COLUMN: COVID

I've been accused before of being set in my ways -- that I live my life too much by routine, that I'm afraid to try new things and unwilling to accept change.

Pshaw, I say to that. I am both hip and happening. I can roll with the changes like any thriving modernist. Just to prove it, a couple weeks ago, I decided I'd finally be trendy and participate in the latest fad. Yep, I figured it was high time to finally experience this COVID-19 thing everyone's been talking about -- and I've gotta say, having given it the ol' college try, I'm not a fan.

After two years of masking, vaxxing, distancing, dodging, and weaving, COVID finally caught me. Bleh. I was starting to think I was some kind of immune superhero. I've read a couple articles where scientists are starting to wonder if certain people are genetically immune to COVID, and I may have started to get a little cocky assuming I was one of the chosen ones. No such luck. I'm a regular schlub.

A couple weeks ago, I was leaving work on a Tuesday evening and thought, "I feel a little off." Well, it went from "a little off" to "uh oh" in less than two hours. It's supposed to take up to fifteen minutes for the results to appear on one of those home COVID tests, but it was more like fifteen SECONDS before the Positivity-Line-o'-Doom appeared on mine. Yuck.

It's two weeks later, and I'm effectively all good, though I'm still waiting to regain my sense of smell or taste. I have terrible allergies, so my nose is barely functional on a good day. But losing the ability to taste is weird and annoying. I just ate a watermelon jellybean, and it may as well have been a piece of plastic for all I could register. 

I wasn't especially prepared for sudden quarantine, so I spent most of the time raiding my freezer remnants for some back-shelf sustenance. Once upon a whim, I purchased a box of weird-looking frozen turkey burgers that have stuffing and herbs baked inside. You know, the kind of thing that could either be delicious or disgusting. Over the past two weeks, I've eaten that entire box -- and the jury's still out. They might be amazing and they might be unfathomably gross. I honestly have no idea. All I know is that I'll likely associate turkey burgers with illness for the rest of my days.

Still, I feel pretty lucky that I seem to have come out the other side okay. I felt like poo for a few days, but it never really evolved beyond nasty upper respiratory cooties, and I'm thankful for that. It wasn't fun to feel my heart beating through my sinuses, or to go through three boxes of Kleenex in three days, but in the grand scheme of things, it could've been WAY worse.

I barely took any time off and ended up working remotely through most of it -- it was actually better to distract myself than wallow in snotty self-pity. Thankfully, I could handle most everything over e-mail, because trust me -- no one wanted to be on the other end of a phone call with the COVID Goblin from Planet Phlegm. One afternoon, I went to yell at my cat after she knocked over the trash, but the voice that came out of my throat was better suited for a revival of "The Exorcist." Hand to God, I didn't see that cat again for a day and a half.

The CDC says if you don't have a fever, you only need to quarantine for five days. I opted for ten. The only thing worse than getting COVID is the potential of giving it to someone else, and I took no chances. I tested positive on a Tuesday. The Saturday prior, a good friend of mine had called because her car had broken down and she needed a ride. On Sunday, another friend called because HIS car had broken down. I dropped what I was doing that weekend to give both of them lifts. I could only pray that I didn't give them something much worse.

It turns out I likely DID infect my Saturday friend, or maybe she infected ME, because she tested positive two days after I did. Thankfully, her case was mostly asymptomatic and her worst symptom was having to listen to me apologize eleventy different times. All other friends and co-workers escaped unscathed from the gift that keeps on giving, so hopefully I can keep "professional super-spreader" off my resume.

I'll spare any lectures, because I'm as sick of them as you are. But COVID is clearly still a thing and I'm continuing to be cautious. I'll still be working every day and doing my side hustle DJing on the weekends. But I'll also probably be the ONE dude in the club still wearing a mask that you snicker at. I'm cool with it. I don't want these cooties again. This is one gift exchange I never signed up for. Use good judgement, stay safe, and be considerate of others. Mild case or bad case, you don't want this.

Trust me, you don't want to NOT know what turkey burgers taste like.

COLUMN: Dispatch

How's that saying go? "You can never go home again." Pshaw.

I can go home any old time I want to. My parents would LOVE it if I went home again. I don't know if my mom has so much as nudged a knick-knack in the past twenty years. I can go home just fine. I just can't seem to go back to WORK again.

My first ever job was (surprise) DJing at a teen dance club in my hometown of Galesburg. That dance club is now a parking lot. I worked for years at the Top 40 radion station in Galesburg, whose studios were in the basement of a downtown shopping mall. Not only does the station no longer exist, but I think that whole mall might now be shuttered. The office job I once held is now an empty room in an abandoned downtown building.

I'm all for progress and advancement and the dawn of a new future yada yada, but I hate having a front row seat to watch my favorite memories literally turn to dust.

That's why I winced when I got a shocking photo message this week from a former co-worker -- they're tearing down the old Dispatch building in downtown Moline.

Well, truth be told, we don't know exactly WHAT they're doing to it. The new owners are thus far keeping plans close to the vest. I've heard they may retain most of the main structure, but I can tell you with grim certainty that our old distribution center and our less-than-old warehouse area are now rubble. Whatever the future might hold for that spot, I guarantee it won't resemble the building I worked in for over 20 years.

As a structure, it wasn't especially lovable. It didn't have a magical vibe or an ambience worth remembering for generations. From an architectural standpoint, it was borderline insane. Newspapers and printing presses are especially strange beasts not given to form or flow, and it certainly showed. Over the years, a hodge-podge of various expansions and renovations had turned the place into a Franken-building of nooks, crannies, and a layout that made no coherent sense to anyone but newspaper people. 

When I first started at the Dispatch in 1994, I seldom wandered around the place -- I was too afraid of getting lost. I knew how to get to my desk, how to get to the break room, and that was about it. If you wandered down some hallway you didn't know, you might end up running into a room full of ink, press operators covered in ink, or rolls of paper so big Indiana Jones would be quaking in his boots.

When customers at our front counter would ask to use the restroom, we'd usually say no -- only because they'd need a map, a compass, and a minor in cartography just to find one. "Sure, it's just through the little gate here, hang a hard right, then jog another right at the copy machine and go through the door. When you see the stairs, take a right, then an immediate left. Then another left, a quick right, and it's the first door to your right. If you end up in a room full of what appear to be angry accountants, you missed a turn. If you end up at a giant scale, you've gone too far. If the floor starts shaking, it's just the press firing up. Here's my cell phone number if you get lost." Seriously.

Once, I was training a new co-worker on her first day. "I'll be right back," she said after a couple hours. "I need to go move my car." WE NEVER SAW HER AGAIN. The official explanation was that she must have picked a lousy way to flee from a job that wasn't for her. I'm convinced she's still there wandering the halls to this day, trying to find her way back. They say on moonless nights, you can still hear her ghostly pleas: "Excuse me, how do I get to the classified advertising department?"   

Also, our building had alarmingly few windows. Inside, you lost all sense of time, direction, AND weather. On every floor by the elevator, there was a single inauspicious light bulb jutting out of the wall. "What's the point of that?" I asked naively as a new hire. "Oh, it's the rain light," I was told casually. If the weather outside was bad, the folks in customer service would turn those lights on to let us all know to bundle up if we were headed outdoors.

Our building never pretended to be an architectural marvel. It could somehow be simultaneously both hot AND drafty. Mice would occasionally run across my desk -- one absconded with a Hershey's Kiss I'd just unwrapped. I once witnessed it rain in a stairwell. EVERYONE had at least one trapped-in-the-elevator story. 

Still, it's hard to believe that weird old building might soon be unrecognizable, because the ghosts of its former occupants will haunt my heart forever. Its where some of the best and worst memories of my life happened. It's where I met some of my dearest friends. Its the halls where legends like Russ Scott, Brian Nelson, Marla Angelo, and Laura Fraembs once tread.  

Times change, and so does the landscape around us. The downtowns we see today won't look anything like the downtowns a hundred years from now, and that's okay. Here's hoping the Quad Citians of the future will still be lucky enough to have a building somewhere full of hard-working weirdos providing daily news, information, and advertising. And I hope those weirdos don't forget to check the rain light before they head out without a coat.     

COLUMN: Momo

Well, once again mass media appears to be missing the juiciest news of the day.

Sure, there's the Jan. 6 hearings, and the whole Supreme Court striking down Roe v. Wade thing. And OK, there's crippling inflation, soaring gas prices, and a plague of gun violence. And, yeah, can't forget about the actual plague and its eleventy new variants.

But, shockingly, nowhere in the top stories of the day can I find one single solitary mention of Bigfoot. It's a good thing you people have me around.

Yes, it's time for another Midwest cryptid alert. Well, not so much an alert as it is a celebration. This week marks an important anniversary that I knew absolutely nothing about until I just read about it. It's the 50th anniversary of the Mo Mo Monster!

It was this week in 1972 that a Bigfoot-like creature was seen terrorizing the residents of Louisiana, Missouri. No, that's a not a typo, and it's not two states. It's the town of Louisiana in the state of Missouri. Already this story makes a ton of sense.

Until today, I had no idea that Louisiana, Missouri existed, but it does — and in fact, it's along the Mississippi River just a few big-feet south of Hannibal. That means if the Mo Mo Monster got itself a rental car, it could be here in a matter of hours, people. I grew up thinking Yetis and Sasquatches were fantastical creatures roaming mythical mountaintops half the world away. Compared to Tibet, the Mo-Mo Monster is essentially in our backyard.

In July of 1972, several townspeople in Louisiana reported seeing Mo Mo atop what's now known as Star Hill. I looked up Star Hill on Google Maps, and it's a fairly believable claim. It has all the makings of a perfect Bigfoot habitat: There are trees, there's underbrush — and, yep, there's a trailer court. This is classic Bigfoot country if I've ever seen it.

Reportedly, the monster was tall, covered in dark fur, and emitted an awful smell. Some said they saw it holding the body of a dead animal in its hands (or paws or hooves or whatever Mo-Mos have.) After numerous townsfolk claimed to have witnessed the beast that night, several additional sightings and/or smellings were reported over the following week — enough for the local sheriff to mount a 20-man search party that revealed little more than a footprint of unknown origin and some disturbed grass.

I've watched enough episodes of "Finding Bigfoot" to know that disturbed grass combined with a footprint can only mean one possible thing: There's a 'Squatch in them hills.

On the grand scale of Midwest cryptids, I give Mo Mo a B-. The majority of the sightings happened 50 years ago, so even if Mo Mo was real, there's a chance he's long since gone to cryptid heaven, or at the very least, made his way to a far cooler locale than the Mississippi River valley. And he's not especially interesting when compared to other Midwest cryptids, like Iowa's Van Meter Visitor. I devoted a column to the Visitor last year, and that's my kind of monster. It's a flying bird-like creature that emits a blinding light from its head, and early reports had it flying off with full-size adult horses in its mouth. Nothing against Mo Mo, but if I had to pick a favorite between an upright dog that walks around with roadkill or a horse-eating dragon that shoots laser beams, I'm Team Van Meter Visitor all the way.

The town of Louisiana has had a love-hate relationship with Mo Mo. After the sighting, cryptid enthusiasts flocked to the small town to soak up the lore and try to catch a glimpse of their furry friend. For a time, the local Dairy Queen sold Momoburgers — presumably not made from actual Mo Mos. But others, like the schoolteacher who claims she knows the students who hoaxed the original sighting — have tried to rain on Mo Mo's parade.

Still, there are some convinced that the Mo Mo Monster is fully real and roaming around the countryside to this day. One of them is Doris Bliss, who was 15 years old when she saw Mo Mo back in 1972.

"I used to hate talking about it, because people made fun of me and stuff," she told a reporter for the Quincy Herald-Whig 10 years ago, "but now —  and you can pardon my French — they can kiss my ass. I saw what I saw, and I heard what I heard."

Fair enough, Doris. And this year, the townsfolk of Louisiana, Missouri, are embracing their cryptid pal: This October, the town's annual fall festival has been renamed the Show Me Mo Mo Fest. I know where I'm aimlessly driving to this fall. I'm sure the burgers will be momolicious. 

COLUMN: Fireworks Suck

What I'm about to say comes with full awareness that I may be about to break one of my cardinal rules of column-writing: Never say anything that makes you sound like an old fuddy-duddy.

I don't care. It's story time.

It was Sunday night (well, technically, 2:15 a.m. Monday morning,) and I'd just made it home from a long, late DJ gig. Exhausted, half delirious, and ready to fall into the nearest available bed, I instead opened the back door of my house to a scene of devastation. Broken glass was everywhere. Debris was strewn about. Ceramic figurines lay shattered on the floor.

Without saying a word, I gingerly set down my gear, quietly backed out of the house, locked myself in the garage, and pulled out my phone to call 911.

"That's weird," I thought in a panic. "My security alarm never went off."

I opened the security app on my phone. My system was still live. None of the door or window alarms had been triggered, and the motion detectors hadn't sensed anything other than me coming home just now. WHAT WAS HAPPENING?

Cautiously, with my finger hovering over the button that would trigger emergency responders, I crept back into the house. A quick inspection proved that while the inside of the house looked thoroughly ransacked, the doors and windows were locked tight. That's when I realized what had happened.

No one had broken in. My house had been ransacked, alright -- by fireworks.

This holiday is officially ridiculous. Fireworks aren't even legal in Illinois, and yet every year, Rock Island turns into an Independence Day warzone. THIS year, the neighbors went so hogwild that their amateur pyrotechnics sent nearly every picture frame in my house crashing to the floor. It bounced knick-knacks off my shelves and even toppled my kitchen trashcan.

I was awake until 4:30 a.m. vacuuming up glass shards. This was NOT on my 4th of July agenda. 

Look, I get it. The 4th of July is a time to celebrate America, and strangely, our preferred method of celebration is launching tiny non-American-made rockets into the sky and watching them explode. It's patriotic, it's a visual spectacle, and I'm fully onboard. Fireworks are fun. 

But over the past few years, it's morphed into something REALLY different. So many people are launching illegal fireworks that it's no longer pretty and no longer fun. It's more like a low-budget war movie. The air runs so thick with gunpowder that Rock Island looks more like the foggy moors of Scotland. Quaint little bottle rockets have been replaced by mortars and explosives that share more with concussion grenades than they do fireworks.

I don't care if this makes me sound like some 90-year-old hermit yelling "get off my lawn!" This is a conversation we shouldn't even be having given that fireworks aren't even legal in Illinois. On my way home that night, I passed two police cars just sitting idly along the street while fireworks were launching from at least a dozen different backyards in my neighborhood alone.

I'm not a no-fun-nik, promise. I've been a DJ for over 25 years. Before that, I was a rave promoter. Disturbing the peace is one of my favorite pastimes. Whenever someone drives by with a booming subwoofer, I'm not annoyed -- I'm jealous. Every weekend, I stand in front of monitor speakers that propel dance beats directly towards my skull at a deliciously unhealthy volume. I'm no stranger to things that are loud -- and perhaps getting my house knocked around by fireworks is penance for my years of service spent damaging the eardrums of the innocent.

But I can say with some certainty, I have never dropped a beat loud enough to challenge the structural integrity of a building, nor have I ever snuck up behind somebody at midnight with a sudden boombox attack. We're proving day by day that basic human decency is a lost cause, but if you're one of those folks hoarding a pyrotechnic arsenal in your garage, maybe stop and think about who lives in the houses next to you. Maybe it's someone with PTSD. Maybe it's a dog scared out of its mind. Maybe it's a chubby DJ with high cholesterol who probably doesn't need adrenaline surges every five minutes.

Fireworks are fun to watch. Our area has great displays. Red White & Boom never disappoints. Matherville puts on a great show. Grand Mound has the best fireworks I've ever seen. What's wrong with kicking back and letting the pros do their thing? Their fireworks are better than yours, plus you stand better odds of surviving the weekend with all your fingers still attached to your hand. Just because you bought some mediocre fireworks doesn't mean I want to see and hear them. I own a mediocre guitar, but I sure don't expect you to attend a mandatory concert in my basement.

The 4th of July is morphing from a celebration of independence to a celebration of scaring the bejeepers out of our neighbors. Let's be honest, the other 364 days of the year are starting to feel scary enough as-is. If preferring to NOT have all my picture frames knocked off the walls and my floors NOT covered in broken glass makes me an old fuddy-duddy, so be it. Get off my lawn, and take your fireworks with you.

Column: Days of our Lives

I've been going home for lunch lately.

I hate a quiet house, so when I walk in the door, I usually flip the TV on straight away -- and when do that at lunchtime, magic awaits. I've been unintentionally timing my lunch to coincide with some of the greatest scripted dialogue ever written, courtesy Earth's guiltiest of pleasures: Days of our Lives. 

These are ACTUAL lines that have come out of my television in the past week:

"If you were shooting people to defend your mother, that's justifiable!"

"I just stopped by to see if you had any new leads on the case... and to bring you some pheasant."

"Kate, did you tell Lucas that Abby knew he was Sami's kidnapper?"

Yes, if you're having a bad day, rest assured that it's nowhere NEAR as bad as the fictional residents of Salem, who can never catch a break. Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives -- except their days don't look anything like the days of MY life, and I'm kinda grateful for that.

No one is immune from the addictive schlock of Days of our Lives. I mocked it relentlessly in college, but I akso WATCHED it relentlessly in college. Back then, it was common to stroll the halls and hear Days blaring from a dozen different dorm rooms. It's a dangerous drug. Date one girl who watches Days and soon YOU'RE watching Days. Next thing you know, you're waiting in line to meet Days star Matthew Ashford at a Rock Island autograph session. Or so I'm told. Cough.

It's been a long time since I've seen this silly show, but I watched, like, fifteen whole minutes today, so I think I'm up to speed.

For the uninitiated, Days is mostly concerned with two families: the Bradys (who are good,) and the DiMeras (who are NOT.) They all live in Salem, a town that appears to consist of five upscale houses, a bar, and a hospital. Everyone is dating everyone else. All the women look elegant and all the men look like Sears catalog models. A vast majority of the population has been murdered or presumed dead at least once. Oh, and occasionally, people get possessed by the devil.

The episode I just watched centered on Victor Kiriakis, who has been one of the reigning bad guys of Days for decades. I'm pretty sure he's about 108 years old now. (In real life, he's portrayed by the legendary John Aniston, dad of Jennifer.) Victor seems either upset or dead, I can't quite tell. 

"I know you're upset," someone says. "The situation is complicated and upsetting. But Victor, we're talking about a baby! A new life!"

"A new life," Victor replies, "that was spawned by a woman who tried to electrocute me in my own bathtub!"

Ahh, THERE's the Days I remember. It isn't Salem if there's not at least one lunatic murderer roaming the streets. But if Victor's a bad guy, perhaps it's a hero lunatic murderer roaming the streets -- an electrocutionist with a heart of gold. But wait, Victor was a bad guy. Perhaps the lunatic murderer is actually the hero here -- an electrocutionist mama with a heart of gold.

Also (spoiler alert): Someone named Abigail is dead. I don't think the TV audience knows who did it, because EVERYONE looks suspicious. There's a guy wandering around in a bloody shirt. There's another guy who blacked out and doesn't remember what he did last night. There's also a tiny flamboyant man in a plaid jacket whose every scene is accompanied by keyboards SO ominous there's no way he's not the killer. Plus, he has Evil Guy Hair. It sticks a half foot off his head and the tips are frosted. He's clearly a psychopath.

"I heard about Abigail," Frosty Tips says. "What happened?"

"She was stabbed," says the Sears catalog model, which then immediately cuts to a hazy flashback of Frosty Tips holding a knife.

"They said it was a robbery," says the Sears catalog model, which cuts to ANOTHER flackback of Frosty Tips literally sneaking around with a bag full of jewels.

That's as much as I could take. To sum up: Abigail's dead. Victor's old. Everyone may have done it, but my money's on Frosty Tips, in the conservatory, with the knife.

More than anything, I'm amazed at how many cast members are still around 30 years since I last watched. Patch and Kayla. Jack and Jennifer. Victor. I'm pretty sure Marlena's still around, but she's probably possessed by a demon, as is often her way. Oddly, Salem also appears to be now populated by a good chunk of the cast of the old "227" sitcom. I have no idea what that's all about.

I refuse to watch any more lest risk becoming emotionally invested in the dumbest show ever. I have no idea who murdered Abigail, but it's okay. Knowing this show, she's most likely not even dead. Eight years from now, we'll learn that she's been alive this whole time living on a desert island. They probably murdered her long-long twin sister Babigail by accident. On Days of Our Lives, anything -- LITERALLY anything -- is possible.

COLUMN: Bone

I was done.

After 30 years of spending most weekends behind the DJ decks at clubs and parties, I told myself it was officially time to retire from my longtime side gig. Then I got a call from my pal Bone.

I've known Chris Bone for years. If you worked in the QC entertainment industry, you couldn't NOT know Bone. Maybe he carded you when he worked as a bouncer. Maybe he booked you when he managed bars. Maybe you knew him from his on-air radio alter-ego, Chris Michaels. Bone was one of those guys you ran into all over the place.

That day, he was calling with a plea. He'd found financial backing and was about to fulfill his life-long dream of opening a country bar in Rock Island. "I need you in that DJ booth, man."

"Sorry, man," I quickly replied. "I'm out of the game. And I'm not a country DJ, you know that."

"I don't want a country DJ," he said. "I want YOU. Play a few country songs after the band gets done, then do what you do. Play whatever it takes to get college kids in the door. We'll be a country bar early and a party bar late." 

I tried to give him names of other DJs to try, but he was relentless. "You're the only one I trust. Say yes."

After a half-dozen phone calls, I relented and told him I'd help out for a couple weeks. Those weeks turned into months, and those months turned into a year. In that time, the hard-working staff at Billy Bob's Redneck Party Bar became more like a second family -- and together endured every curve fate could possibly throw at that poor joint. We presevered through heatwaves, snowstorms, band cancellations, street violence, and even COVID. Sadly, no hard work could overcome the city council's decision to shutter Rock Island District bars an hour early, and it wasn't long before Billy Bob's held its last rodeo.

Bone lost his bar, but not his entrepreneurial spirit. Last week, he was set to announce his new venture as a solar energy provider in the Quad Cities. But Chris never showed to that final meeting. When they sent someone to his house to check on him, they found him gone. His ridiculously big heart gave out at the unfathomable age of 43. It's everyone's loss.

In a 33-1/3rd world, Chris Bone lived at 45 rpm -- never slowing down, never compromising. I remember one night leaving Billy Bob's utterly exhausted around 4 a.m. "Get some sleep, dude," I said on my way out the door. 

"Yeah, I probably should," he replied.

I went home and crashed out. I woke up hours later to phone calls telling me to turn on the TV. There, on ESPN, was Chris playing bags live on College Gameday. Turns out he had left Billy Bob's and drove straight to Kinnick Stadium to not miss a second of Hawkeye football. Hours after THAT, he was posting to Facebook from the floor of a poker tournament in Vegas. That's just how he rolled.

Bone could be a real pain sometimes. There's nothing he liked better than stirring the pot. If he thought you did him wrong, he had no reservations airing that laundry on Facebook for all to see. We rarely saw eye-to-eye and bickered over politics constantly. One of his friends said it best: If heaven has social media, Bone's probably up there now tring to somehow blame Joe Biden for his death. But you always knew to take every word he said with a laugh, because even he didn't even take himself seriously. 

Behind the bravado, though, lived one of the most compassionate dudes I've ever known. The guy who would sneak into hospitals to see friends after visiting hours. The guy who'd risk his health to bring food to COVID-quarantined friends. The guy who'd leave a party early to play euchre with his senior-citizen neighbors. The guy who found a pregnant cat and adopted her AND all the kittens because he couldn't bear to separate a family. The guy who came running anytime you were having a crisis.

Chris Bone taught me life should be lived, and that's why I didn't stop DJing even after Billy Bob's closed. At my gig last weekend, Bone and his wife showed up unannounced. He rolled up with just a smile and a fist-bump because he knew I was busy and stressed out. But even just a reassuring head nod was enough to boost my confidence.

The day he passed, I discovered a text I'd overlooked from the weekend. He sent it at 7:50 a.m. on Sunday morning, just hours after he'd stopped by the club. "Your mixes last night were fire. You make it seem so easy, but it was flawless, man. Right crowd, right songs. The wife loved it. I loved it. You're the man." Those are the last words I'll ever hear from him.

Always encouraging. Loyal to a fault. A true friend. A goofy, lumpy force of nature. Give heaven some hell, Bone.     

COLUMN: Evil Squirrels

This week, a public service announcement confirmed what I've been saying for years: SQUIRRELS ARE EVIL.

Don't believe me? Ask the National Park Service. They're the ones who issued a warning on "Squirrel Safety" this week. In it, they confirm that squirrel bites are one of the most common injuries at our nation's National Parks.

"Awww, but they're so cute," you say. Cute monsters, maybe. Raccoons are cute, too, but they'd eat your face clean off if given the chance. I'm telling you, squirrels are tiny little cute and fluffy demons THAT HAVE PLAGUED OUR FRAGILE EARTH FOR FAR TOO LONG. But what do I know? I'm merely the landlord of a massive squirrel-led agricultural production and processing facility. 

In other words, I have a walnut tree in my back yard.

Technically, it's not even MY tree. The trunk of said tree actually sits just over my neighbor's property line, But I'd guesstimate 80% of its branches and walnuts hover over MY yard. Every year, our tree is diligently farmed by a pack of hard-working, cute-as-a-button, exceptionally mean squirrels who hate me to no end. 

I've never been a big fan of the walnut tree. Every year, I've had to listen as walnuts fall off the tree and onto my roof, where they rollllllll loudly all the way down to the ground. My house is a giant pachinko machine. Last year, I reached my limit and finally paid a guy to cut back the branches that overhung my roof. At last, some peace and quiet

Or so I thought.

Last week, I was sitting in my living room when I heard the all-too-familiar thud/rolllllll/splat. What gives? Branches don't re-grow THAT fast, do they? Was this a rogue sky walnut falling from heaven? A few minutes later, I heard it AGAIN and had to step outside to see what was going on. I should've known.

As I stood there, one of my squirrely friends hustled up the tree and shook loose a walnut to the ground. Since it was less than ripe, it stayed mostly intact. That's when I watched the squirrel chomp down on the walnut, run it all the way around to the other side of the house, climb my OTHER tree, jump onto my roof, and with great purpose drop it so it would roll down the roof and onto the concrete below, where it finally broke open. Don't tell me squirrels aren't smart. It turns out my house isn't a giant pachinko machine -- it's a giant nutcracker.

If the roof method doesn't work, then it's off to the rendering plant, aka my back steps. For half the year, my steps are routinely covered in the detritus ofshattered walnut husks, as the squirrels take them up there and bang them against the rails until they can get to the treasure within. If I dare attempt to leave for work in the midst of the process, the squirrels will scamper off to the tree and climb to eye level, where they'll hang there issuing angry little "thpf! thk!" complaints until I'm safely away.

A few years ago, I interrupted a squirrel in mid-nutcrack, and he scampered up the tree, climbed onto the branch directly above me, and... peed on my head. Squirrels are the worst.

Today, though, was a new level of strange. I opened my back door, and lo, what greeted me on my back steps? An entirely whole, and entirely moldy, Big Mac. Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a moldy-gross bun. And yes, I nearly slipped on it and almost took a full header down the steps. 

I wondered what had left such a disgusting treasure. Perhaps one of the feral cats I feed like a chump? Maybe one of those face-eating raccoons? No, a quick check of the security cameras proved it was brought to my door by two squirrels working in tandem with great intent. Perhaps it was their offering as long-overdue rent. My guess is they were HOPING I'd slip on it and take a header. Then 81 of those murderous little burger-eating monsters would probably work in tandem to drag my body off to whereever they keep all those walnuts.

Squirrels might be cute, but at what cost? THE CARTOONS LIE, PEOPLE. I don't remember Chip or Dale ever peeing on anyone's head. Alvin, Simon, and Theodore never plotted any burger-related murders. WHEN WILL THE MADNESS END? My guess is first frost.

COLUMN: Music Preferences

If there's one thing I'm always good and finding, it's new and interesting ways to kill time on the internet. So when I ran into an online story with the header, "Musical Preferences Unite Personalities Across the Globe," it caught my eye.

It turns out there's a new study recently published by the University of Cambridge that finds a definitive link between a person's music preferences and their personality type. More to the point, this link appears universal across many different cultures.

For example, Ed Sheeran's song "Shivers" is just as likely to appeal to extroverts living in the UK as those who live in Argentina or India. Americans with self-defined neurotic traits gravitate to Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" just as frequently as neurotic personalities in South Africa or Denmark. Agreeable people all over the world seem to like Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On." Conscientious people all over the world hate Rage Against the Machine.

Without much variation, the researchers found positive correlations between extroverts and contemporary music, conscientiousness and unpretentious music, agreeableness and mellow music, and between openness and intense music. 

Fascinating. And, also, DUH.

No offense to the hard-working researchers at the University of Cambridge, but you could learn as much from spending an hour hanging out at Co-Op Records in Moline. It doesnt seem like much of a newsflash to me that conscientious people don't often rage against machines. And what exactly defines "unpretentious music" anyways? (Theory: perhaps a banjo.)

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the point of this study. I guess it proves different cultures can maybe find common musical ground, but only if you're hanging out with like-minded people in those different cultures. I'm not quite sure what they were expecting to find. Did they think there's a magical foreign land where conscientious folks all sit around listening to death metal while neurotics prefer smooth jazz? Personally, I'm pretty sure smooth jazz CAUSES neurosis (make me listen to Kenny G. and I promise I'll be neurotic by nightfall.)

Supposedly these are the most widely accepted traits today for classifying personalities, but I don't consider myself to be especially extroverted, conscientious, agreeable, stable, OR open. Maybe that's why my list of favorite bands tends to be met by blank stares from anyone who's not a complete weirdo.

I was curious, though, so I followed the link that allows you to replicate the study in the privacy of your home. The website plays snippets of 25 songs, and you have to choose whether you extremely, very much, moderately, or slightly like or dislike each song clip.

Spoiler alert: I disliked all 25 of them -- a lot. Some were classical, and that's just not my bag. Others sounded like bad Nickelback knock-offs. One was just a laughably corny guitar solo. Another was a country song with the lyric, "somebody shot my neighbor today." There was a clip that sounded like the demo on a Casio keyboard. Another was a bland beat with someone yelling "ungh!" over it like your uncle doing James Brown karaoke. They were all dreadful.

Needless to say, the survey didn't reveal much about me. My preference for "contemporary" music was highest of all, likely because I only "moderately hated" those, as opposed to everything else which I "very much hated." Clearly, this survey needs to include one more personality trait: "snobby elitist dork who used to work at a record store and now thinks everything sucks except some band that only seven people in the world have ever heard of."

Maybe you can define someone's personality by their musical taste, but there's sure exceptions to the rule. One of my friends is very much an agreeable conscientious introvert. He also listens to nothing but Black Sabbath and 70s prog rock -- explain THAT, Cambridge. I own a lot of pretentious Radiohead records, but I also own just as many records by Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam. Musical tastes can be unique as snowflakes, and that's a GOOD thing in my book.

One thing about this study, though, is a success: It certainly helped me kill time on the internet. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go listen to some mellow contemporary music because I'm so gosh-darn agreeable.

COLUMN: Rooster

Well, it's official -- I played chicken with karma, and I lost.

Long-time readers may remember the great Chickengate scandal of 2016. That's when the Rock Island city council held a vote on whether or not to allow urban backyard chicken-keeping within city limits. And that's when I decided to write a column about it. Spoiler alert: it was not especially PRO-chicken.

Truth be told, I have ZERO vested interest in the debate. I honestly couldn't tell you if I give a rat's behind about urban chickens, because I've never been around an urban chicken in my life (or a rat, for that matter.) I wrote the column mostly to make fun of my disdain for nature and propensity to be allergic to my own shadow. But I stand by my reasoning. Chickens are messy and not the friendliest of fowl, and taking care of them is a big responsibility. If you're really into raising chickens and keep a well-maintained operation, I'm cool with it. But if you've got a messy, stinky coop in your backyard just because urban chicken-keeping is trendy and cool, I'm not a fan.

So I wrote a light-hearted column back in 2016 that took some admittedly cheap jabs at the eco-friendly, chicken-loving hipster stereotypes. Suffice it to say some feathers got ruffled. Letters were written. Angry pro-chickeneers visited our lobby. My car got egged. I came home to a pile of chicken poop lovingly placed on my back steps. Clearly, the local backyard chicken mafia are not to be toyed with.

I tried to make amends. I wrote a mea culpa the following week, and even accepted an offer from a local chicken owner to come meet her hens, Lila and Lola. Did they stare at me with murder in their eyes? Nah, they didn't seem to acknowledge my existence. Were they stinky? Nope. Were they mean? I didn't exactly go in for a friendly hug, but I didn't see any trails of blood or noticeable scarring on their owners, so I wasn't especially horrified.

I'm still not a huge fan of chickens that haven't already been shaked and/or baked, but there's no further need to egg my house, promise. I learned my lesson. Besides, the resolution passed, and folks in Rock Island have been able to keep chickens in their backyards since 2016. Other than Lila and Lola, I've yet to spot a single feather. I've not been attacked by any runaway poultry hellbent on vengeful bloodlust. I haven't had to adjust my daily Claritin intake. It's pretty much been a non-issue.

Until this week.

In a perfect karmic twist of fate, my neighbors now have chickens. I learned this delightful fact four days ago at precisely 5:14 a.m. when I woke up instinctively DUCKING, assuming based on the noise that pterodactyls were circling overhead. Nope, just a rooster. I'm not even sure which house he belongs to. I've yet to see him, but he's definitely made his presence known. A crowing rooster really has a magical way of cutting through walls, time, and space.

I'm not the only one bothered. Every time it lets loose its morning song, my cats freeze in place and stand there, mouths hanging open like they've been lulled into rooster hypnosis. 

Finally, my neighborhood has a noise MORE annoying than my security sensor. My outdoor cameras emit a shrill beep any time they sense an intruder on the property. Trouble is, a stiff breeze can sometimes be enough to set them off. I'm sure the neighbors already hate me a little. But NOW, whenever that sensor beeps, it makes the rooster crow. This can't end well.

I'm fully aware that I deserve this. I dissed chickens in print -- plus, as a weekend DJ, I've surely annoyed a fair share of people with loud music over the years. This is all karmic justice. I SHOULD be able to accept my fate and live in peace with my new feathery neighborhood alarm clock. 

Say, here's a random fun fact: Did you know that in the state of Illinois, with the correct permit, you can also keep FOXES as pets? And as a completely unrelated follow-up question, does anyone happen to know who the WORST fence-builders in Rock Island are and how I might be able to reach them? Asking for a friend.

COLUMN: My Two Cents on Child Hunger

Winston Churchill once said, "We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give."

There's truth there, and that's just one of a kajillion famous quotes on charity. There's even meaner ones, like the old English proverb, "He who has no charity deserves no mercy." I'm in no hurry to go mercy-judging stingy people, but it's true that charity and kindness should be a cornerstone to a life well lived.

I'd even wager that charity and kindness should be a cornerstone to a life wasted on fast food, pop culture, and silly newspaper columns, too. I found that out this week.

There's a business I frequent that's in the midst of their annual charity drive. It's one of those fundraisers that goes after you aggressively in the checkout line. Just when you're ready to pay and be on your way, the cash register asks for a donation and then there's a whole submenu full of different ways you can contribute to help end child hunger. That's a worthy cause if there ever was one.

I'd been in the store twice earlier this month, and each time I'd been in a HUGE hurry. Not an "I'm-running-a-bit-late" sort of hurry. No, these were full throttle "I-should-have-been-somewhere-ten-minutes-ago" hurries where I was in total panic mode. And each time, when I hit the counter and the donation menu popped up, I quickly and shamelessly drilled the "NO" button as many times as it took to make a fast exit. Not my finest hour, I know.

In fact, on one occasion, I avoided taking a moment for child hunger was because I was late... for dinner. I'm pretty sure this makes me a terrible human being destined for Selfish Hell. (Selfish Hell, by the way, is just an empty room where Sarah McLachlan sings to you about neglected animals for eternity.)

Thankfully and deservedly, it ate at my conscience. The other day, I returned to the store. This time I wasn't in a hurry. This time, I would make it right.

I got to the counter, made my purchase, and the cash register asked if I'd like to make a donation to fight child hunger. "Yes, Mr. Cash Register," I silently replied via the keypad. "I would very much like to donate."

"Great!" said the screen. "Can I round up your purchase in the form of a donation?"

"YES!" my thumb triumphantly agreed.

"Would you like to round up to the nearest whole dollar? Or would you like to round up to the nearest five dollar increment?"

"FIVE DOLLARS," I proudly chose with my index finger. 

In that moment, I was filled with the smug satisfaction of unbridled generosity. That's me -- Shane Brown: Friend To Humanity. Thoughtless Giver. Humanitarian of the Year. Maybe they'll throw a parade in my honor.

"Thank you for your donation," the clerk said with what strangely seemed like an eyeroll. 

"Happy to help!" I cheerily replied, beaming with saintly pride as I strolled out the door, head held high. Had it NOT been held high, it might have noticed the receipt. You see, my purchase that day had come to $14.98. By agreeing to a charitable donation to the nearest five-dollar increment, my great act of kindness and personal sacrifice that afternoon came to, precisely, $.02.

That's right -- if you want my two cents on the child hunger epidemic, you're officially too late. You're welcome, children of the world. Enjoy the bounty I hath bestowed upon you all. I didn't even notice until I'd made it home. I'm starting to think there might not be a parade in my honor after all. Suddenly I understood the cashier's eyeroll. It probably cost more to print "thank you for your contribution" on my receipt than the entirety of my contribution itself. 

Who knows, maybe countless tiny donations like that can add up to a serious impact. Hopefully I'll get a few more opportunities to make amends. If not, I'm finding a way to donate online. I guess it's simple: There's a ton of great organizations out there that always need help -- but don't do it just to make yourself feel better about giving. Trust me, it's a fleeting high. Do it for others. If you're in a fortunate enough position to lend a hand now, you never know when you might just need one back someday.

That's MY two cents, at least.

COLUMN: Cowpocalypse

I've got bad news, people. I'd say "don't have a cow" -- but in this case, it may be too late.

Our reporters are the hardest-working superheroes of our company. At least, I think they are. Honestly, I never see them. They're mostly just blurs running in and out of the office on their way to cover the news. How they could've missed THIS gem of a story is beyond me. It's a good thing they have me around to bat clean-up and do the hard investigating. And by that, I mean sitting around and Googling "weird news."

Dateline: Africa. Multiple East African news sources this week are claiming to have video evidence of a man... turning into a cow. Not kidding. You can look it up.

The fuzzy 30-second clip purports to show a fellow lying on the ground in a state of mid-bovine transformation. He has the head and torso of a man, but the hooves and tail of a cow. And yes, if you were wondering, he's mooing. Well, sort of half-mooing and half-weeping, which seems justifiable given the situation. When you wake up with hooves and a tail, I think it's perfectly acceptable to show a certain degree of (cough) cow-ardice.

I cannot stress enough that these articles are presenting the event as hard news. It's not "Cow Hoax Video Goes Viral" or "Local Man Really Good at Photoshop." It's not even "Man ALLEGEDLY turning into a cow." Rather, on the websites I visited, it's presented as fact, just hanging out alongside other news. Stocks are down, there's a 30% chance of rain this weekend -- oh, and a man turned into a cow. Film at 11, I'd reckon.

But even MORE fascinating is the headline most of these news sites are going with: "Man sleeps with married woman, turns into cow."

So this appears NOT to be a random case of spontaneous bovination. Instead, this is some kind of "real" life morality tail -- err, tale. A guy stepped out with someone else's lady, and woke up a mooing half-cow. I don't remember much from those awkward 8th-grade sex-ed classes, but I'm pretty sure we never touched on THAT particular STD. 

Let's suspend disbelief for a second and assume some poor soul has, in fact, turned into a cow. How does one immediately and knowingly connect this to his purported infidelity? How does "Kevin appears to be turning into a cow" immediately lead one to ponder who Kevin's been shacking up with?

This is, after all, the 2020s -- if this decade had a mascot, it'd be a hot dumpster fire. If I saw someone wake up on the wrong side of biology with sudden hooves and a tail, I don't think I'd immediately assume divine retribution for some sinful transgression. I'd probably just run away screaming, convinced I'd just been exposed to some new horrifying Cow-vid-19 or something.

If a cowpocalypse were to reach our shores, I'm sure we as a people would quickly figure out a way to both politicize and monetize it. In no time, cattle would be stampeding over "Don't Tread On Me" flags, the news channels would be full of people angrily mooing at one another, and someone somewhere would be getting rich off "Make America Beefy Again" hats. Simply on the off-chance this African news story is correct, Elon Musk's probably making plans to purchase Burger King as we speak.

Good thing it appears the cowpocalypse is NOT close at hand. You see, the original video comes with narration at the end. After watching our poor victim sad-moo for a few seconds, a voice comes on that one site thankfully translated:

"This man was bewitched and turned into a cow after sleeping with someone's wife. I feel sorry for this man, but let this serve as a lesson to all men who like to sleep with people's wives. There are a lot of single women out there."

So rest easy, dear reader. There's no virus turning us into cattle (yet). This isn't even a vengeful deity gone a-smiting. No, it's just a simple run-of-the-mill bewitching. The moral of the story seems pretty clear: Fellas, don't sleep with married women. Or, at the very least, you should probably check first and make sure their hubbies aren't warlocks. 

Message received. I'm in no hurry to transform into a cow. While I'm pretty sure I've already made signifigant headway towards growing three stomachs, chewing cud sounds unpleasant. I guess I'll just have to focus my attention on those "lots of single women out there." Ladies...? Umm, hello? Is this thing on?

Eh, forget it. I'm hungry. Anyone know a good burger place?  

COLUMN: Bez 'n' Beth

For someone like me who normally likes to dwell on the silly side of life, I've spent a lot of time lately dealing with a considerably less silly side of death -- and I've gotta say, I'm not a fan.

Unless your name is Dorian Gray, Vlad Dracula, or Keith Richards, death is tough to avoid. That's a bum deal, but I guess it's the price we all get to pay for the privilege of living. If I could say anything to make it better, I'd probably have a lucrative career writing for Hallmark. Death sucks and it's sad, whether it happens to you, me, someone you care about... or even your favorite cat.

Bez was my sidekick for 16 years. She's the one who ran the house and kept my other cats in check. She's the one who was constantly at my side. She's the one whose hairs are still clinging to this laptop, likely a result of the many times she impatiently slammed it shut on my hands when I wasn't paying enough attention. I'm sure everybody thinks their cats are the best -- they're all wrong. Bez was the best, and losing her has left a giant cat-sized hole in my heart. The house is quiet and empty in a way I can barely wrap my head around. I've never been especially pro-ghost, but I hope she haunts my home forever.

It didn't help that I lost her in the midst of another morbid project I've been focused on for the past few weeks.

When I arrived at college a naive freshman, I fell in quickly with the drama crowd. The theater scene at Augie was full of larger-than-life characters whose acceptance I desperately craved. Nothing was ordinary, everyone was a superstar, and life alongside them was a constant adventure.

At the center of it all were three girls who ruled the clique -- Kim, Beth, and Beth -- each perfect in their own way.

Beth L. was an adorably manic pixie; Kim was funny and fabulous; and Beth R. was smart as a whip with a dry wit that could calmly destroy a room. Seeing any of them smile was the best part of my day. I wasn't the only one with a massive crush on all three. 

I'm certain they were never as smitten with me as I was with them, but I can't blame them. I was an immature geek yearning for approval, and they were two years older and thirteen times cooler than I could ever pretend to be. All I could do was rely on the only skill in my back pocket: those folks loved a party, and I knew how to DJ. After awkwardly wallflowering at a couple of their gatherings, I bravely approached the seniors in charge and said, "Here, give this a shot," handing over a mixtape I'd painstakingly crafted in my dorm room. Within minutes, I had the whole house stomping and my role suddenly became clear.

It was the first of many theater parties I soundtracked in college. While I eventually found close friends in different arenas, I've always kept that gang close to my heart. That's why it was a HUGE bummer to open Facebook and learn that Beth R. had recently passed away after a long and brave fight with cancer. I hadn't spoken to her since college, but I can still see her strolling out of the backstage green room like it was yesterday. I hope she knew how much she was adored by everyone fortunate enough to share her rarified air. Based on the photos I've seen of her life since college, it looked like she was surrounded by joy.

They're holding a Celebration of Life for Beth in Chicago at the end of this month, and Kim reached out hoping I'd be willing to help with music. So just like 1988 all over again, I've spent the last month in my basement putting together mixes for the event.

It's not been easy. The only other memorial service I've soundtracked was for a drag queen where I essentially just blared Madonna for four hours straight. It's challenging to find music that's comforting without being maudlin. I'm pretty sure Beth would haunt my dreams if I tried to play sappy schlock like "Seasons in the Sun."

I've been moonlighting as an amateur DJ for over 30 years, and there's nothing more exciting than finding the perfect song you just KNOW will make people lose their minds and set the dancefloor ablaze. But I've spent the last week in my basement trying to find the perfect song that I just KNOW will make people cry and be super sad, and that's a weird thing to get excited about.   

These mixes and writing this column could have been heartbreaking. Instead, it's sent me down a rabbithole of old memories, old pics, and warm fuzzies. It's terribly sad, sure, but it's also a reminder of just how lucky I am to have shared time and space with amazing friends, family, and felines. Life may be fleeting, but love is infinite.

Miss you, Beezers. Miss you, Beth.   

COLUMN: Mexican Pizza

So, let's recap: It's 2022, and everything's still going to heck in a handbag.

Political discord continues to run amok. War ravages parts of Europe. Our old nostalgic fear of a nuclear apocalypse is back for an encore. Women's rights are under attack. Inflation soars. Crime runs rampant. COVID hasn't exactly disappeared. Division and anger is the new normal. Got it.

Good thing that's all about to change. That's right, people -- our long national nightmare is over: On May 19th, Taco Bell is bringing back Mexican Pizza. Yes, on that magic day, mankind will unite in spirit and harmony to come together as one -- well, one drive-thru lane, at the very least. 

Personally? I don't get it. I never thought Mexican Pizza was all that, but man, people sure threw a hissy-fit when Taco Bell removed it from their menu in 2020. Petitions were signed. Protests were held. I was confused. To me, the Mexican Pizza just seemed like another way for Taco Bell to recycle and present their same five basic ingredients in a new and exciting geometric shape. Isn't it basically just a taco, but flat?

But to each their own. If you've been missing Mexican Pizza, I feel your pain. This whole saga got me thinking about MY favorite dearly departed fast food menu items that I'd love to see make a comeback:

* At the same time Taco Bell abandoned Mexican Pizza, they also removed MY favorite item: the shredded chicken burrito. Not only were those little buggers tasty, but when compared to most of their menu, you could ALMOST convince yourself you were eating healthy. You people are complaining about the wrong item. Let's start a shredded chicken petition. Who's with me?

* We've already established that the Bell has delicious soft, crunchy, and flat items. But remember when they used to have BIG items? When I was a kid, you could order the Taco Bellgrande, a beast of a taco about 2.5 times the size of a normal one. You opened one of those bad boys and felt like a king. I distinctly remember a slumber party that involved a huge bag of those suckers, a 12-pack of Jolt Cola, and the movie "C.H.U.D." That, friends, is living the 8th grade dream.

* Remember that short period when McDonalds sold salad in soda cups? The McSalad Shaker was a ridiculous concept, but I bought into it full-throttle. You'd get your cup-o'- salad, pop open the lid, squeeze in an unhealthy amount of dressing, replace the lid, and then hold your own little salad maraca jam session. When you were done shaking, the dressing would be evenly distributed across the entire salad and you could dig in -- either with a fork or, as I was more prone to doing, horse-style. It was a glorious era. Of course, if you weren't careful, the lid could pop off mid-shake and the dressing would instead be evenly distributed across your entire car, but it was a small price to pay for the privilege of driving around drinking a salad.

* Popeye's and Chick-fil-A can fight over who makes the best chicken sandwich all they want, but in MY book, the winner will always be the original 1980s-era chicken fillet from Hardee's. I'm talking the chicken with the weird artificial reddish-brown hue that almost tasted burnt. It's my favorite chicken sandwich ever. If I ever time-travelled back to the 1980's, hitting the Hardee's drive-thru would be a serious priority. 

* Never look a gift Runza in the mouth. When Southpark Mall first opened their food court, one of the first restaurants to open was Runza, the Nebraska-based fast-food mainstay. It was also one of the first to close. Maybe the idea of loose meat and cabbage stuffed into a bread roll was too radical for our fragile Illinois palates. I never tried Runza when it here, despite the pleadings of my Nebraska-born best friend. But when I found myself out west last year, I drove past a Runza and gave it a shot. Turns out those weird little sandwiches are delicious and I never knew it.

* But just thinking of the late great food court at Southpark makes me roll a tear for my most-missed Quad City fast food of all: Steak Escape. I can't tell you how many times I made Southpark runs just as an excuse to swing by their tiny piece of food court real estate. Their sandwiches were great (it's tough to screw up a Philly cheesesteak,) but they weren't the stars of the show. I will stand atop ANY soapbox and proclaim to the world that Steak Escape has the best fries in the business. Fresh-cut Idaho potatoes obliterated in peanut oil to a golden crisp that probably shortens life spans but lengthens human joy. Man, I miss those fries. Like Runza, Steak Escapes still exist out there somewhere, just not the Quad Cities. Maybe I need a fast food break -- as in, let me take a break from work so I can travel the country eating fast food.

So thank you, Taco Bell, for returning your glorious Mexican Pizza and healing our broken nation. It may be the only thing keeping us from full-on anarchy (at least, until the next time the McRib returns.) 

COLUMN: Fictosexuality

The other day, I called someone out who posted a culturally insensitive comment online. I didn't go "full Karen" as the kids say, but I simply commented something like "yikes" on a tweet they REALLY should've thought twice about before posting. The next time I logged on, I discovered that person replied by calling me a member of "the woke mob."

I'm not even sure what the "woke mob" even is. If you've ever caught me at the start of a work day, you could likely call me a bunch of things -- but trust me, "woke" wouldn't be the first adjective that comes to mind.

Not that I don't care, but social justice has never really been my bag. I'm too shy and awkward to raise my voice, I'm too fat and lazy to march anywhere, and I can easily get irritated by riled-up and passionate people on EITHER side of the political fence. Plus, I don't want to live in a world where poking good-natured fun at something can get you cancelled. If there's one thing the world needs these days, it's good-natured fun. 

The most "woke" I ever get is one simple credo:

If you're cool with me, I'm cool with you. I don't give a fig what color your skin is, which god(s) you fancy, what gender you are, or who you prefer to get freaky-deaky with. Just don't be a jerk, and we'll get along great.

But occasionally a line in wokeness must be drawn. I think I just found it in a recent article.

Have you heard about Akihiko Kondo? He's a 38-year-old guy in Japan who's having problems in his marriage. I can safely say that's a bummer. It's never good to hear about someone suffering marital strife. Thankfully, there are counselors and therapists to help couples through rough patches in their wedded bliss. Whew, right? 

Except Kondo's wife isn't cooperating. She's unable to attend marriage counseling -- because she isn't real.

Kondo's "wife" is Hatsune Miku, a computer-generated cartoon pop singer popular in Japan. You see, Kondo identifies as "fictosexual" -- a growing branch of sexuality (with its own flag, of course,) signifying someone who is sexually attracted to fictional characters. 

Don't worry, it gets weirder.

Hatsune Miku is a popular fictional creation who sings, dances, and even once appeared in hologram form as the opening act for Lady Gaga on one of her Japanese tours. Back in 2017, Japan unveiled a home entertainment device called Gatebox that allowed users to interact and converse with their favorite CGI hologram cartoon characters. In a marketing stunt, the company even offered marriage certificates for their holograms. With the right software upgrade, you could propose to the hologram of your choice, they would giggle and say yes, and presumably this is considered good usage of one's time.

Kondo took them at their word, and was wed to Miku the following year -- in a lavish real-world ceremony that cost around $18,000. His family elected NOT to attend (there's a shocker,) but some sixty other people DID, including friends, strangers, and Kondo's local member of parliament -- who must have been REALLY desperate to court the ever-important local fictosexual voting block. Also of note, Kondo didn't ask me to DJ the reception, which is a huge bummer because I'd pay good money to see a bunch of holograms doing the Cha-Cha Slide and Hokey Pokey.

Wedded bliss for Kondo lasted three years until a communications problem occurred in their relationship. This is probably because the software company opted to shut down Gatebox. Kondo's wife was discontinued overnight, and probably sits somewhere in cyberspace right now, hanging out with other outmoded software. I'd like to think she's chilling out on a beach somewhere with Clippy and Jeeves as I type. 

There's a limit to my ability to be accepting of different sexual preferences -- and I'm pretty sure that limit is the point when you announce that you're married to a cartoon. To each their own preferences, I guess. You can prefer to label yourself a fictosexual all you want, but I'm afraid I prefer to label you as crazypants. 

Maybe I'm just jealous. Perhaps there's some deep, dark fictosexual part of my soul that yearns to be betrothed to the Road Runner or something. (Admittedly, it'd probably be a fast wedding and super easy to shop for, considering the only things on our registry would be anvils and road-colored paint.) But I think I can safely cross fictosexuality off my list of future experimentations -- unless someone can guarantee that Joey Potter from Dawson's Creek would leave Pacey for me if I popped the question.  

In the meantime, I'm mighty sleepy and think it's about time to stop being woke. 

COLUMN: Coachella

I write this fully self-aware that I'm heading dangerously into fuddy-duddy territory.

I've never had respect for anyone who mocks younger generations simply because they don't like the same things. Anytime a fad comes along, there's always some out-of-touch elder statesman waiting in the wings to tear it to shreds. The other day, I was reading a review of the excellent debut album from the band Wet Leg. Sure enough, in the comments was a guy asking, "What happened to good music like Nirvana?" Well, in Nirvana's day, there were people saying, "What happened to good music like Motley Crue?" In Motley Crue's era, there were people saying, "What happened to good music like Led Zeppelin?"

It's a never-ending chain. In 1791, I bet there were people saying Mozart was terrible noise and wondering aloud what happened to good music like Bach.

Not me. I vowed long ago to forever be hip, accepting, and always appreciative of whatever new trends might come along. I may be about to eat those words.

This past weekend, I watched several hours of the livestream from California's annual Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival. For years now, Coachella has been the gold standard of music festivals, drawing in fans and artists from across the globe. As a musician, just getting asked to play Coachella is a high honor -- it means you're the coolest of the cool, critically lauded and unconditionally loved by the most discerning of music fans.

Coachella was streaming live on Youtube all last weekend -- and out of curiosity, boredom, and more than a little bit of jealousy because one of my friends had flown out to attend, I tuned in. I can now officially say with all certainty: I don't understand today's kids.

Over the years, Coachella has seen amazing moments. Over 2400 different artists have graced the Coachella stage since 1999. It's where bands like Arcade Fire and the White Stripes became megastars. It's where Beyonce stole the show in 2018. It's where Daft Punk became the kings of dance. Everyone from Prince to Paul McCartney has taken the Coachella stage at some point. I watched hours of coverage this weekend -- and if an amazing moment happened, I must've been blinking.

I was hoping for musical brilliance. Instead, I got mostly lip-syncing and twerking. One of the most hyped acts on this year's line-up was Brazilian pop icon Anitta. In Latin America, she's an icon and one of the most influential celebrities in the world. She wasn't even trying to hide her pre-recorded vocals. At times, she'd drop the microphone completely away from her face, but the vocals just kept right on going.

On another stage, Kim Petras was essentially singing pornography aloud. On the third stage, some mumble rapper was telling the world what he thought about police (spoiler: he's not a fan.) Memorable tunes were few and far between. It was mostly just an assortment of beautiful people dancing around on autopilot to backing tracks, devoid of originality and enthusiasm.

The pinnacle of it all was an act called Emo Night, a pair of L.A. club promoters known for their throwback dance parties. For their stage set, that's exactly what they did. They'd play someone else's record, dance around, and then get on the mic and tell the crowd "we're bad DJs" before pressing play on another record. Seriously? This is entertainment nowadays? I'm pretty sure even bottom-line Coachella tickets cost over $400. I can stay home and press play on my own stereo for a lot less money -- AND I'd do a better job at it.

It wasn't all bad. Filipino singer/songwriter Beabadoobee played a set so good I promptly downloaded her entire discography. Arcade Fire made an unannounced appearance that proved they're still one of the greatest live acts around. Fred Again was the breakout star of the dance tent. And Saturday night was headlined by Billie Eilish, who really is the best popstar in the world right now.

Everything hit home when Eilish brought out surprise guest Damon Albarn mid-set. Albarn's a hero from MY era, who spent the 90s fronting the seminal Britpop band Blur. My friends and I once chased Blur back to their hotel just to get autographs and (sadly no pun intended) blurry pics. When Albarn jumped onstage, it happened. Without even thinking, I said out loud, "Man, what happened to good music like Blur?" 

I broke my solemn vow. Worse yet, the livestream also had a chat window, where thousands of music fans were commenting in real time. I looked in the chat, expecting to see dozens of people going, "Oh, wow, Damon Albarn! Cool!!" Instead, I saw 20 comments along the lines of: "Who's the old dude?" "Wow, is that Billie's DAD?" "This old guy sucks."

They may as well have been talking about ME. I fear the pop culture zeitgeist may have set sail and left me ashore. But if this festival is the kind of stuff I'm missing out on, I might be better off on dry land. Maybe I'm becoming one of those old fuddy-duddies forever stuck in their bygone musical era, but I guess that's fine. My era has a way better soundtrack. 

COLUMN: Asian Jumping Worms

Welp, that was a fun outdoors season, 2022. I guess we'll give it another shot next year.

For me, spring is magical for exactly however many days it takes to spot my first bee of the season. From then on, you can find me indoors patiently waiting for first frost. Sadly, yesterday I stepped out of my car only to be immediately dive-bombed by some stupid bee. I'd love to tell you I played it cool. I'd love to tell you I didn't make a noise like "nyaaaaaaahh" while fleeing. I'd love to tell you I'm not an idiot.

I hate bugs and snakes and spiders and toads and, well, pretty much anything that roams the earth other than (a) cats, (b) a select number of dogs, and (c) an even more select number of human beings. I realize that creepy crawlies are a vital part of our ecosystem and usually have no interest in people whatsoever. I don't care. Nature is majestic and breathtaking and a wonder to behold, and that's why God put windshields on my car so I can see it from a climate-controlled habitat. Two years ago, I discovered I'd been unknowingly co-existing most of the year with a massive wasp nest on the side of my house. I still feel violated.

Every year, there's some new nature panic thrust upon us. It might be ticks and mosquitos carrying a variety of assorted cooties. The next year, it's cicadas that only come 'round every 17 years. Then it's murder hornets. Well, I just read about this year's plague, and it sounds delightful.

Just when you thought it was safe to step outside, I give you: amynthas agrestis, aka the ASIAN JUMPING WORM, this year's invasive threat du jour. They're expected to be in fifteen U.S. states this year, including Illinois and Iowa. Can't wait. 

Scientists and ecologists have been worried about Asian jumping worms for some time due to their overconsumption of leaf litter and ability to disrupt the growth cycle of seedlings and wildflowers. I'm worried about Asian jumping worms because of the word JUMPING. Until now, worms and I have lived peacefully in a symbiotic detente wherein I promise not to step outside at 5 a.m. to smoosh them and in return, THEY NEVER LEARN HOW TO JUMP. Someone just broke their contract.

Truth be told, jumping worms can't actually jump. According to experts at Cornell University, they got their name "from their tendency to thrash about when touched." Neat. As difficult as it will be to resist my natural urge to pet as many worms as possible, I guess I'll just have to learn self-control this year.  

The same article says you can easily spot Asian jumping worms by "looking for their milky white clitellums," which most certainly sounds like something you should be jailed for. I have an extensive and rigorously tested list of enjoyable time-wasting activities in my life, but examining worm clitellums has sadly never made the cut. 

Apparently Asian jumping worms also leave behind a tell-tale sign: "Upon infestation, the surrounding ground will appear grainy." Wanna know why? Because you're no longer looking at dirt; you're looking at worm poo. That's right, one adult jumping worm eats 2-3 times their body weight in soil every day and, erm, deposits it right back from whence it came as what scientists politely call "castings." The politeness of scientists is likely also the only reason we don't call these things "Asian pooping worms."

The GOOD news is that if your yard has become infested with these terrors, there's a solution (literally). The Alleghany Front recommends that you simply spritz your yard with a "mustard solution." Apparently the mustard irritates jumping worms and "helps bring them to the surface for picking." Wait, so the mustard doesn't even kill these things? It just MAKES THEM MAD? So now I'll have a yard full of angry thrashing poop monsters that I'm expected to harvest AND I'm also now out of mustard? I still have to TOUCH these unholy things and not even get to enjoy a tangy charcuterie board afterwards? Hard pass.

But here's the creepiest bit: According to EVERY article I just skimmed, the best way to rid your yard of Asian jumping worms is to gather as many of the offending invaders as possible and then - I kid you not - "place them in a bag and leave them in the sun for ten minutes." What kind of world are we living in? The best way to dispose of these pests is some kind of serial-killer death-sauna suffocation fantasy? What happened to simply smooshing them? Well, as it turns out, if you smoosh an Asian jumping worm, the NON-smooshed part will simply slither off and grow itself right back.

So mock me all you want for hating nature. I feel fully justified in avoiding a creature that thrashes around eating three times its body weight while respawning itself if you try to kill it. If buddying up with these nightmare factories is your idea of summer fun, have at it. I'll wave to you from the air conditioning.

  

COLUMN: Ring Light

Teenagers of the world, I owe you a big apology.

For years, I have been ruthlessly mocking you and your strange cyber-social ways. I get it now. I'm impressed.

Hate-watching TikTok videos is my not-so-secret shame, and I reckon the only thing worse than watching these stupid videos is being one of the people who makes them. Every time I feel like my life is unraveling, I can feel better about myself by watching idiots make fools of themselves online. But then I realize these idiots have millions of followers and probably make more money doing lame hip-hop dances than I'll bring in all year.

"Social media influencer" is now considered respectable work experience on a resume. Kids who started out filming themselves playing video games now have production empires, movie deals, and reality film crews documenting their every move, because apparently the world also needs to know HOW you make your lame lip-sync videos.

The thing is: I kinda need to know how they make their lame lip-sync videos.

There's a new trend online I can finally get behind: live-streaming DJs. Every night, if you go on platforms like Twitch and TikTok, you can find hundreds of DJs mixing live over the internet from basements across the globe, playing whatever they fancy, mixing it up until the wee hours. And when they go to bed, DJs on the other side of the planet are just firing up. As you're reading this right now, there's dozens of basement DJs live-streaming for fun this very minute.

Some people could stumble onto a fad like this and just enjoy it. When I stumble onto something like this, I watch for 4 minutes before declaring, "I WANT TO DO THIS."

It seems like great fun, and any excuse to mix records is awesome in my book. Best of all, I've been seeing other DJs my age on there. I've found a couple of grey-haired streamers who play nothing but the old club music I grew up on. I hardly ever get the chance to bust out some of those dusty basement jams that've been patiently waiting for their moment to shine again. I need in on this streaming thing.

BUT I have no earthly idea how one live-streams. I'm a music geek, not a tech geek. There was a time when people would turn to me for help with their computers, but that time was 1986. These days, my technical expertise consists of knowing where the power button is, how to reboot if things get squirrely, and how to curse loudly if things get SUPER squirrely. I've been doing a lot of cursing this week.

I guess I thought live-streaming would be as easy as pointing a phone at yourself and pressing a button. Trust me, it's not.

Not knowing what to do, I turned to my buddy Cooper, whose trade-off for being my friend is that he gets weird late-night calls from me saying I want to be the world's next streaming sensation. I couldn't tell if he rolled his eyes or not, but I can probably guess.

"What kind of gear do I need?" I asked him.

All I heard in reply were some furious mouseclicks. "There," he said after 30 seconds, "I just ordered everything you need. It'll be here tomorrow. You owe me fifty bucks."

My basement now looks like the world's lamest movie set. I have webcams on tripods. I have one of those ridiculous ring lights that's supposed to somehow make me look less hideous. Cords and cables are running everywhere. I don't even know yet if my home internet will be fast enough for such an endeavor. My cats are horribly confused.

Worst of all, you can't even livestream on TikTok until you get a minimum of 1000 followers, and I currently have 52. I've got a ways to go and a steep learning curve to get there.

So I'm no longer mocking kids who spend their days lip-syncing for followers online. Those videos might look silly, but they're hard work. I've spent two weeks buried in equipment and tutorials and have to date filmed 0:00 seconds of my awesome DJ skills. Whitney was right: the children ARE our future. But if they could scoot over JUST enough to let in a fat old guy with some records, that'd be swell.