I have to restate this, because it's the only explanation I can offer as to why I just strolled right into the gas station with cleats still attached to my feet.

I guess my mental powers at 8:15 a.m. were not enough to realize that tile floors are every bit as susceptible to cleat punctures as black ice. Don't worry, though, I didn't actually get the chance to aerate their floor. That's because the gas station had laid out cardboard to alleviate customers tracking in snow ick. I took one step and PUK-THWAP PUK-THWAP, my cleats went clean through the soggy cardboard which was now attached to my shoes and I went surfing down the aisle like a one-man cardboard regatta. My fear of breaking an ankle was instantly replaced by a fear of doing the splits headfirst into the Slurpee machine. I don't speak punjabi, but I'm pretty sure I could still catch the drift of what the clerk thought of my performance.

Soooo if you happened into a gas station and bore witness to the world's worst breakdance routine followed by a sheepish solo sock hop, many apologies. It turns out there ARE worse things than falling down. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take these spikes off my shoes, pretend this never happened, and hide in a corner until spring.   

COLUMN: Britpop

As far as parents go, I pretty much lucked out and got the best ones on the planet. As a spoiled only child, my folks were fairly over-protective of me, but that never applied much when it came to my exposure to pop culture. Within reasonable boundaries, I was pretty much allowed to watch and listen to whatever TV or music I fancied.

I can only recall three times when my parents tried to censor the music I grew up listening to. I remember them coming home from a PTA meeting saying I shouldn't listen to Blondie because they glamorized drug use, but then I caught my mom humming "Call Me" days later. My folks are both proud veterans, so they REALLY hated Paul Hardcastle's "19," the early electronic song that sampled news clips from the Vietnam War. They went so far as to ban it from the house, which of course meant that I procured it within 24 hours and would secretly play it over and over again, because if your parents hate something, it HAS to be awesome.

And I can distinctly remember my mom recoiling in disgust the first time she heard David Gilmour belt "we don't need no education" over the FM dial. Honestly, that time I mostly agreed with her. Of course, I was too young to realize that I was listening to a small fragment of a conceptual masterpiece exploring the themes of abuse, abandonment, and isolationism. I just thought it was a guy named Pink Floyd who hated school, as evidenced by his poor grammatical choices.

I disagreed with Mr. Floyd. I was one of those weirdo kids who kinda liked school. I've always enjoyed learning things, or at least the things that interest me. Sadly, the things that interest me the most are usually TV, movies, and music -- topics that aren't always a priority in higher education. I loved my time at Augustana, but I'd get jealous whenever I'd read about some school offering a class on Twin Peaks or Madonna or some other cultural zeitgeist. I'd love to take a college class on pop culture. The only thing better would be TEACHING one of those classes.

I'm about to get a taste of just that.

Don't get me wrong, I'd make a lousy teacher. I'm not a very patient person, and I'd freak out the first time some know-it-all student dared question my great authority. Plus, I have a near-crippling fear of public speaking, so I'd be sweating through my shirt by recess.

I have no desire to be a teacher. But it might be fun to be one for an hour.

Every month, the Bettendorf Public Library hosts an event called "Trax from the Stax." On the third Thursday of the month, they invite a presenter to host a music listening party with the goal of exposing folks to music they might not be familiar with. This month, that presenter is ME. I'm pretty sure I'm qualified, considering I host music listening parties for my cats nearly EVERY night.

It's actually not my first time in this particular hot seat. I dusted off my first Stax of Trax about a year ago. Apart from a few stammers and a possessed laptop computer, it went fairly well. I was nervous as all get out, but hopefully I unveiled some new music to a few people, which I'm pretty sure is my real purpose on Earth. Getting somebody to like one of my fave bands is worth every sweat-soaked shirt and stammer it takes.

This one, though, should be fun. You see, before a certain newspaper strangely agreed to let me write about nonsense every week, I used to co-manage a music blog created to unite weirdo fans of obscure music like me. And it just happened to coincide with an interesting time in pop music.

In the mid-90s, the dour phenomenon of grunge rock was taking over the world. But in England, a handful of rebellious bands came together to reclaim the UK airwaves with a sound that was anything BUT grunge. Armed with the influence of vintage English rock of yore, they created a revolution that was unashamedly upbeat, audaciously anti-cool, and uniquely and unapologetically British. The press dubbed the movement "Britpop," and for a fleeting moment, it was the most exciting music in the world -- except the U.S., where much of the scene went completely unnoticed.

So if you're up for hearing some banging tunes and Cockney accents, come to the Bettendorf Public Library this Thursday, January 17th, at 7 p.m. in the Norman J. Kelinson Room. At best, you might fall in love with some great bands you've never heard of. At worst, you can point and laugh at a sweaty stammering newspaper columnist.

I'm sure my folks are proud. My mom would probably be prouder if I was lecturing about Barbra Streisand, but that's her fault for letting me listen to GOOD music when I was a kid.

COLUMN: Dips

(Not the real dip. The real dip looked far more vomity.)

Well, that's it. Farewell, holiday season. We'll see you again come mid-September when we as a nation again begin the three-month shopping orgy of Thanksmasoween.

The lights are down, the halls have been un-decked, and the Lifetime channel has gone from movies where handsome men teach the real meaning of Christmas back to movies where handsome men are double-life-leading rapists who prey upon your teenage daughters. All that's left now are the memories.

With loads of free time around the holidays, I wasted more than a few hours binge-watching shows stacking up in my Netflix and Hulu queues. But what to choose? When you're single at Christmas, watching sappy romances can cause a needless pity party. And I don't care what Andy Williams says, the most wonderful time of the year seems like a bad time for scary ghost stories. Instead, I settled for my mounting queue of cooking competition shows.

I know nothing about cooking. I can make about twelve different entrees competently, and I'm okay with that. I can bake chicken and fish, boil pasta, work a grill, and I'm quite skilled at adding Helper to hamburger. Beyond that, I'm contentedly inept.

The chefs on TV, on the other hand, are anything but inept. The stuff they make is less food and more edible art. They use ingredients I've never heard of before. They use cooking techniques I've never heard of before. Everyone "sous vides" everything. I don't even know what sous vide is. I just had to look up how to spell sous vide. I don't think it's something you can do in a microwave.

Still, I enjoy watching these chefs make magic out of a pantry. But there's a downside. Those shows make everything look TOO easy. Easy enough for a stupid part of my brain to go, "Well, that doesn't look TOO hard. Maybe I CAN cook." For the record, I cannot -- but shows like this occasionally make me forget. And the false confidence I took from this binge-watching session was JUST in time for my annual New Year's Eve party.

Don't be alarmed, I'm still a realist. It's not like I tried to serve my friends bouef bourguignon or something. But rather than the usual chips-n-salsa cuisine that usually awaits my party guests, I thought I'd try some dip recipes I pulled off the internet. How tough can dips be, right? Throw some stuff in a bowl, stir it up, and presto: delicious goop. I felt confident. Some of you might have even seen me pushing a cart through Hy-Vee with a metric ton of cream cheese.

The first recipe I thought I'd try was some decadent goop called Monster Cookie Dip that's a can't-lose combination of cream cheese, peanut butter, and loads of sugar and chocolate. The recipe says, and I quote: "In a mixing bowl, add ingredients and blend with electric mixer until light and fluffy." Or, in my case, until your electric mixer gets stuck, makes a noise like "grooooonk," and starts puffing out a cloud of noxious black smoke.

But I was determined to not let one tiny near-fire ruin my new year, so I moved on. Next was a meatless taco dip as a token offering to my one vegetarian friend. This seemed to go fine until the part where you have to dice up onions and jalopenos. I hate onions, and jalopenos straight up terrify me. I can't even look at one without hearing my mom warn, "DON'T TOUCH YOUR EYE!" Which of course made my eyes immediately start itching. "WEAR GLOVES!" said my inner mom, who probably instead should have said "BUY GLOVES!" because I lost mine years ago. But if you've ever wondered if it's possible to quickly de-seed a jalopeno while wearing winter mittens, I can now provide a definitive answer: No.

I decided the best course of action to avoid blindness would be to chuck the onions and peppers into an electric chopping product I own that shall remain nameless, except that it looks like a bullet and may or may not be magic. With mitten hands, I carefully loaded the bullet, pressed down, and just like magic, it moved most of the contents to the side walls while turning a very small amount into a toxic onion-jalopeno death-pulp, which I carefully deposited in the crock pot and said a small prayer. I apologized for the dip prior to anyone touching it. People said it was good, but based on the amount of leftovers, they lied. I now have a full container of the stuff in my freezer for that future day when I get a hankering for a really lousy taco dip.

I sought redemption in an easy queso dip with only three ingredients: sausage, cheese, and tomatoes. The quick assembly boosted my confidence, and I poured the mixture into the crock pot with the pride of accomplishment. Then I looked to the left and saw the crock pot. I had instead just poured hot cheese and sausage directly into the heating element. Somewhere I could hear the voice of Padma Lakshmi going, "Shane, please pack your knives and go."

I am no Top Chef. But despite my best efforts, the party went off without anyone getting burned, electrocuted, or pepper-eyed. Maybe by the time I drag out the holiday decorations again, I'll be a MasterChef -- just remind me not to WATCH MasterChef right before New Year's.

COLUMN: Best of 2018 - TV

In true nerd fashion, the end of my year is always spent making lists and arguing with friends over the best pop culture moments of the past twelve months. Last week, it was tough to even find ten albums worth mentioning. This week, I'm listing my picks for the best TV shows of the year. This, it turns out, was equally as hard, but only because SO MUCH great television came out in 2018 that it's near impossible to narrow the list down to ten. Here goes nothing.

#10 - Big Mouth (Netflix) - This crass animated adult series from Netflix follows the changing bodies and adolescent woes of a pubescent pack of middle-schoolers, and it's one of the funniest things you'll ever see. With voice talent from Nick Kroll, John Mulaney, Maya Rudolph, and some of the biggest names in comedy, "Big Mouth" throws SO many rapid-fire jokes at you that it's probably unhealthy to binge more than an episode or two in a row. 

#9 - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (The CW) - Cheers to the CW for keeping this low-rated, critically-acclaimed musical comedy afloat for four seasons. As we approach the series' final episodes, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend isn't pulling ANY punches. Envelope-pushing, rule-breaking humor still runs amok, but the show's heart and emotional sincerity still shines through. The only crime is that Rachel Bloom hasn't won an Emmy for being the most awesome person on TV.

#8 - Survivor: David vs. Goliath (CBS) - Survivor was a fun show that ushered in the age of reality TV -- for about two seasons until we all got super sick of it. Now astonishly on its 37th season, the show somehow managed to assemble its best group of castaways in years. Backstabbing, scheming, and blindsides were EVERYWHERE this year, and the result was arguably the show's most entertaining season to date. Was it skilled casting or just dumb luck? Who knows, but it sure was a fun ride.

#7 - Everything Sucks! (Netflix) - The only thing that really sucks is that Netflix gave up and cancelled this fantastic coming-of-age series after just one season of awkward adolescence and unlimited charm. It now joins "Freaks and Geeks," "Firefly," and "My So-Called Life" in the annals of shows pulled WAY too early.

#6 - Life In Pieces (CBS) - The most consistently funny sitcom on television still hasn't found the wide audience it deserves, but thankfully CBS hasn't given up on it. Despite starting as an obvious clone of ABC's "Modern Family," "Life in Pieces" quickly surpassed it in quality, originality, and laughs. Thomas Sadoski and Zoe Lister-Jones are the funniest actors you don't know by name, trust me. The new season starts soon, don't miss out on this fragile gem.

#5 - Riverdale (The CW) - You either love "Riverdale" or you hate it. I'm all in, as the show loosely based on the Archie comics takes campy melodrama to the next level. Don't believe me? This season, Archie's in a prison fight club after being wrongfully convicted of murder. Betty's being given psychotropic drugs by an order of evil nuns. Veronica's opened a casino speakeasy in the basement of Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe, and Jughead's busy running the local biker gang. All this while the town falls prey to an evil knock-off of Dungeons & Dragons that twists the minds of those who play. The Riverdale writer's room must be amazing.

#4 - Barry (HBO) - It was a sad day when the amazingly talented Bill Hader left "Saturday Night Live," but it was worth it for his star turn in "Barry," a show that single-handedly reinstilled my faith in the struggling HBO. Hader plays the title role, a hitman who follows one of his marks into an acting class and discovers his love for theater. It sounds like an SNL bit, but with smart writing, unique characters, and nonstop existential crises, "Barry" is a darkly comedic treat.

#3 - The Haunting of Hill House (Netflix) - Finally, a spooky TV series that hits the right marks. Shirley Jackson's 1959 novel has been adapted umpteen times, but this one sets aside most of the jump-n-scare moments in favor of an unsettling character study of a family trapped by grief... and ghosts. It's compelling, creepy, and occasionally terrifying -- and the scariest part is when you realize you've wasted an entire day binge-watching the whole season at once.

#2 - The Good Place (NBC) - In this amazing era of ground-breaking, risk-taking, go-for-broke television, I never thought the most daring and unconventional show would be found on primetime NBC. Following the antics of four recently deceased strangers trying to earn access to heaven, "The Good Place" is a Philosophy 101 class reborn as a sitcom. You'll laugh 'til you're sick -- but you'll do it while learning about Immanuel Kant. If my old philosophy instructor had been half this funny, I might have remembered something from his class.

#1 - The Flash (The CW) - These days, all you have to do is stick a superhero into a movie to make a billion dollars at the box office. TV execs aren't dumb, and they've been trying every which way to cash in on the craze. Some (like the Marvel shows on Netflix) end up too dark and gloomy for a wide audience. Others (like the CW's Supergirl) feel like afterschool-special morality plays draped in a cape. But "The Flash" gets the recipe just right. It's funny without being hammy, dramatic without being dour. Its heroes face devastating challenges with courage and heart, and good always prevails over evil. Great TV shows don't always have to be works of art. Sometimes they just have to be the ones you look most forward to watching every week. If you're missing "The Flash," you're missing the most entertaining show on TV, period.

And that's a wrap on 2018, folks! Forget those old acquaintances, bust out the noisemakers, have a wonderful New Year, and if I can pry myself away from the TV, I'll see you in 2019.
 

COLUMN: Best of 2018 - Music

Let's just admit it: 2018 was a lousy year for music. Many of our best artists were in-between records, while others put out career-defining letdowns. This year's charts were ruled by mumble-rappers, one-hit wonders, and watered-down commercial pop/rock. The indie scene was chock full of bands pushing musical boundaries but forgetting they still need to write some decent tunes along the way. Yet despite my disappointment, a handful of artists managed to release some truly incredible music this year. Here are my picks for the ten must-hear albums of 2018:

#10 - Carla J Easton - Impossible Stuff - Some songwriters suffer from an innate likability, and that's always worked to the advantage of troubadour Carla Easton. Whether on her own or with her band Teen Canteen, Easton's always had a knack for turning heartbreak and doubt into contagious singalongs. This record, the first released under her own name, is an indiepop fan's dream menu of killer hooks, exuberant confidence, and a proud Scottish brogue.

 

#9 - Post Malone - Beerbongs and Bentleys - If I'm being 100% honest with myself, this has to make my list. Music critics are supposed to hate Post Malone, as he really IS the living embodiment of homogenized mass appeal pop music. I fully understand all the reasons I'm supposed to despise him, but his stupid songs are just too catchy to write off. Once I figure out how to stop playing this record in my car, I'll try really hard to hate it, promise.

#8 - Juliana Hatfield - Juliana Hatfield Sings Olivia Newton-John - Who'd have thunk that one of indie rock's most beguiling chanteuses owes it all to a pop icon? When word got out that Hatfield was recording an album of Olivia Newton-John covers, I expected it to be a tongue-in-cheek wink to 1970s cheesiness. Surprisingly, it ended up a heartfelt tribute to a long-admired hero and breathes new life into some forgotten old school gems.



#7 - Brockhampton - Iridescence - If Brockhampton keep this up, they might actually become the "world's best boyband" they've always claimed to be. A loose collective of rappers, singers, and producers who met on a Kanye West fansite and moved to L.A. with little money and big dreams, Brockhampton's DIY approach to recording and performing has made them one of hip-hop's most exciting and versatile new acts. Even after losing a key member to allegations of sexual misconduct, they still managed to put out a cohesive, fun, emotional record that breaks boundaries and gives hope to every bedroom rapper alive.




#6 - Schizo Fun Addict - El Shoegaze Bossa Nova - Leo D'Onofrio has made a career out of being an internet provocateur. Over the years, he's been a mouthpiece for the birther movement, claimed the moon landings were hoaxed, and even wrote an online opus asserting that the lyrics of The Stone Roses herald the return of the Messiah. But when he's not busy pushing people's buttons, he makes music. GOOD music. His latest project is a fascinating and purposeful melange of tropical rhythms and hazy guitars, like if Pink Floyd got trapped in a studio but all they had for drums were the pre-programmed Latin loops of a cheap Casio keyboard. It's odd as heck, but it REALLY works. 



#5 - Robyn - Honey - It's been a long time since Swedish teen-pop starlet Robyn reinvented herself as the reigning queen of electropop. For her first album in 4 years, she's veered away from brash beats in favor of a warmer, more minimal groove. This lets the songs shine bright, as she chronologically walks us (nay, DANCES us) through the recent split and eventual reconciliation with her fiance. It's a song cycle for the ages AND the dancefloor. There's no bigger force in pop music right now.



#4 - Father John Misty - God's Favorite Customer - It annoys me how much I love this record. Singer/songwriter Josh Tillman's self-importance often climbs from big to bigger to Kanye on the ego scale, and his records are often self-absorbed odes to himself. But they're also genius. No one writes about Josh Tillman like Josh Tillman can, and his confessionals pour out like James Taylor, Elton John, and Billy Joel in a blender of magic and wit. If I was at a party and Tillman walked in, I'd probably leave. But then I'd probably listen to his record all the way home.



#3 - The 1975 - A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships - It's easy to dismiss The 1975. On the surface, they're pretty much the British version of Maroon 5 -- faceless dorky musicians with a pretty-boy frontman who make easy-on-the-ears suburban soul music that your mom would probably enjoy. But hiding behind that pop sheen is nothing less than a modern treatise on technology and the human condition, heartache and longing, addiction and recovery. It's more Radiohead than Maroon 5, just with fewer guitar squawks and evil robot voices. It's the smartest pop record you'll hear all year.



#2 - Janelle Monae - Dirty Computer - No one may ever be worthy enough to climb the stairs and sit on the funky throne that Prince built, but Janelle Monae sure comes close. It's rumored that the Purple One had an uncredited hand in Dirty Computer before his untimely death, and it wouldn't surprise me. With guests ranging from Grimes and Pharrell to Stevie Wonder and Beach Boy Brian Wilson, Monae has created a funk symphony of tolerance, empowerment, pride, acceptance, and love. The world could use more records like this.


#1 - Let's Eat Grandma - I'm All Ears - Two years ago, teenage best friends Jenny Hollingsworth and Rosa Walton stepped out of their bedrooms with a homemade record that took all the trappings of pop music and shook it up like a psychedelic snow globe. Two years later, they've returned with a more professional follow-up that's more polished but no less inhibited. Listening is akin to peering into a secret world of in-jokes and knowing glances - if the girls from "Beautiful Creatures" made music, it would sound like this. Leaping from somber psyche sludge to purified pop at a breakneck schizophrenic pace, the duo capture exactly what it's like to be a teen: Everything is amazing, little things are big deals, and no one wants to follow the rules. For the second time, Let's Eat Grandma have earned my Album of the Year accolade -- and they're STILL teenagers. Let's hope it never stops.

If you give ANY of these records a quick spin, my job is done. NEXT WEEK: A look at the year's best TV offerings.

COLUMN: 12 Days

Last week, I had the pleasure of attending "Seasons of Light," Augustana's annual Christmas program presented at the John Deere Planetarium. The multimedia show used the planetarium's projector, astronomical images, music and narration to explain how holiday traditions are connected to the sky. It was a short but charming presentation, and I even managed to learn a thing or two.

Primarily, I learned that I want a planetarium. There's nothing I love more than stargazing, but whenever I get the itch, it's either overcast or I'm somewhere rife with light pollution. If I can't see the real universe, why not build a fake one in my spare bedroom? Anyone have a how-to guide?

I also learned that some constellations are just silly. "See that dim star right there?" (No? Maybe?) "Connect it to those other dim stars over there, and... it's a unicorn!" Umm... no. It's vague dots in the (fake) sky that I could barely see. I look more like a unicorn than those dots did. I'm starting to think whoever invented some of these constellations was a bored stoner who showed up at the planetarium on the wrong night for laser Pink Floyd.

But I also learned a cool thing or two about our holiday traditions.

As you're probably aware, the Bible never tells us the actual date of Jesus' birth. At some point, early Christians just settled on December 25th as the day of celebration. This was likely due to its proximity to the winter solstice, a period of rebirth already celebrated by ancient people whenever the magic heat circle in the sky stops heading south for the winter.

But as it turns out, December 25th wasn't a unanimous choice. Some Eastern sects preferred to celebrate Christmas Day in early January instead. The compromise between the differing dates became what we know today as the twelve days of Christmas -- a nearly two week celebration extending from Christmas Day to the western ecclesiastical Feast of Epiphany.

This was news to me, because I had always assumed that the "12 Days of Christmas" began twelve days PRIOR to Christmas, culminating on Christmas Day. But no, it BEGINS on Christmas and extends for 12 days after. This means the actual "twelfth day of Christmas" would be the fifth of January -- otherwise known as MY BIRTHDAY. On the twelfth day of Christmas, your true love brought to you: ME! Ta-da!

I can't help but feel a little ripped off here. I've gotten some amazing, thoughtful, and heartfelt birthday gifts over the years. But here I am, the living embodiment of the twelfth day of Christmas, and I have yet to receive even one drummer drumming. I'm about to turn 48. The way I see it, somebody owes me 576 drum solos.

Or maybe not, because "The 12 Days of Christmas" is the weirdest of all Christmas tunes.

"Honey, as you know, you are my true love and I yours. And as an expression of our timeless and eternal romance, I give unto you... a bird. In a tree."
"Umm... thanks, but..."
"BUT WAIT! To prove my unending infatuation, tomorrow I shall give you two more birds! And the day after? THREE more birds!"
"What the..."
"Ah, but the day after THAT? To celebrate our true love, I shall give you -- yes, you guessed it -- four more birds, but THESE birds will be EXTRA NOISY!"
"I don't think..."
"Then, on Day 5, you shall receive FIVE GOLDEN RINGS!"
"Okay, wait, now we're talking."
"Yes, five golden rings... which you should wear as protection a couple days later when I give you seven aggressively mean birds!"
"Stop it. Just stop it."
"But that's only after Day 6, when I shall give you six birds laying eggs to make ADDITIONAL birds!"
"So the best way to express your love for me is with 23+ birds?"
"Oh, that's just the start. On the next day, I shall present you with... eight maids a-milking!"
"A-milking WHAT, exactly?"
"Well... I suppose that's yet to be determined. I kind of ran out of ideas after all the birds. The next 4 days, I'm just going to fill the house with a bunch of strangers who are gonna dance and leap around to a wicked flute-and-drum jam session."
"Roger, we need to talk."

And if you take the song literally, it's even crazier. On the first day, you get a partridge in a pear tree. But on the second day, it's two turtle doves AND a partridge in a pear tree. Does that mean by day twelve, the true love ends up with a literal partridge family, not to mention 42 ill-tempered swans, 30 leaping lords, and forty maids a-milking everything in sight? At some point, you have to start worrying about the structural integrity of their home.

If you math out the entire song, that would make 364 total gifts, a present for every single day of the year, save one. I can only presume that on the 365th day of Christmas, some unfortunate soul's true love would give to them a visit by the ASPCA and perhaps Homeland Security and quite possibly a felony charge of trading in exotic animals and human trafficking.

Just so all of you know, on the first day of Christmas AND the 17,520th day of Shane, I'd be fine with a gift certificate. After all, I've got a planetarium to build.

COLUMN: The White Album

Being an audiophile is one of my life's great joys. But I never thought my love for music would lead me to an evening of maudlin rumination on the passage of time. Yet here we are. I blame John Lennon.

I've been a music junkie my entire life. It may have started before my life even technically began -- my mom's convinced she fostered my audiophilia by putting headphones on her womb while I was a captive audience. I don't know if it was the prenatal catalyst for a lifetime of music geekery, but I guarantee fetal Shane was grateful for the wall of amniotic fluid separating me from the greatest hits of Barbra Streisand.

As a music nerd, I'm obligated to stay on top of the newest trends in audio tech. Vinyl albums begat 8-tracks which begat cassettes which begat CDs and now we're back around to snobby purists swearing that vinyl's always been the best. Transistor radios gave way to Walkmen, Discmen, iPods, and now our crazy world where I just walk around my living room and say, "Alexa, play [any song that's ever been recorded in the history of time ever]" and it just magically DOES.

I still get excited to check out new releases every week, but oftentimes I get even MORE excited to see my favorites from yesteryear getting remastered, refurbished, and re-released. This surely must be due to my natural enthusiasm for sound clarity and certainly NOT the fact that I'm becoming an old curmudgeon who just doesn't "get" today's music. At least that's what I keep trying to tell myself.

In today's streaming music era of low sales and diminished returns, record labels put a lot of faith into remastered and repackaged classics. Take an old record with an already huge fanbase, send in some engineers to clean up the sound, add a few rare tracks, and saps like me are bound to re-buy it.

Some are well worth the investment. But a lot of so-called "remasters" are nothing but cash grabs where someone just took the original recording and cranked up the volume for today's laptop culture. I felt some misgiving when I learned that a newly remastered 50th anniverary edition of the Beatles' "White Album" was heading for stores.

The Beatles discography is well worth owning. But how many times can it possibly be remastered? They did it once when their catalog first came out on CD. In 2009, a team of Abbey Road engineers remastered them again in what was supposed to be the definitive editions. So why do we now need Giles Martin, son of original Beatles producer George Martin, to remaster The White Album AGAIN? Don't get me wrong, I bought it -- but I wasn't expecting much. Boy, was I wrong.

Time will tell if this remaster will become the new gold standard of Beatles releases, but it sure is different. Rather than past attempts where the engineers remained as faithful as possible to the original production, Giles pretty much tossed his dad's work out the window and started over from scratch, taking the band's original recordings and mixing them to today's standards. The result is a White Album that sounds insanely modern.

Take "Dear Prudence" for example. Gone are the psychedelic reverberating vocals that instantly date the record to 1968. Instead, you hear John Lennon's voice raw, powerful, and up front. I was listening in the car and it sounded like he was there in the passenger seat. It's a production triumph and a must-own, although it's kinda weird to lose the vintage quality that defined their sound.

I never really appreciated The Beatles until I got to high school and found a clique of friends with an affinity for their parents' record collections. This was 1985, and even back then, the Beatles already sounded like a magical relic from a time long past. It was (and still is) great music, but to my 14-year-old ears, it was already an antique.

This got me thinking tonight. There was only a gap of 15-20 years between The Beatles and high school me. When today's high schoolers hear music from 1994, does it sound just as ancient as the Beatles seemed to me? Do today's kids think N'Sync and Nirvana sound like musty antiques? Will those kids be buying Justin Bieber remasters someday?

Pop culture moves FAST. Some of you might be able to remember a time before rock music even existed. Give or take, only 20 years separates Glenn Miller from Elvis, the Beatles from Devo, Pearl Jam from Cardi B. In my relatively short time, I've lived through disco, new wave, grunge, boy bands, and mumble rap.

If music can evolve THAT fast, who KNOWS what the future will be? I used to have a go-to joke that our Top 40 chart in twenty years will be nothing more than people screaming obscenities over recordings of power tools. Well, have you heard dubstep or listened to "Gucci Gang"? We're pretty much there already.

Will I ever give up entirely on new music? Or in 20 years will I be listening to the 70th anniversary "White Album" re-re-re-remaster, wherein holographic Paul McCartney WILL be sitting in my passenger seat singing Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da while advising me on the best route to work? I have no idea what musical future awaits us, but I'm all ears.

COLUMN: Winter Storm Bruce

Once upon a time, I really liked winter.

I used to proudly tell anyone within earshot that winter was my absolute favorite time of the year. It has SO much going for it. There's no oppressive heat or humidity. There's no bugs, bees, snakes, or any of that gross nature stuff. Everything's white and crisp. Sometimes everything is SO white and SO crisp that they cancel school. Sledding is crazy fun. Mom makes you cocoa. You get PRESENTS. Winter is amazing!

Then a few things happened:

(1) I stopped being 8.

(2) I got a car and quickly discovered that it's no fun at all to drive on the white crisp stuff.

(3) I bought a house and quickly discovered that it's no fun at all to shovel the white crisp stuff.

(4) I fell and broke my ankle a few years back and now I'm TERRIFIED of the white crisp stuff.

It didn't take long for me to go from a winter lover to a full-on grinch who now walks across icy sidewalks with the gingerly gait of someone twice my age, absolutely convinced that I'm seconds away from faceplanting and re-snapping my ankle like a twig. Winter winds now make me feel like I can't breathe. Snowstorms bring closed schools but NEVER a closed workplace. I realized I can make myself cocoa any time for any reason. Adult winters are way less magical than 8-year-old winters.

I hate dealing with snowstorms, but it doesn't stop me from being fascinated by them. When I was a kid, there was a time when all I really wanted in life was to be a weatherman. Whenever storms roll through, I still fight the urge to run outside and be in the middle of it all. Could there possibly be any job cooler than keeping tabs on tornados and blizzards and floods?

But then I discovered that meteorology ends in -ology, and that means science, and science means math, and math is my nemesis. There's a whole lot of non-exciting number-crunching in weather forecasting. You need to know how air pressure and jetstreams operate. You need to be able to read sheets of raw data and figure out if the piles of numbers before you means it's going to rain or not. There's a whole lot more to meteorology than announcing temperatures, making a wise-crack, and throwing it to Chuck on the sports desk. Plus you have to wear a tie. Yuck.

Instead, I've become an armchair meteorology enthusiast. I don't ever want the burden of having to interpret data, but I love watching that burden fall on others. If there's storms a-brewin', you can usually count on me to have active radar maps and at least 3 different forecasts pulled up. So when good ol' Winter Storm Bruce (yep, that was its official name) came rolling through last week, I may have been at a DJ gig Saturday night, but I was glued to my phone and giving weather updates to anyone who cared (okay, pretty much no-one but me cared.)

What I learned from my amateur Bruce-watch is that, despite advanced technology and near-instant streaming communications, weather forecasting is still a high-tech guessing game. All the sources I deferred to agreed that SOMEPLACE was about to get a lot of snow, but no-one knew exactly where.

The biggest meteorology nerd I know is former QC weather-sage Terry Swails, who's now in Cedar Rapids but still runs a blog that keeps tabs on our area. Whenever there's even a whisper of snow for our area, Terry's job is to terrify us with a never-ending parade of charts, models, and forecasts that make even small storms sound like the apocalypse. Terry Swails is basically my spirit animal.

As I stood there spinning records and checking my phone every five minutes, Terry kept uploading various models of Winter Storm Bruce from NAM, HRRR, GFS, and other equally impessive initials. And just during that one gig, those models had QC snow predictions anywhere from 1.0" to 21.9", which is basically a range between "you won't even notice it" and "we'll find your body come spring." I tend to gravitate towards the worst option, so I spent the night watching people gyrate to Justin Bieber wondering if they would survive the next day's 22" snowmageddon.

So thank you, Terry and your wonderful world of meterological terror, for allowing me to experience 13.8" of snow while thinking, "Man, we really lucked out." Terrify us more often and maybe winter won't seem so bad.

On a completely different note, I'm just nerdy enough to have kept track, and I'm proud and amazed to point out this is my 700th weekly column in these pages, a milestone I never dreamed of achieving. I just wanted to give a hearty thanks to all the editors who gave me a shot, had my back, and let me be silly for an occupation. Thanks to my family and friends for inspiration, adventure, and laughs beyond measure. But mostly, I give thanks to the Quad Cities and all of you in them. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, not even when there's 13.8" of fresh white crisp ankle-breaking nonsense on the ground.

COLUMN: Grief

Grief sucks.

Yes, I know. Insightful, eloquent, and original postulations like this are why they pay me the big bucks. (And maybe one day I'll get that check as soon as I figure out who "they" are and how I might be able to invoice them.)

But it's the truth. We've all spent the past week being thankful for life and the lives that surround, inspire, and nurture us. But part of appreciating life is the knowledge that we've all got expiration dates. And perhaps the only thing worse than death impacting our lives is when it impacts the lives of those we care about.

Over the past month, one of my close friends lost her mother and another lost his sister. And that -- well, that sucks. All you want to do is give them a hug and say just the right thing to make everything all better, but those words don't really exist or honestly even matter at times like this. Instead, all you can do is be there with a shoulder to cry on and as much strength, comfort, and support as you can muster.

I'm no expert in grief, but I know it can take many forms. There's no "right" way to grieve, and everyone handles loss in their own way. Its just that, in the world of social media, we now get to witness it a lot more often. Just today, I read an article about a woman who had recently lost her fiancee in a motorcycle accident. Rather than cancel her wedding photos, the grieving woman instead donned her wedding dress and posed for happy wedding pics -- solo. With some digital magic, the photographer then added semi-transparent images of her late fiancee to basically make it look like she was happily posing with a ghost.

I'll be completely honest with you guys -- it kinda creeped me out, and I made a snarky Facebook post about it. But then my friends checked me and put me in my place a little bit, and I'm glad they did. The photos might seem a bit macabre, but I also can't imagine the trauma of being in the midst of wedding planning and envisioning a future that's suddenly snatched away.

It's not the kind of souvenir I'd want on MY mantelpiece, but I've never been in this woman's shoes. If completing a set of wedding photos helps her grieve, so be it. It might seem weird, but grief IS weird. It's a complicated and insanely personal thing to bear.

I recently watched a special series of the show "Expedition Unknown" that was focused on the afterlife -- where we go when we die and how different cultures handle death, and it was fascinating. In one episode, they traveled to a remote part of Indonesia and spotlighted a tribe who live alongside their dead. When a family member passes, they mummify the remains and just leave them in the house for any number of years. The deceased are talked to daily, given meals, and treated like living family.

To them, it's just tradition. To us, it's the sort of thing that gets you locked away. One culture's normal can be another's Norman Bates. That same Indonesian tribe might find OUR burial customs just as weird as we find theirs. In that same tribe, after some time has passed, their deceased are finally removed from the home and given a funeral procession that puts the "fun" in funereal. It's basically a week-long party, and wouldn't that be the BEST way to go?

I mean, I don't particularly want my friends to think, "Finally. He's dead. Let's party!" But I don't want people blubbering over me, either. I want people to think of me, laugh, and tell stupid stories. And if there's any legacy I stand a chance of leaving, it's a cornucopia of stupid stories. I want to be remembered with a smile more than a tear.

And that is why, I beg of you people, in the event of my untimely demise, I openly encourage all of you to Photoshop ridiculous images of me into ANY AND ALL photos you'd like to post on the internet. I want my semi-transparent ghost to haunt the walls, halls, and superhighways of social media for all time.

There's a kajillion ugly photos of me out there, so use any you choose. Taking selfies at a nightclub? Stick me in the background with a serious DJ face, like I'm busily soundtracking your life from my afterlife. I never do a thing athletic in life, but it's never too late to start. So if someone captures you running a marathon, put my face on one of the other runners. Heck, put me on ALL the other runners and make it look like you're being chased by an army of ghost Shanes. Bonus points if you figure out a way to set it to "Unchained Melody."

I could become your new relationship litmus test. After all, what better a conversation starter than, "Who? Oh, HIM? That's the dead guy I put in ALL my photos. It's a long story." If the person doesn't run away screaming, they're a keeper.

At the end of the day, we're all on this marble together -- which unfortunately means we all get to leave it at some point, too. If you experience loss, don't be afraid to grieve as weird as you want, because it's a weird process. Don't hesitate to lean on your friends, and let them lean on YOU when they need it. Death might suck, but life always wins - and for that, I'm thankful.

COLUMN: Red Dead

My life is full of sacrifices. I hope you people are happy.

As a beloved and cherished local columnist and celebrity-about-town, there are certain responsibilities I must bear to my vast and ever-growing fanbase. I guess it's just the burden I have to carry for being so goshdarn loveable and awesome.

For instance: As some of you may be aware, two weeks ago the most anticipated video game of the year came out: Red Dead Redemption 2. Normally, a mature and professional writer such as myself wouldn't dream of wasting time on something so foolish and frivolous.

But what of my fans? Sure, I might be too evolved and sophisticated for such a childish pursuit, but some of you might be wondering about "Red Dead Redemption 2" and naturally you'd turn to a cultural superior such as myself for opinions.

Okay, fine. Because you people demand it, I'll waste countless hours playing a new video game. These are the sacrifices I make for my fans.

Honestly, though, I don't know if I'm the best person out there to judge a game like RDR2. I've NEVER been a fan of the Old West. I've never made it through a western without changing the channel, not even the one I'm named after. Some people romanticize the Old West as a grand historical period in our nation. To me, it just looks smelly and filthy and gross. I prefer Hyundais to horses. I am most definitely a city slicker.

Except for the past week, when I have been Arthur Morgan, cowboy outlaw with a heart of gold. Or Arthur Morgan, the cowboy outlaw who shoots his friends in the head for no reason. You can play Arthur any way you want, unless what you want is to drive a car, sit in air conditioning, or NOT kill people.

I know little about life in the Old West, but thanks to a week of Red Dead Redemption-ing, I've gained some important knowledge, such as:

- Horses are apparently a lot easier to tame than I thought. All I did was hop on a horse and ride it down a mountain when suddenly the game went "Ding! You and your horse have achieved level 1 bonding. He will now come when you whistle." This is pretty cool. My car never comes when I whistle. If I can figure out how to install a subwoofer on this horse, it just might be a keeper.

- Is it bad that I'm jealous at how Arthur Morgan can grow facial hair faster than me? There's spots in the game where you can shave, but not me. I want to see if I can make my Arthur eventually look like an refugee from ZZ Top.

- Surviving the horrific wounds of gun violence is MUCH easier if you maintain a liberal supply of baked beans on your person. Just last night, I was out jauntily robbing a train -- you know, like you do -- when I was suddenly ambushed by them pesky no-good O'Driscoll boys. I barely had time to draw my revolver when BAM! I'm hit in the shoulder and good as dead. No worries, though. I simply reached into my pocket mid-gunplay and chugged down a can of baked beans with my one good arm. Suddenly I was right as rain and would live to cyber-fight another day. Chia seeds and kale are for chumps. Pork 'n' beans are my superfood. 

Red Dead Redemption is being hailed for its detailed renderings and realistic gameplay. But there may be a such a thing as TOO realistic.

I had barely made it through the tutorial when some cowboy yelled, "C'mon Arthur, let's go hunt some deer!" The game lets you choose from various replies, but sadly none of them were, "No thanks, deer are cute. Pass the baked beans." Instead, within minutes, I found myself crouching through snow sneaking up on some poor innocent virtual deer I'd rather not virtually kill.

No worries, I thought. It's just a video game, right? I'll shoot the deer and it'll disappear, make some happy little ding noise, and probably say something like "FOOD +1." No big deal. I grabbed my bow, aimed, and fired. Ding?

Nope. Instead, I was greeted by the ungodly screech of a wounded animal and my cowboy friend going, "Aww, Arthur, it wasn't a kill shot!" And then the game makes you follow the BLOOD TRAIL and the DYING SCREECHES OF AGONY until you find the wounded deer and put it out of it's cyber-misery and now I'm pretty sure I need therapy. From there, it's just a matter of picking up the carcass, carrying it to my horse (I forgot to whistle,) and transporting it back to camp.

Impressively life-like? Yes. Moderately traumatic and emotionally scarring? You betcha. But I manned up and made it back to camp. And that is the precise moment when, hand to God, the game goes, "PRESS (X) TO SKIN YOUR DEER." Annnnd now I might be a vegetarian. Thanks, Red Dead Redemption 2. 

Bambi-murdering aside, it's a fantastic game. I've only scratched the surface, but I plan on playing a lot more -- you know, for the benefit of you guys. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go do some research on the pros and cons on sitting on the couch, eating Twizzlers, and watching Jimmy Fallon. In case you people ever need my input on it.

Sacrifice, thy name is Shane.

COLUMN: Post Malone

This is going to be a difficult column to write.

Wait, that sounded ominous. That's the kind of intro you use when you're quitting or if there's some horrible secret from your past about to be revealed. This is NOT the case (I hope.) No, this will be a difficult column because I'm about to come to the defense of someone I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to hate.

Ever since my parents presented me with a second-hand record player at probably too young an age, I've been a music junkie. I have no talent to make music, but it turns out I'm fairly gifted at listening to it. Over the years, my collection has grown from big to really-big to I-clearly-have-a-problem to hmm-time-for-a-bigger-house.

Some people get on the internet to argue about politics. I'm usually there to argue about music. My favorite t-shirt says "Your Favorite Band Sucks." My second favorite says "I listen to bands that don't even exist yet." I proudly grew up on a diet of artists like The Smiths who once pleaded for us to "hang the blessed DJs, because the music they constantly play says nothing to me about my life."

For years, I've revelled in critical attacks of bands that dumb down the musical landscape, from the despicable bro-rock of Limp Bizkit to the faux earnestness of Creed and the steaming pile of mediocrity that is Nickelback. But many critics have now set their sights on a new target -- and for once, I'm not jumping on the hate train.

In fact, I may just be a fan of Post Malone.

If you don't know 23-year-old Austin Post, then your kids probably do. Both his albums sit towards the top of the Billboard charts, and the rapper/singer's been selling out shows around the globe. His fanbase is as huge as the disdain of his critics. Last week, the Washington Post ran a claws-out piece that called him a "rhinestone cowboy who looks like he crawled out of a primordial swamp of nacho cheese," and that's about as nice as it gets.

The arguments against Post Malone go something like this:

(1) Post Malone has nothing to say. This is absolutely true. The guy had a #1 hit this year with a song about a new watch and how shiny it is (seriously.) Most of his songs are about cars and jewelry and girls -- in other words, he's just like all the other artists on the Top 40. Not every musician needs to be Radiohead or U2 and make some grand statement about the human condition with every release. There are times I want to hear challenging music that questions our world, but there are other times when the only question I want answered from my car stereo is who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp.

(2) Post Malone songs are nothing but one hook repeated over and over. This is also true -- and kind of amazing. The average Post Malone song reduces the verses to a quick whisper that just gets you to the hook without delay. But here's the thing: by and large, they're GREAT hooks that get stuck in your head for DAYS whether you want them there or not.

(3) Post Malone isn't very talented. I don't even think Post would argue this. Part of his appeal is that he's an average dork who made it big. He doesn't look like a pop superstar. He looks like any of the dudes I used to play Dungeons & Dragons with. He's an everyman with an okay voice who makes decent songs and spends his success on stupid stuff like cars and ill-advised face tattoos. There are worse crimes.

(4) Post Malone is a culture vulture. The thinking here is that a dorky white guy from the Texas suburbs has no business making hip-hop. That's just kind of unfair. I've always thought of music as a cultural uniter, not a divider. He's not pretending to reinvent rap music, and I've never seen him dishonor the origins of hip-hop. Pop music has a time-honored tradition of thieving from various cultures (do you really think the Beach Boys hung out on the beach?) Maybe he'll expand to other genres in the future. Maybe he won't even have a successful future and THIS right now is his fifteen minutes of fame. Who knows?

Music aside, it's hard to hate on Post Malone because he seems like a genuinely nice guy. Critics rip him and he laughs it off. Instead, he goes on talk shows and takes Jimmy Fallon to lunch at Olive Garden. He's a funny dude, and it's nice to have a chart-topping artist who really seems to be enjoying his moment without any pretense.

So yeah, I'm going to neglect my duties as an elitist music snob and give Post Malone a pass -- which is fine because it gives me more time to hate on Nickelback. Maybe you disagree and can't stand Post Malone. If that's the case, look on the bright side: One of the fastest ways to become uncool is to have random middle-aged newspaper columnists gush over how cool you are.

Sorry, Post.